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Tatiana Mar 2016
Twisting and turning
with phantom grace,
the apparition moves
through the waste of space.

Chanting and humming,
a voice carries through.
The walls are too thick,
it couldn't be you.

Listen for the knocks.
One, two, and three.
They grow from soft to loud,
They were meant for me.

I could feel the presence
sink into my bones.
I transport to solitude,
a place full of unknowns.

The walls are thin here
and shadows move on their own.
The room is empty,
but the silence does not mean alone.

Breathing could be heard
but was it mine? I'm not sure.
The chanting starts again,
the sound of the voice is mature.

With timid breaths I sing
to the spirits surrounding me.
The strength must come now
so I can just be.

The essence of the song
would rip my mind to bits
for the Phantom sings of misery
in these ghostly duets.
I don't really come back here that much but I thought I'd pop in, post something and read some others' works because it really has been awhile.
Kevin T Norman Jun 2014
And when that love song came on we both knew.
You weren't thinking about me,
and I wasn't thinking about you.
Jessie Jan 2014
we smoked our cigarettes
and belted out car duets

never listened to any advice
figured trial and error would suffice

we ate past when we were full
and felt life's strange alluring pull

but we learned it was never enough
to sit back and relax and love

you can't repeat the past, Gatsby
I wish someone would have told me
Epic Monkey Nov 2013
(To my sisters and brother)

I will always miss …


Our sunset ending quarrels

Our never-ending teases

Christmas’ shared carols

Warm hugs

Through sweet gazes

The sarcastic smiling faces

The growing-up races

Revenge taking chases

Greed over goodies to be hidden

In unpredictable places


And I will always miss …


Competitions and crazy bets

Singing hilarious duets

Of made-up songs in the shower

This innocence

Of our childish humor

Screamed from a room to another

That art of tricking eachother

To cleverly stay in control

Or wrestling over the remote control



And I will always miss …

Decades of shared history

Amplified joy and divided misery

Bursts of laughter on old tapes

Creatively imagined games

Of whirlpools in drapes

And goalkeeper leaps

Random costume parties

Daily role-play stories

Sega sagas from dusk to dawn

Alliances and conspiracies


Sisters, my lovely sisters

Wise, you have become

Loving wives, caring mothers

Soon, you will become

Make sure your kids relive

What we used to live

Their uncle will make you proud

Just like you fill him with pride


Brother, dear brother

I secretly looked up to you

As I grew older

I kept resembling you

It doesn’t matter

If you’re a little far

Brotherhood’s a matter

Of unbreakable bond


And I will always admire, respect, love and cherish …
Every single one of you
Written last month.
My brother lives in another country and my sisters will both get married next year
Marieta Maglas Dec 2011
Summer rainbow ribbon still stretches in the blue rain

As green snakes dance to the tune of charmer’s jazz flutes

Blue butterflies chase velvety bumblebees singing duets in vain

Summer laughs around red velvety roses and green fruits.



As green snakes dance to the tune of charmer’s jazz flutes

Summer ends her path over meadow, with a dream of green

Summer laughs around red velvety roses and green fruits

Moon shines behind the barrier of cloud's fence, as a queen.



Summer ends her path over meadow, with a dream of green

Into the autumn's sky with puffs of cotton clouds and floating light

Moon shines behind the barrier of cloud's fence, as a queen.

And dancing green shadows sprites appear all round the sight.



Into the autumn's sky with puffs of cotton clouds and floating light

Blue butterflies chase velvety bumblebees singing duets in vain

And dancing green shadows sprites appear all round the sight.

Summer rainbow ribbon still stretches in the blue rain.
Holden Caulfield
2. That movie that I saw last weekend that I thought you would like
3. The mix tapes you made me. I still listen to them in my car
4. The way I dance and wondering if you would like it if you saw me.
5. The Kooks and how you hate them.
6. Hospice
7. Late nights sleeping alone and knowing you're awake, but oh so silent.
8. Wondering if you're thinking about me too
9. The poems you wrote me. Your handwriting is classy.
10. The picture of Hilary Duff on my desk reminding me to be good
11. My bed and how you used to be there.
12. My friends and how you used to be one of them
13. Uptown
14. My ticklish spots that no longer get touched
15. My cat... he misses you.
16. Speaking Spanish and how you used to correct it, and sometimes be impressed
17. Wearing bows in my hair. How you used to love them.
18. The clothes I bought at that thrift store yesterday. I wonder if you'd like them.
19. Mehermahermahermaherm
20. Listening to Bright Eyes.
21. Listening to the sound of loneliness.
22. Coffee and how you say "Americano" with a roll of the tongue.
23. The last bit in my tea and how it's "too sweet to swallow."
24. Sitting close on the couch. Your hand stroking mine. Sneaking a kiss on the cheek.
25. Missing busses and missing you.
26. How I used to cheer you up.
27. The stars and sheep and roses.
28. Seth Rogan
29. Meditating and how I can't do it with you constantly clogging up my brain.
30. Laughing
31. I never learned to salsa dance with you and your brutally honest hips.
32. Carrot Creme Brulee
33. Hand dance duets
34. The empty spaces between my fingers
35. Your grey corduroy pants are my favorite.
36. When you called me your coriño.
37. How you would have scoffed at me copying and pasting an "ñ".
38. Attempting to show you music you would like.
39. Failing at showing you music you like.
40. Sending you hearts.
41. Arching my back.
42. Eating ice cream and how I'm better when it's here.
43. How I'm better when you're here.
44. How Cory is better when Topanga is there.
45. Italian Night Clubs
46. You and Me and Everyone We Know
47. Tyronne Street
48. Ice Land
49. Getting lost.
50. Drunken parties and thrashing fists.
51. Second chances
52. Being half of something.
53. Wearing your cardigan
54. Long embraces and never wanting to move.
55. Doing my homework with you sitting next to me. Not letting you read over my shoulder
56. Teaching you about the body.
57. Your smile, and how you give a little chuckle every time I see it.
58. How we used to laugh about nothing.
59. Really bad cookies.
60. Butter face.
61. Jealousy
62. Hating modernized Shakespeare
63. Confessions
64. Embarrassed faces buried in pillows
65. Incredulous about me hating Elvis
66. Miles ******* Davis
67. Singing softly to the radio
68. Playing the piano. Singing for you when you're not around.
69. Wondering if you're reading this right now.
70. Hoping that you've gotten this far down the list.
71. Be the Pitta to my Vata
72. Kate Upton has saggy *****.
73. I just want to make spaghetti with you.
74. How you hate ellipsis
75. Wondering whether or not I spelled that correctly because I know you would judge.
77. Leaving tearful voice-mails
78. John Lennon and Yoko Ono's Rolling Stone cover
79. Looking at art, wishing I was Monet.
80. My sundress on the floor.
81. Not seeing that new movie in theaters (the one that won all those Oscars) because I only want to see it with you.
82. Getting angry when Kacie B. didn't get the rose on the Bachelor and knowing you're angry too because Courtney ***** as a person.
83. I'm an ugly crier.
84. Hitting bread pans
85. Your green plaid jacket
86. Vulgarity
87. Insecurity
88. "Back and forth. Forever."
89. How that one song reminds you of me and I still don't know why.
90. How you deserve the best
91. It makes me sad that I'm at number 91 and you're still nowhere to be found.
92. Going to ballet class with the anticipation of seeing you afterward.
93. You asking me how ballet was, whether you were interested or not.
94. whispers "Let me be your hero."
95. Never seeing your fur vest.
96. Holding hands when we shouldn't have.
97. Velvet leggings
98. The last wonder of the world.
99. I fear that I will forget what your face looks like.
100. Reaching one-hundred with so much more to say.
Alternative title: 100 Things I Have to Give Up If I Want to Live
Mims Mar 2017
There's nothing wrong with la la land,
But,
For me,
It is a reminder that there just aren't movies like that,
For me,
That display my love,
Accurately.

I don't get,
Musicals,

Or duets,
Or colorful sets,

I don't get pretty dresses,
Twirling in an over head shot,

I get over sexualized,
And movies,
That are not,
Actually,
For me.
Day Apr 2016
nerves eat away the confidence I have left,
little butterflies  trying to escape,
knowing what a desperate soul *I am
.
just an afternoon thought I had
Jai Rho Jul 2013
We talk in code
with words
that like chameleons
hide
where they appear

and send signals
with our fars
and nears
and gones
and heres

that in their way
are sometimes mixed
without knowing
when or why

And then we act
hesitant at times
and at times decisive
yet uncertain

in choreographed
but unrehearsed
steps
that turn
into each other
and phrase the
rhythm
of
our dance
Terry Collett Jun 2015
After ***
Abela
likes to lie

in the bed
listening
to duets

from that guy
Puccini
-I get us

some coffee
from the small
kitchenette-

isn't it so
romantic?
She asks me

from the bed
sure it is
but what are

they singing
about it's
foreign words

I reply
carrying mugs
to the bed

where she lies
**** naked
invitingly

words are words
it's the sounds
that move me

she tells me
I put mugs
on both sides

of the bed
on small side
cabinets

I climb back
into bed
Puccini's

getting her
in the mood
she eyes me

runs fingers
down my thigh
kisses me

on the lips
on the chin
on the cheek

my pecker
stirs himself
from slumber

not knowing
what hour
day or week.
A COUPLE ON HOLIDAY AND *** AND PUCCINI IN 1972.
Noor May 2015
A sun, shinning through looking glass
Broken pieces of me are glowing with remorse
Can you tell, how lovely tea leaves are singing
Duets with crows and ravens
Everything shines in glory, shines in regrets
Falling in reverse, crying in reverse
Gone are the ghosts, gone are dreams
How lovely are the birds' beaks
Integrating with the sea's edge
Joining the dead ships and shells
Keeping the diseases, keeping the rain
Low sounds, do you remember how it felt when we said goodbye?
Melodies discharging tears from their eyes like a funeral's crowd
No more remorse, no more regrets
Opening their mouths but the words are trapped like birds in cages
Pills are choking them, stuffing their bodies
Quite was the day, loud was the night with screams from within
Run for your life, or run for your death
Sick were my dreams, sick with my insanity
This birdsong, it's haunting you, haunting me
Under pressure, under which gate is the key?
Vaulted were their smiles, like an ancient city
With sorrow it is, vaulted is the gate to you
Xeroxing my needs, every inch of my pride
You have set my soul on fire, I'm burned to the ground
Zonked out, exhausted by the lies that lingered through your skin, through mine.
Glenn Currier May 2022
There’s a concert in my back yard
solos and duets all day
a circus with acrobatics
clowns painted with reds, blues and browns
just feet from my perch
here as I peck on the  keys
the stars fly in
then flit away with ease
as if to tell me:
you can’t hold me long
with your seeds and your eyes
we are free to dive the skies.
With gratitude to John Wiley and his poem, “Kookaburra” - https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4547160/kookaburra/  - the inspiration for this poem.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.i can think of one cool job... a nighttime DJ on a radio station... anything more cool than being a DJ between the hours 12am through to 5am? honestly... can't think of a cooler job... all the song requests are gone from the classical.fm show between 3pm and 5pm... now one is telling you what to do... **** me... as a kid... either a veterinarian, or an owner of a music shop... now? an insomniac DJ... they would never play Christopher Young's Something to Think About in the afternoon... sorry... i'm a Hellraiser cult-follower of the first two movies... and that song? why? i just can't be bothered with listening to that Braveheart over-scratched Song of / for a Princess... it's good... once in a while... but, come, on!

just one of those nights...
having listened to the scoops
from the alternative...
worried your to hell
about not having *******
enough concerning
the previous day's load
which would make the pleasures
of **** *** look tame...
perched on a windowsill -
solving a sudoku -
   and listening to
Frank Zappa's occam's razor...
and wishing:
  making sure it was never
hot in the city
by Billy Idol,
or Kiss' crazy nights
to usher in the night,
          and the watchman...
why?
   it's not your standard
guitar solo...
it's a medley...
    big difference...
guitar solos are bound to
a strict return to the rhythm
section...
   they are caged beasts...
composed of a restricted
time constrain in a song...
but a guitar medley?
**** me...
     it's what obliterates
a need for vocals...
   the guitar medley is
the vocals substitute...
             and that aspect of music?
mm... gummy bears...
jelly in the knees...
           which is why i like
the fact that jazz is the antithesis
of classical music symphony...
sure... i get the Schubert / Schumann
piano duets...
   nice...
         but jazz?
the breakdown of the quintet?
****... let me count...
piano, drums...
        bass... horn... sax...
yep, a quintet...
          that moment in a jazz
song? where each instrument
player gets his solo?
genius!
            the same with a guitar medley...
neither solo,
  nor the rhythm section...
what a beautiful opening
to what i expect to be,
a beautiful night:
   as the watchman once said.
Laura Matas Apr 2017
I want to move on,
But I am stuck.
Stuck on the memories.
Stuck on what could've been.
Stuck on wondering what went wrong.
Stuck on wondering what more I could've done.

I am stuck on the way you made me laugh.
I am stuck on the way you held my hand.
I am stuck on the way you held me in your arms, as we gazed up at the stars on a cold December night.
I am stuck on our roadtrips and our perfectly imperfect duets.
I am stuck on who you empowered and encouraged me to be.
I am stuck on how you made me feel and who you were when I was falling in love.

Now, I see you,
And every time I do,
My heart breaks all over.
I see you talk to everyone else in the room, and bit by bit I fall apart inside.
I see you with other girls, encouraging them the way you did me at the beginning.
I see you moving on, completely unstuck,
Completely unphased by the torment I am in.

You made me genuinely happy.
Happier than I've ever been.
And I can choose to be joyful
and patient
and kind
and humble
and good,

But happiness is stuck in the past with you.
Pellets of rain pestered the cotton swagged
sky, cloudy purses grew black with scowls
coldly spelling their injustice. A chapter of
sunrays shot shamesless shards, irony perched

between chaperones; a truce maybe, rains restless
pathways of rays bleating their appeal, rooming in,
black balaclavas, rooting for blue beams,
itching bony beads of cloudy sweat, out of reach

In turn, limbs colour coated grassy spaces
tides of sun worshippers laughed out loud
their inner duets, hand in hand the sweltering
dance floor bathed them, sidling cotton clouds

Swiftly passing the sunscreen, laying back, beckoning
the sun from beneath neatly positioned cloud baubles.
Within an inch of our lives the splodges began, light
heavy, heavier, to the swell of April in full tune

Instantly the greedy green spaces groaned, ejected
sweet harmony, rolled out goodbyes, tongued stiff
breeze longing for its thirst to be quenched, and so
torrents rushed in where fools once lay

A lonely sunscreen bottle, remnant of warm
minds soaking heat, long days teasing into belief.
Yet April fooled us once more with beguiling banter,
chorused a chanting cheating lullaby of lamentation
EC Pollick Jun 2012
Cool kid euphoria with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on is what we all are in the basement of the 50’s house.
Our phones blowing up while we sip whiskey and wine.
Trying to get the attention of the cars on the main road
By handstanding and flashing and cheersing our beers
And we receive our victorious honks.

Guitar clock radio with numbers around the fretboard and Sir Paul smiling and crooked, acid-trippin’ guitarist/violinist/celloist looking product of orange and gold look down upon as our patron saints.
Swingin’ low, Sweet Chariot words stares up at me from the 70’s floral carpet.
Ralph Stanley and Eric Clapton singing solos and duets in my head keep me company as the boys play and figure out key changes.

Painted screen hiding the Etta James microphone stands forgotten in the corner—
As I take in the teals and roses and golds.
Give me a heart shaped box where I can store my love
I fly so high in the world above
I’ll come back down eventually.

Lava lamped water stain engulfs the ceiling. As fingers go up frets
And they go down frets
And they go up frets
And they go down frets.
As you don’t enunciate when you sing.
We all mourn  our fallen brethren, the base of the telecaster with no strings and no head and it weeps silently from its place on the water pipes, hearing his cousins WAAAIIIIILLLLLL.

As Cool kid euphoria is created with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on in the basement of the 50’s house.

We work all day so we can drink all night
Getting high off the drug that is each other
Chain-smoking Pall Malls like it’s our job
Listening to oldies as we shoot the eight ball in the corner pocket.
Garden tools and Lawn Mower parts as a sweet, creepy décor in the dank basement
As we breathe in mold and dust and cigarette smoke.

We are gloriously young.
So *******.
We still think we can change the world.
Not through politics or through fear or by means of war
But by doing just enough to get by and loving everybody for who they are, even the parts or religions or particular ways of life we don’t like,
Because people aren’t what they do or what they believe
They’re who they are.
We still think we can change the world
And Maybe one day, we will

But for now
We’ll just be here,
In the basement of the 50’s house with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on.
basil Oct 2021
i make these lists in my head
of my ideal partner
and i know that it's not fair or healthy
but i do it anyway

they have to wear jewelry and have their ears pierced
it would be good if they had a sense of anarchy
love of reading is a must, and they'd better read my suggestions
i want someone with a pretty voice
to read me poetry and sing duets with me in the car
speaking of, i'd like them to have a car
because i believe in the inherent romance of the passenger seat
i would steal the aux cord and blast the playlist that they made me

i want to love someone who loves things
who loves to love things
almost as much as i do

they have to love art, and it would be a plus if they made some
because i can't draw for sh*t, but i can look at paintings until i die
i want to go to art museums with them and symphonies and plays
we can sit in the cheapest seats and throw pennies instead of roses

god, i want someone with strong hands
that can hold me and i will just know that they want to
i want to love someone with dyed hair
so i can sit with them between my legs as i reapply the color
and have stains on my fingers for weeks
i want a poet, because i want to be immortalized
in raw phrases in a moleskin journal

but i just haven't met this person yet
i don't know if i ever will
****, not me trying to manifest my soulmate <//3

10.04.2021
Katie Murray Nov 2016
She is a girl

She has two sisters, a dog
And a pair of worn-out headphones in her pocket

She is fifteen

She plays violin in the school orchestra
And sings duets in the sun

She is left-handed

She’s also pansexual
(Just thought you should know)

<><><>

She is a girl
(A different girl, mind you)

She has bright hair and dark eyes
And a sky of freckles spanning her body

She is a netball player

She listens to everything that’s said
And laughs at everything in response

She is an Aquarius

Her girlfriend is an Virgo
(Is this what they call diversity?)

<><><>

He is a boy

He is on the males’ baseball team
And recites prophetical speeches in the dugout

He is an early riser

He likes old-fashioned comedy movies
And his favourite colour is either orange or black

He is graduating next year

He’ll finally get to ask his school’s star pitcher to prom
(Finally is the right word)

<><><>

‘She’ is a boy
(A different boy, mind you)

‘She’ lives in the countryside
And travels 2 hours to campus each morning

‘She’ is a realist

‘She’ studies human relations
And has wanted to visit Rome since 'she' was eight

‘She’ is a part-time barista

‘She’ prefers the pronoun ‘he’
(No big deal if you forget though)

<><><>

They are people

They have people they love
And people who love them

They are people

They may have changed to you
And yet they haven’t changed to themselves

They are people
They are still people

<><><>

(Just thought you should know)

<><><>
03 / 11 / 16
*DRAFT*
For my English class. May repost later with minor changes.
Eliot Greene Dec 2013
Stubborn boy
Let loose the shackles of your smile
This world is far too holy for you to
Hide that half halo of your grin

The sound that comes in the crumbling
Of your childhood is the same one
That speaks in the secret wanderings
Of your soul
So listen close

When we walked around
The old bronze heart of this city
I wish you could hear
The rising pitch tuning
Of your veins as it readies
You to perform inside the
Same arena as a thousand
Broken down Cleopatras
Playing with snakes

Stubborn boy
Succumb to the silver smile
This city speaks in
A language I will never know
I am a scholar
That studies only the whispered
Tongues of crescent streetlamps
But you
You can learn all the languages
That have ever crashed into the moon

Close that book you have buried you eyes in
And in this city plant
The waiting bud of your billowing heart
So it can blossom like flames of windswept cherry trees
While there are still days left in spring

Stubborn boy
They taught you how to sing
And you memorized the melodies
Of such foreign stars
Open the cannon of your throat
This world is a two bit theater
That buries bodies
In the same seats they were born

But you
Son of a thousand
Secret subway duets
Will one day find yourself
Sitting next to the soul of this city

And she
She will ask you to sing for her
And you
You will learn why the tides chase the moon
claire May 2015
There are things we come back to:

People we can’t stop loving. Places that sing and sigh. Words gritty and livening inside our mouths. Songs that shake us out of our indifference, make us feel. Those little coffee shops rattling with charming oddities. Stories of scares that turned out to be enjoyable thrills. Photographs where their hands are in yours and you are both beaming. Poetry. Motion. Light.

It’s all the same. All the wonder and heart-twist, all the love and loss.



There are things we come back to.

There are things we come back to, and there is you.



A long time ago, I dreamed of you. Back when everything was uncertain and fantastically, despairingly painful.

In this dream, you looked like the end of one world and the beginning of another. Like a door cracked part of the way open. I wanted to walk through to the other side. I wanted to see what this new world was like. I wanted rebirth. I wanted you. Simply, stupidly.

I’ll never forget the way the night and all its neon lights played with your face. I’ll never forget waking up with a pulse faster than a bird’s, and swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress, and blinking at the wall as I decided it was time to take my poor, engorged heart to the page.

I didn’t write that day. I confessed. I admitted the unadmittable: Love, being in love.  

I erupted.



Tell me to stop romanticizing you and I will be defiant, I will refuse your request.

Tell me to stop rhapsodizing you and I will tell you that I have always done so, have always been composing poems within your orbit, as if, like some kind of Jerusalem, all roads lead to you.

Tell me stop idealizing you and I will say it’s impossible for me, for someone who falls in love with everything raw and good and blooming, for a writer, for a woman who is all blush beneath her sarcasm, all stomach-flutter beneath her carefully arranged neutrality.

Tell me to stop and I will rebel.

I will keep writing you as you exist. Crackling with energy. Sharp, like new ice. Flagrant.

I will keep drawing upon language to arrange as close an image of you as I can possibly come.

I will keep telling all the world how you are collision upon collision of forest and wind, endless.

You cannot stop me.



There are things I come back to.

This (eyes that never fail to see straight through to my core; a laughing mouth; beautiful hands tuning a violin in sun-dusted silence as I watched with my own poised over piano keys, wondering despondently why our duets were always love songs);

and this (a small, privately lovely box of canvases with your trees, star-swirls, phoenix enflamed, and other rising things; two girls, a bookstore, a meeting of souls, a rescue from excruciating loneliness; us sprawled out side by side on an uneven cellar floor beneath the glow of lights strung everywhere, awash in amusement because parties were never something we excelled at);

and this (the moment it all became clear; the answering longing; the brilliance of synergy; the soft and glorious voyage of our hands toward each other; the inevitability of it all).

You, always.

You.
SAF Mar 2012
My neck is cricking and so are the crickets outside.
The bike rack shuffle, the dance of the bars and wheels.
The knuckles dancing- mini solos and bold duets?
Cars driving by, up in my room, so fluid, so loud.
Hard to swallow, gravel chunks bouncing off the waterfall throat.
Sticky fingers, itchy ears.
No similarity- just parts of the process.
The marriage.
The system.
Massive zits and oddly placed hickeys.  
Misplaced zits and famous hickeys.
Hickets.
**** water, stubbed toe.
NO MORE LISTS!
No bruises, no needles and pins.
But what is poetry without listing?
Words that work and form and portray, nothing gray-
Light and beauty and all that is write about the word.
Brian O'blivion Aug 2013
on the ruined side of town
from an old unsettled score

1970s melodies drift

shadowlines shift
in love's unfinished war
lay the greatness of your time
in a hollow bend by a tree of skin
and bones
under air tides of sea
and summer duets
Jami Samson Oct 2014
Have you ever fell into that trap of a feeling
Of being a broken dam trying not to burst and overflow,
While sticking out a believable face at the same time,
For it's dangerous to have people know of your ill-being,
That your tormented head starts to ache
That same ache it does
When you accidentally sniff water
When you're submerged in a pool or in the ocean,
Or when you drink and tilt the glass too much
That the water splashes on your face?
Well tonight I'm caught pretty deep.
Funny how it doesn't feel like drowning
Or having water inside your head;
But more like crying without the tears
And sneezing without the gooey stuff.
Where is it coming from?
How come it won't leave
When you didn't even feel it enter?
I wriggle like a fish out of sea,
Will it do any good to shake the ache off?
But it's 12 midnight
And the walls know I'm lost until another sunrise.
I unplug every switch
Inside my smarting head,
So I won't get electrocuted
When the water touches my thoughts
Of potential whirlpool or tidal wave.
If I could just close my eyes,
So the water won't find any openings,
As well as to prevent me from leaking.
But you can't keep water out;
It can creep in through the littlest holes
And the narrowest spaces.
And you almost slipped my mind,
But how could you possibly?
Not one of my pens has ever run out of you,
And no paper has ever dried from you;
And I bathe in you every morning,
As I cleanse my shell,
Since the day you poured onto my shrivelled earth.
Trickles of you infuse me,
Day and night;
You can flow in and out whenever you please
And it feels as if you've been inside all this time,
Or maybe you never really even left.
So you rippled your way
To turning on one switch;
The switch for my dreams.
Funny how I didn't get electrocuted
Or send whirlpools and tidal waves.
And still, I don't.
Now you are suddenly here,
For a visit,
Downstairs, at the living room,
Where everybody is.
Tangibly present, presently real.
In your favorite color,
The color you are when I watch over you from the shore,
Or when you try to make me smile by holding out the sun behind the clouds;
Bright and refreshing.
And it's the middle of an orange afternoon
On a day that is never going to come,
And I am there too,
And suddenly there is no place to be
But by your side,
And we are hand in hand
As we face the demons of this hell-house.
We stand as I introduce you to them,
And they deliver their lines
Without making any sound,
Or maybe I just turned their voices off.
After all, this bubble is mine.
So we walk out of the door,
Away from their further discussions,
And it is now evening,
And it is still orange,
Matching the glow of the street lights
On the other side of the road.
And we sit on the sidewalk,
Feeling the warm night,
Taking off our skin
Made of what we're not,
To feel a little less hot;
For you will surely sweat
When you have to put on
Something you don't fit in,
Just to look good on the outside.
Now we are dressed with who we are
When we don't have to be like them,
And I tell you it's because they're people
That I don't belong with them.
And you ask, “But what about me?”
And I say, “But you are not them,”
You are you;
And that doesn't make you
Fall under any category.
Am I an intruder,
Trespassing on your island,
Or is this Atlantis
The only home for our souls?
I haven't met theirs,
But I have met yours,
And I know yours;
Or at least I think I do.
But you know mine,
And I know you understand
Even if you don't agree sometimes
Because I can't be right;
Just not in this world.
But in our island I could,
So I go on telling you things I haven't stopped speaking of;
Things you haven't stopped listening to,
Since the day I first landed on your seabed.
Then you smile and sing the right melodies
That will reverberate forever in my head
And turn into secret hymns,
Or duets if we hit the same note,
When the world won't turn its volume down;
Just like every other piece you recite.
You tell me to just look at the bright side;
That part you never fail to show me,
That part I can't find when you're gone,
And I say I am looking directly into its eyes,
As I turn to catch your sight.
And suddenly we freeze,
And I don't wish
For our continents to drift;
Can't we just let this ice age take
All the time it needs?
I guess this illusion is enough
To resuscitate me for a few more hours;
But it can't build me a lighthouse,
Or carry me in a life boat;
For in this kind of high tide,
I could really use some you.
Since it doesn't matter anymore.

#25. June.10.2013
basil Oct 2021
i want someone to notice the way i laugh at the wrong parts of movies
and know what weird thought i had about the scene
to hold my hand and kiss my dimple and write about how witty i am
we can joke about it every time we rewatch it

i want someone to read to me under a fading sky in the wintertime
as our breath curls around our throats and it's hard to keep their voice steady
but the words are pretty, and so are their fingers as they wrap around my hair
sylvia plath for the darker days,
robert frost when the sun starts peeking through

i want someone who will dye my hair in shades of pink and green
our noses curling at the scent of the overwhelming bleach
laughing hysterically as we get high on the fumes and try to be quiet when we hear my mom's footsteps outside the bathroom
i'll cut their bangs choppy to match

i want someone who will sing duets with me to a blown out car stereo
as we drive aimlessly through the nights of this ghost-town-to-be
i'll steal the aux cord more than once, and mess with the windows like a kid
but they'll tolerate it because they like the wind
almost as much as they like me

i want someone to dance with me in the rain like we're in a bad romance novel
and enjoy it anyway because it smells like promises (and i keep those)
we can waltz badly and laugh until it hurts to laugh, and then we'll just sway
i'll splash them with puddles and they'll splash back harder
and we can ditch our clothes and get hypothermia together

maybe one day i'll want them enough to have them

but for now i'll watch movies by myself and still laugh at all the wrong parts, knowing that i'm weirdly clever

i'll read poetry in my own voice under the grey sky cut open by leafless branches, because it's pretty

i'll dye my own hair and cut my own choppy bangs and i'll feel untouchable

i'll scream 'bohemian rhapsody' by myself driving down main street in the middle of the night

and i'll just wait for it to rain so i can catch in my mouth and pretend it was a kiss from the sky
somebody find me somebody to love <3
lol fvckin love queen <3
also... this is like... one of my favorite things i've written <3
ode to self love amiright <3

10.05.2021
Zoe Principe Nov 2014
you
you're different.
for some unknown reason.
when i see you
i just get this sudden urge to
joke around with you
sing duets with you
or simply just talk.
there's just something about you
that drives me to feel things
i've never felt before.
Mark Aug 2018
Of nature's pairing hearts that love renowned
shall I compare the depths of those duets
to virtues won, betrothed and then have bound
this noble cause and gift, that none forgets.

As doves through ether, we ascend delights
no frost shall haze the wings on truest path
tho' wind and rain befits the winter nights,
near maple leaves we warm; as singles bath.

The Swans devout will glide the lakes unknown
we two abound, prevailed by mantras vows
and when apart in bevy we have flown
shall wait till night when lovers dance allows.

As rare as diamonds forged for cupids' stone
is love we found alike - the emblems own.
And when the time dwindles,
and that same body stumbles,
your world all around you
may not or may crumble.

A love-keeper's journal,
written with lust
is not a love journal at all,
bound by false trust.

But no trust
doesn't mean lies.
Maybe misunderstanding
or a misread eye.

Birthed into routine
and taught by repetition.
Opened up hearts
with new intuition.

Raised in a world
where everything is expected,
and anything different
is highly disrespected.

How much is enough?
Whether gentle or rough,
when your time is spent
and you're done being tough.

Who will spend your time?
Whether negative or right,
in the future or past,
it will be in your sight.

But can one ever-changing soul
just settle down?
Does one choose a favorite song,
and ignore all other sounds?

You may never be different,
but may never be the same,
and to find one person
with one certain name,

Would you be content,
never turn away?
Is it so wrong to wonder?
We swing and we sway.

From one love to another,
from hours to days,
I linger indifferent,
to so many things.

Love is love is love,
and we share it aloft.
Is three such a crowd,
in a bed that's so soft?

From partner to parody,
repeat, and repeat,
we go from one to another,
retreat, and retreat.

Back to square one,
alone all along,
but in the months to come,
love like a song.

Some are sick of duets,
and some like to stand alone,
and some like to see many,
and some like to see clones.

A triangle of fun,
an octagon of plays;
A partnership hole,
with so many days.

You lust what you must,
and you think what you might.
You go with your trust,
and you follow your light.

A variety of comfort,
spread across the globe,
with people being human
and that's how it goes.

Some have no idea,
and live inside the box.
Some see the sticky tape
but would rather see not.
How tenuous
Life is—
Delicate
As a dragonfly wing.
We hold fate
In our hands
And love
On the edge of a kiss.
Fragility
That speaks:
We will never know
More
Than this
Jude kyrie Aug 2015
The planet bask in the nightglow
of countless stars in the night sky.
The bloom of their stardust
falling upon her like rain.
I know it is her.
She is the one.
The one I have waited for.
For so long.
Listen to our hearts
bursting into love songs.
In a joyous duet.
Natasha Teller Dec 2013
in infancy,
vienna waited for me.

before bedtime,
i stood on my father’s feet
and put my tiny hands
in his large ones
as we danced around the livingroom
to billy joel.

i learned to read at two;
while young, my father taught me
how to gently set a record on the turntable,
move the arm, set the needle down

and i read the lyrics, memorizing:
war child, dark side of the moon, sports.

we made our fingers walk on a thin line;
we made our faces angry with grins.

he, via ian anderson, showed me
how to carry a sword and take a stand,
told me to be who i really want to be
and taught me what to do
when i join the good ship earth.

older yet, we sang duets,
his deep “by the hand, hand, take me by the hand”
to my “i wanna hear some funky dixieland—”
his “no sugar tonight”
to my “new mother nature.”

now, at fifty-six and twenty-five,
we sing about shiny teeth and having
nothin’ but a good time.
we teach the midwest
not to mess with a *******.
Louisa Coller Jan 2015
Scarlet, the colour of the dress she wore.
Black, the colour he smothered with in love.
White, the colour the child wore,
Little did they know she hid behind a mask.
Mother and Father, I apologize, I have sinned tonight,
I met him and he loved me more than he should of.
The pushing of pain, it hurt and made me weep.
The feelings of tension, I fell way too deep.
Mother and Father, I apologize, I have sinned tonight,
you said I should love him and I said I did,
but now I’m in love with him, another male,
another mask, he’s dancing in on his own.
Solo he is, solo he wishes to stay,
Duets is what I hope for.

— The End —