I really should have checked out this thread before!! Now that I know what it is, I absolutely have to stay up reading all y'all's amazing poetry :) 

Most of my recent poems I wrote for various contests/prompts on Puddings Place, so here's an earlier one. It's a terzanelle, which is a combination of villanelle and terza rima. I wrote it for this year's Governor's School application (Eeeeee! Let's hope I get in again!). 

OBLIQUE

Try on her hats 

she will come back 

try on her hats 

start to unpack 

open boxes 

she will come back

ignore auctions 

keep each antique 

open boxes 

death is oblique 

she is not here 

keep each antique 

shove out the fear

try on her hats 

she is not here

she won’t come back. 

Here's a screenshot of a poem, because I like it better without a lot of space in between the lines. A fun fact- calluna and indigofera because are the scientific names of heather and (obviously) indigo, which I mentioned in the poem. I liked how they sounded together, sooo...

Here it is! I'm not completely satisfied with it, even though I revised it several times. I feel like it's either lacking something or needs something taken out. But anyway...here it is.

river roses

i. it was the springtime

you were young and i was

naive

you spent all your time staring into

the glassy water, i spent all my

time staring at you

too mesmerized to utter a word

ii. i lost my heart to you

iii. but you were narcissus and i was

cursed

iv. (to remain here forever among the river roses

the trailing ferns and

the lilacs)

v. i am haunted by the echoes of my former self

because these days i don't quite know

if i even exist or not;

perhaps i am just a memory

or a fairytale,

told to those with broken hearts

(shattered, splintered, fragmented)

vi. love always found

me at the most

inconvenient times because you left me

vii. and i experienced that kind of burning pain that

comes after heartbreak

after fracturing bones

after the realization that it's all a lie

viii. one-sided love stories are always tragic

ix. because now you can visit my grave,

though the crumbling headstone

is choked by vines and surrounded by

the wild rosebushes

x. i guess you didn't know that grief

was so fatal, narcissus, or maybe you

would've noticed me in time.

I think with each poem I improve a little bit more. I still would not compare my poetry to some other people's, but I think I've come a long way from when I first started writing poetry. 

A poem inspired by Jon Cozart's Tourist: A Love Song From Paris, and I recommend listening to the song while you read it.

sparrows and stitched-up hearts

——

dearest one,

you have been born with wings.

he writes. he is hunched over a legal pad,

scribbling with the cheap ballpoint pen he found on the floor

of the elevator, and ignores the lines,

ignores the margins, ignores the rules.

his words stumble and hitch

like drunken puppies,

awkward hiccups of half-formed thoughts.

you have been born with wings.

though you cannot see them, I can, for I see

everything of you, and everything I see is you.

it is two am

and he is lying on a too-big bed in a

hotel in paris with the lights turned down low.

the room is overheated, manicured, silent,

like a photo

in a tourist magazine— too perfect to be real.

it was all too perfect to be real.

I see your smile,

sometimes jagged steel

and sometimes melting ice cream.

in the morning sun, your eyes shine like new pennies.

his world right now is something between reality and not,

something between what he knows and

what he wishes.

he has forgotten the difference and

doesn’t wish to remember.

you tell me that I’m wrong, that what I love about you

isn’t real, isn’t there,

but if it is that’s all right. I’d rather beautiful lies than

hard truth. that’s naive,

and so am I.

I still believe in love.

he is on a one-person honeymoon,

broken-hearted in the city of love,

but his chest will repair itself eventually

and he can always drown his sorrows in croissants.

little sparrow, you finally saw your wings.

you have flown away from me.

life is brilliance, turned up to blinding levels, and

life is a sepia photograph.

he crumbles chunks of fresh, hot, bread,

and sprinkles the remains

among the sparrows in the park.

I miss you. I miss your sense of humor,

bold and throaty,

I miss your nervous tics and ceramic statues.

I miss eating your burned cookies

and riding our bikes without helmets

and laughing until our ribs hurt.

at every restaurant he goes to

he says, “table for two.”

paris is a place for a pair

and he is alone.

he is not meant to be alone,

but chance is cruel like that.

little sparrow, please come home to me.

I wrote another poem on friendship.

Hit

I know who my real friends are.

Or so I thought.

We played handball today.
When I was up to start the game,
I accidentally got hit in the face.
I stood there,
Holding my face,
Watching the game go on.

Someone from the other team,
Someone I barely know,
Asked if I was okay.

When I asked my team,
"Did you see me get hit?"
B said she was
On the other side of the court.

Lies!
All Lies!
I wanted to scream.
I SAW YOU
LOOK AT ME!

A said she was
Being goalie.

Lies!
All LIES!
I wanted to scream.
I SAW YOU
TRY TO CATCH THE BALL!

M said she was
Facing the other way.

Lies!
ALL LIES!
I wanted to scream.
I SAW YOU
TALKING TO B!

S said she was
Playing defense.

LIES!
ALL LIES!
I wanted to scream.
I SAW THE BALL!
THERE WAS NO NEED FOR DEFENSE!

~~~~

Wow, I don't know what this poem is... it doesn't make sense, and it's a little confusing, but... yeah. It just happened, it's a rough draft, but here it is. XD

I guess it wasn’t in the way you spoke,

but the way I watched you

smile at her.

It was more of the things

I know you once did

That twisted a knot in my stomach,

Her and round

Acid and fire.

Instead of talking to me

You were talking to her

And since I am biased

It hurt,

another stab with every word.

Though I tell myself

You know that that’s over,

I still can’t stop wishing

You’d stop it with her,

And just stay with me

(although that’s even less probable).

She told me it ended

Because you liked another girl

And she didn’t care anymore

But who were you then? And

Who you are now

Is different, and when

I’m watching you look at her

Even if it’s not the way I’m

staring at you,

I imagine you only have eyes

for that girl

Cause I’m just not good enough,

The way I see it.

Though I guess

It wasn’t 

A matter of being, but

a matter of seeing things

that maybe aren't there

For I can’t help but think

That we’ll never be together

And that’s why I dream you’re

Looking at her.