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Anthony Esposito
And when the mountain came to fall
These men, these weak men
Came groveling to the feet of woman.
Offering riches, furs, and perfume
They kissed their feet like gods
They gave them everything
Until nothing was left
Be that a lesson to men
That woman
Are the real rulers of this land
How to become a poet:
Let someone rip your soul apart.
And in the need of mending ,
You will replace it with words.
In my attempts to keep today

I dance to waves and love too much,

I howl at night when Luna shines above the sky

and run loose wild,

not chasing dreams that time forgets

but simply outrunning bad mistakes

and stale regrets-

i probably still love you by that time
or i'll probably love you for a long time
it's going to be so hard to move on
or it might be impossible to move on

but i'm slowly accepting that;
i'm slowly accepting those facts
from the day i let you go
Ben Palomino
I converse with
The voices in my head

They talk slowly
So their guidance isn't misread
I have a few drafts. Not sure if it needs more or if short is better
David Lessard
I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)
J Latham
you are my constant

my only constant

you keep me living

although I may be livid

you might not see, dear

just what we’re here for

so don’t watch me waste

another beautiful day
written June 30, 2009
Amanda Kay Burke
I do not know where to go from here
Vision blurred by every heavy tear
Helplessly witnessing hope disappear
I am forced to face my greatest fear
Which is losing the people i love the most
[...] like a moth that would do anything to reach its light, here you fight for our love. Like a moth blinded by the beauty of the light, unaware of the harm the light could do to it, you never give up fighting for our love. But why do you put yourself through this pain?
i am sorry
Mark Wanless
i see the elephant
   in the room
they are so beautiful
   why would i want
to get rid of them
Maybe we're all beggars in ways we don't understand
Unconscious, asking, trying not to demand
Believing we've been dealt an unlucky hand
Playing in ways that go wrong, the moves unplanned
Maybe we'll make it right, with luck on our side
Trying not to break, at least we'll have tried
If it has to end someday, let's enjoy the ride
If life is pain, at least death can be dignified.
Peter Peter had a wife and probably beat her.
He bought her with her father's farewell
No one asked. Nor should you either!
When is the last time you've seen her?
Oskar Erikson
Your name
has been locked into
the secret dimension
inside my mouth
known only by our tongues.

so i keep searching
7 months out
since losing my only key

trying to find another
to fit
the last remnant of us
out of me.
Landon Keys
Emotions run deep.
Is it true? Is it right?
Well, I would imagine so.
Though only time will tell.
So, let's wait for the snow.
When you were a child you liked to play
That is Godly

Remember when they told you to go play?
You didn't always want to play

You wouldn't stop carrying on and wallowing around
When they whipped you or sent you to your room

You played
God returns

It sure wasn't the devil guiding you.
They were busy telling you what to do, and whipping you for not playing

Gentleness...please pass is time
I’m buried in a cocoon of stories
From poetry,
To biographies,
To dystopia,
And romance
So many stories
Of so many people
Or just figments of the author’s
Sitting atop wooden bookshelves
Waiting for the right person,
To pick them up
And get lost in their story
For everyone has a story to tell,
Some are overly exaggerated,
And other’s are rarely heard
The important thing is
That we share our stories
Through word of mouth,
The internet,
Or in a notebook
To be found by future historians
Tell your story
Believe me, you won’t regret it
my life is on the line,
at least my clothes
are being dried
despite all this
I feel a great love
jeffrey conyers
You respected.
You a legend.
Became part of a trio that is now called a legend.

Hotwax, Invictus, just added thrills of more creativity.
You were the name in between two brothers that reign supreme.
Accomplished so much during the sixties scene.

You were Dozier, loyal soldiers creating Motown success.

And, now you're gone.
Tell him, you gave your best.
Dont I deserve happiness?
I dont deserve your love
Maybe Ill be better off dead
I dont know the meaning of this life
I went to a trip to Mexico but now Im sad
I dont wanna go to work
I just want to sleep
In my sleep Im not human anymore
i never intended
to take apart
all the pieces
you glued back
Today was a beautiful day and I took no photos of it so that I could remember it well
It strikes, not with a gale,
but with a drizzle of cherry blossoms
and a flurry of gentle chords.
She loves me
He lusts for me
They need me
You long for me
But I am alone
Suresh Gupta


in death lies the seed of birth,

so as we are cradled in one form,

so shall we be cradled in another.

no reason for dismay,

no cause for anguish
Stephen Leacock
For I'm the illusion that I dream
I'm the one that makes up the seen
The macrocosmic life of me
universe expanding and imploding like the number 3
The polarity of where this meets
Creation that awakes and sleeps
Generation of everything combined together
The song of atoms connecting with each other
Infinity number that is 8 and 9
The hands spins like time
For I'm beyond that what you see
I'm the universe, the hope the light that  generates  the beauty
Cycle of life that returns to me
Process of wheel that rotates like seas
For I'm beyond measure than the eyes can see
The universe like an egg of the cosmic beauty
Ariana Bagley
I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Without him
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.

Now read from bottom to top.
we were just friends when you kissed me
just friends when we held hands
just friends when you said you missed me
and yet i wish
to at least be just friends again
every poem i write can't stop being about u
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.
A little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
your name is
forbidden in
my mouth
or in my heart
because when
i think about

i'll cry a little more,
hurt a little stronger
love a little softer
because you no longer
make me feel sober

i'm drunk on the
memory of you
if only i could chase you with pizza but shots don't work like that
I see the lights through the window
Forming shapes in your ceiling
We lie in bed and you look at me
You don't say what you are thinking
But you smile and get closer.

I hear the traffic through my window
Keeping me awake till late at night
Too late to say what I was thinking
That time I wanted to stay
But left anyway.
you take all of the
stars in the night sky with you
whenever you leave.
She said "I'm falling in love."

I said "I'm falling apart."
What's the difference?
Paul Verlaine
Le long bois de sapins se tord jusqu'au rivage,

L'étroit bois de sapins, de lauriers et de pins,

Avec la ville autour déguisée en village :

Chalets éparpillés rouges dans le feuillage

Et les blanches villas des stations de bains.

Le bois sombre descend d'un plateau de bruyère,

Va, vient, creuse un vallon, puis monte vert et noir

Et redescend en fins bosquets où la lumière

Filtre et dore l'obscur sommeil du cimetière

Qui s'étage bercé d'un vague nonchaloir.

À gauche la tour lourde (elle attend une flèche)

Se dresse d'une église invisible d'ici,

L'estacade très **** ; haute, la tour, et sèche :

C'est bien l'anglicanisme impérieux et rêche

À qui l'essor du cœur vers le ciel manque aussi.

Il fait un de ces temps ainsi que je les aime,

Ni brume ni soleil ! le soleil deviné,

Pressenti, du brouillard mourant dansant à même

Le ciel très haut qui tourne et fuit, rose de crème ;

L'atmosphère est de perle et la mer d'or fané.

De la tour protestante il part un chant de cloche,

Puis deux et trois et quatre, et puis huit à la fois,

Instinctive harmonie allant de proche en proche,

Enthousiasme, joie, appel, douleur, reproche,

Avec de l'or, du bronze et du feu dans la voix ;

Bruit immense et bien doux que le long bois écoute !

La musique n'est pas plus belle. Cela vient

Lentement sur la mer qui chante et frémit toute,

Comme sous une armée au pas sonne une route

Dans l'écho qu'un combat d'avant-garde retient.

La sonnerie est morte. Une rouge traînée

De grands sanglots palpite et s'éteint sur la mer.

L'éclair froid d'un couchant de la nouvelle année

Ensanglante là-bas la ville couronnée

De nuit tombante, et vibre à l'ouest encore clair.

Le soir se fonce. Il fait glacial. L'estacade

Frissonne et le ressac a gémi dans son bois

Chanteur, puis est tombé lourdement en cascade

Sur un rythme brutal comme l'ennui maussade

Qui martelait mes jours coupables d'autrefois :

Solitude du cœur dans le vide de l'âme,

Le combat de la mer et des vents de l'hiver,

L'orgueil vaincu, navré, qui râle et qui déclame,

Et cette nuit où rampe un guet-apens infâme,

Catastrophe flairée, avant-goût de l'Enfer !...

Voici trois tintements comme trois coups de flûtes,

Trois encor, trois encor ! l'Angelus oublié

Se souvient, le voici qui dit : Paix à ces luttes !

Le Verbe s'est fait chair pour relever tes chutes,

Une vierge a conçu, le monde est délié !

Ainsi Dieu parle par la voix de sa chapelle

Sise à mi-côte à droite et sur le bord du bois...

Ô Rome, ô Mère ! Cri, geste qui nous rappelle

Sans cesse au bonheur seul et donne au cœur rebelle

Et triste le conseil pratique de la Croix.

- La nuit est de velours. L'estacade laissée

Tait par degrés son bruit sous l'eau qui refluait,

Une route assez droite heureusement tracée

Guide jusque chez moi ma retraite pressée

Dans ce noir absolu sous le long bois muet.
They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love.
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."
Appreciation post for myself; for you and for everyone as well. You deserve more than the world has to offer.
Özcan Sh
I wish
her scars were on my heart
and not on her arms.
I am but
one star
in the
that you
I am but
a rain's
it is
the ocean
that you
need to
swim in.
upon me.
and jump
within me.
I long
to be
for thee.

written by me... ..
a silent chaos
Is pain considered a drug when you keep coming back for it? For more?
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