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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.
Elizabeth Squires
who was responsible
for the queen's ultimate disappearance
who took it upon themselves
to seek her clearance

over quite a length of time
those of a regal pedigree
have been unexpectedly vanished
from the monarchical tree

these culprits cannot be
traced anywhere on the ground
its as thought they are secreted
beneath a shadowy mound

and we aren't able to stem
their anti regal sentiment
which is ever hardening
like a ten ton cube of cement

exhibiting the crown's
bloodline doth bring vaporization
where there will be nowt more
espying of a visitation

danger is omnipresent
and its peril aimed on any empress
an unknown body of disfavour
not requiring her impress
Hurting people
Hurt others
When they don't deal  with their loaded  baggage.
Hannah Christina S
Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
Problems only We True Artists face.
Tired, wired,
I’m feeling ready to retire
for eternity,
my situation’s gone dire.
When you find me
dead in the street,
don’t bother asking
“Why me?”
That question killed me.
Buried under stress,
deep in expectation.
Defected from birth,
give myself condemnation.
Why can’t I be like the other kids?
I hate myself, I hate myself.
A simpler time I very much miss.
I hate myself, let’s kill myself.
Nothing left for myself.

Is this a trend
or what happens
at the dead end?
You write it off,
message doesn’t send.
I’m not trivializing death,
I dream about it.
Exposed to these emotions,
so don’t act shocked
when I show them.
I’m losing all my focus.
They see me, so sick.
I’m on a thread,
I must admit.
I’m in my bed,
ready to forfeit.

Why write? Why lie?
I might actually do it.
I gained the advantage,
nobody knows I’d do it.
To them I’m very stupid,
“a grin couldn’t ever do this”.
That’s how it ends every time,
much love when I’m not alive.
Why can’t I do
before I die?
Why can’t you read
through these stupid lines?

I hate myself,
yeah you’ll replace me.
In truth you already did.
I hate myself and all the things
I can never dream to prevent.
I hate myself, my circumstances.
I hate how I love to pretend.
Smile, laugh and do a dance
while I hate everything I am.
I hate everything I am.
Paul Hansford
I could say
   “Ni hao”
for “Good morning,”
and it was only polite to say
    “Xie xie”
for “Thank you.”

That was my limit
until, in a babble of unfamiliar sounds,
I heard the word, “Ho-murr,”
and then again, “Ho-murr.”
Ho-murr? I thought.
Do they have The Simpsons in China?
But it was only “back door.”

Later, struggling to board a bus by the middle door,
I heard the conductor say,
– and I could even hear the exclamation mark –
I knew this time he wasn’t talking about The Simpsons,
and I had a pretty good idea
he wasn’t a fan of classical Greek poetry either.

But I didn’t want to be left on the pavement
when he closed all the doors and drove off.
So I just squeezed in by the middle door,
as if it was all Chinese to me.
I just re-discovered this on a memory stick I had completely forgotten.  It dates from a trip we made to China several years ago - no, make that "many years ago."  Unfortunately, My computer doesn't recognise the Chinese characters, so I have to rely on the phonetic version.
Daniel Robinson
And it is

Birds perched upon golden violin strings
Within grayscale trees and off-white leaves
Their chirps are replaced with funeral dirges and long extinct sea shanties
And well
I’m no ethnomusicologist
But I feel their eyes watching me
And they are here for blood

But it is

Your fathers teeth are
An alabaster white
Despite the nights you hear him retching in the bathroom
It makes you sick
It makes me sick
What makes him sick is the alcohol and the one Mirror in the house whose reflections won’t stop laughing

And I am having a hell of a time

The railroad track beside your apartment keeps knocking books off your shelf
Books you never remember buying whose pages are a deep purple and the writing seems not quite Greek, not quite Cyrillic, and not quite human
When you try putting them back on the shelf they catch fire
And the next day your boss asks you about the strange tattoo on the back of your neck that wasn’t there yesterday
And won’t be tomorrow

All these words sound the same

You found it in an abandoned building
In the middle of an old growth forest
The buildings walls were covered in blood and concrete
And the object is always warm, sounds like it’s humming, and is covered in strange markings
You are excited and afraid of what will happen next
But what will actually happen is the worst of all
The greatest curse of a life uninterrupted and uninteresting

But I must be everything
We cannot write silence.
The beats.
The pause.
The breath.
The way it aches
and persists

and begs that,

if only for a moment,

our consciousness is only a whisper.
our bodies,
our lips,
the air that passes through falling chests
and stillness.

A melody of emotion.
Sleeping in the quiet of a heartbeat skipped
a word lost to the wind.

The wickedness of reticence
Encapsulated in air and time.

The moment stretched too long.
Hesitation perpetuated in the grip of fingernails
pressed into palms.

We cannot write silence,
but we can try.

to find a way to immortalize emotion
to create space
in the ceaseless drone of words that speak and spin.

I cannot write silence. But I can write
tears and years
and the burn of long-stretched lies.

I can write goodbyes and hellos
And dozen ways to say
I love to hate you
I hate to love you
and sometimes
I cannot tell the difference.
The space I have upheld for myself.

I love to hate you

I hate to love you too.

I cannot write silence.
But I know it.
and I have held it in my hand.
Inspired by the Vanity Fair article of André Aciman's reaction to his book *Call Me By Your Name* being made into a movie. Specifically the quote, "I couldn't write silence."
Chris Neilson
If humans only make do and mend
there will not be a world without end
many different places we worship
while letting this planet's resources slip
buying shares in a guaranteed afterlife
selling self destruction, trouble and strife
disregarding our future generations
unless we build them space stations
a universe of life as yet unknown
we've only got Earth on loan homosapiens trust their faith with flower
professing a love to a higher power
a designation to keep us all in line
if we pray to our God we'll be fine
no one sets out for hell on a hand cart
highways for rock stars playing a part
not everyone believes in life after death
they say nothing's beyond the last breath
spiritual belief is a personal choice
we all speak with a unique voice
we all share this third rock from the sun
so we must respect our world as one
Religion, atheism, climate change and AC/DC all covered here
Michael Blonski
I stand before the monumental
I am crushed by its shadow
I am humbled by its ego
And I can taste envy

I ride the turbulent waters
Like the kelp behind
An ocean liner, I am jostled
Holding firmly as
I slowly inch my way
Out of the water

Eventually I will be free
By searching, by fighting, or by accepting
Fates cruel woven string
And what is clear to me
In the end I shall breathe
Dolores Woodman
Skimming the salt of the surface
the lion awakes with dawn
its slippery crown drifting; searching, forlorn.
Asia sings her morning song of creation
silver waves, clay that forms.
Stars sleep quietly below, their breath heard only when holding yours.
Dare you dive under, flip upside down and take a look
squint your eyes in wonder, float backwards, foam to the shore.
Might you live with Benthos always, fall not to the abyssal zone.
Ashwin Kumar
May woe betide you
May the worst of calamities
Strike your kith and kin
May you lose everything
That is dear to you
Every penny of yours
Shall be consigned to the flames
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Serving as divine retribution
For the bundles of cash
That changed hands everyday
Faster than the speed of light
Throughout your deceitful existence
Filled with lies and blackmail
Before eventually finding a safe haven
In your classy, upper middle class dwelling

May woe betide you
May every happy thought of yours
Be sucked out of your conniving minds
May your life be reduced
To one full of manic depression
One incapable of coherent thinking
Thus dwelling only on your failures
Till you eventually succumb
And self-destruct
With a flash of blinding light
Such that, all that is left
Is an unrecognizable form
A wretched caricature of regret
With your souls torn asunder
Leaving the world a little happier
A poem which is meant for my ruthless, cunning and treacherous ex-house owners in Chennai
Geraldine brennen
To all single mothers who did their best
Who shouted “have you cleaned your teeth
Put on a new vest”?
Who served them a meal,when they’d just like a rest!
Shined your shoes
And buttoned your coat
Unclamped you’re mouth
To put medicine down your throat
“Do your homework”
Is your usual chant...
When you’re tucked up in bed
I climb down the stairs.
Open a bottle of wine
I’ll just have the one?
It’s so hard sometimes
Being a single mum ....
Two years into adulting.
It’s possible, who knew?
I look the same as yesterday
But today I’m twenty two!

Dentist trips still freak me out,
Sometimes I burn an egg.
My blanket covers both my feet,
So monsters won’t grab my leg.

I don’t go out on Friday night,
My ankles feel the weather
And when I help the kids with homework,
We both learn math together.

Sometimes I’ll burst out crying
For no reason at all.
I know the words to one rap song,
And still prefer guys tall.

My puns are all intended
There is a spoon I hate
I’ll never mix my whites and brights
I can’t stay up too late.

My life has been a wild ride
But I’m thankful for each day
One day I hope to be mature
One day... but not today.
Arjun Tyagi
Across the span of fissures,
Marring a weather worn land,
Two, of The Elements toiled,
Splinters biting into their hands.
Air and Fire,
Barefoot and tired,
From opposite ends of the world,
Planks in hand, their journey transpired.
Towards the centre that was chaos,
That was disorder and fear,
Of what happened when the Elements met,
When they had come near.
Colossal the effect, Air fuelling Fire,
Fire enveloping Air,
The energy too intense,
Their bodies it sheared.
Thus, eternally wary, since
That time of Destruction,
They sought to overcome,
A life growing into dysfunction.
For a land remains empty,
Without fire to be the Dark's fall,
For Air in an empty land,
Gives life to none at all.
Thus they build,
each passing step,
A fence with sins inscribed,
To remember the sacrifice.
To understand what they were,
When coming close would not hurt,
When they could let live in peace,
Instead of driving them into the dirt.
Also called The Fence
Teach your child
to plant a tree
than pluck one
that was never
her own entity
but its own

Teach your child
to make  a painting
of a flower
as a gift
than give a bouquet
that will die soon
or instead
teach her to
give a sapling
that will grow
into a memory
which will hold
much power

Teach your child
to question
than cower
to vain rules
and illogic
that steal her
playful affection
and her artless frolic

Teach your child
to climb trees
before the
ladders to
supreme echelon

Teach her
that when she collapses
she must stand up
with grace and poise
like the shining sun
for after
the night
is done
laying its darkness
it rises again
the sun

Teach your child
the colors of mankind
Yellow or Orange
Red or Brown
Black or White
to accept each one
without the division
of vanity
of power
or a crown

Teach your child
to create
her own meaning
of Love

Teach her to
listen to the story
of every tear
that bears grief
and to
speak aloud
to bespeak
wisdom and virtue
in brief

Teach your child
about the freedom
in and of the mind
before she rebels
to venture outside
with people
who care less
about her kind
but more about
filling the space
on a car seat

Teach your child
to believe
in possibilities
and have faith
in the certainties
of unlocking mysteries

Teach her
to fuel
her curiosities

Teach your child
values that were not
taught to
the crowd
then you will
stand a mother
full and proud.
Smoke Scribe
Imagine that
I could write a salve,
compose an ointment of verbal herbs to heal,
even mere protect the already-torn-so-easy mental flesh,
just to disguise/hide the multi-colored bruising our
fickle mistress-in-common provides when you are down so far
another bruise joining the cast like a  floodplain subsuming one more feeding creek bed into the shapelessness of indistinguishability

imagine that

where atoms hide eternal between creation and destruction,
borrow brief the set exact you require to restore the taken years
from fathers/mothers/brothers/sisters,
return that which went unused by the uninvited, unseemly human whim of war and lies for no gain

imagine that

the deep sinkhole of despair that sucks one in, years in the formation, appearing in instance, and worse does not drowns but leaves helpless, unable to climb out, and all our scratching digs us in deeper until we cannot be, seen or heard or just be

imagine that

a check comes in the mail, payable left open for filling-in,
in the amount of full restoration, with no additional fees of guilt needed for deposit and cashing/caching out: and you wake up
and the stony chest is breathing lungs free

imagine that

and I do; for I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing,
knowing precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken,
they are screened through the five perceptions, and the word weaver
set the loom for each peculiar requisition, no imagination needed

imagine that

you lament and anger demand verifiable proofs mathematical,
cursing the knights of false hopes with untethered regret

I do not imagine that; hear it and accept; my task, imagine that, making you imagine that, thus commencement of repair begins

we imagine that

for this how new healthy cells  are born

quiet-now,  go, imagine-that, now
if you recognize yourself within, it is no accident
you may hate the truth about this life.
you may hate the fact about the path that you had already thrown.
you may hate the feelings about the feels that you had already expressed.

this world literally has nothing.
has nothing nonetheless you.
you just can’t accept what had already occurred.
you just can’t take it sincerely.

this world changes every millisecond.
you just can't beat it.
the world literally ignores you.
you are the failure for a particular person.

you are the only one who can fill your voidness.
you are the one who can bring influentialness to another person.
before another person did it to you, worse and shameful.
humans are exactly imperfect.

but again, depends on what you did to your life, take yours wisely.
humans deserve to be happy in their own ways,
their life might be not happy to face the "ways" they take.
time does matter to use it perfectly.
Donald Malone
I thought you were family
Even my best friend
I loved you like a brother
Just to hate you in the end
More and more it would be
When you'd fall short
Lost was all you could see
But I was there to help you
To keep you on your feet
I was there for you more
Than you will ever see
But when it comes to you
It's always me me me
I've gave you more
Than you'd ever admit
This chapter is over
The books now through
Time to give credit
Where credit is due
There's no one to blame
No one but you
For all I've done
To see you through
You stabbed me in the back
All the way through
I gave you my friendship
Loyalty and trust
So you can throw it away
Blowing like dust
This is about a person I thought was a friend.
I don’t feel close
to poetry.

It feels elusive.
Once it spoke to me.
But now it’s mute.

It sits back
and doesn’t look
at me.

If I call out
it doesn’t hear.

Lately poetry is
like that demon
I used to want
to reappear.
Nat Lipstadt
The Instigation:
Edmund  Black “weary weighted,” I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“


both of you shush;

there is no “better” in poetry

mine yours theirs, alive or not

just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail

tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;  
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse

good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come

they get it

how we get there unimportant

get there


get there
that is the poetic
mission critical

no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace,

the common place

where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,

a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest

call my poems,
blessedly common
that an honorable,
so gladly accepted*

so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better

for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been

8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
the instigation: Edmund black › “weary weighted, I agree with Kim .... This is poetry at its best :)“
Orange Rose
I wrote a poem when I died...
Another at my birth.
A brand-new sonnet when I cried.
And again when there was mirth.

A song for my confession...
A story for my pain...
A painting for depression...
And nursery rhymes for rain.

My creations live inside my heart.
I keep them there in shame.
Yet you looked around and saw my art,
And smiled all the same.
I see you.
With your heart of stone
I see you
With your gilded mask
I see you
With your diamond tears
I see you
With your blazing tongue
I see you
With your glass smiles
I see you
With your empty eyes
I see you
With your fragile hands
I see you
With your broken lies
I see you
With your stooped shoulders
I see you.
Everything you are,
Everything you are not.
I see you
And I care.
I see you, because you are like me.
dear hater!
do u matter?
of course not!
but thanks a lot
for letting me know that
people have right to reject
i am still not perfect,
and for equipping
my mind with neutrality!
my heart with equanimity!
my soul with magnanimity!
my life with acceptability!
for the black and the white
the wrong and the write
oh i think you matter
love you my hater!
yes you matter!
Sunday musings
when i was love sick
i kept all my snot

these pages are tissues
where i blew my thoughts
Who waits there says he?
As you’ll answer it, take heed
This Slave commit no Violence upon
Himself. I’ve been deceiv’d. The Publick Safety
Requires he should be more confin’d; and none,
No not the Princes self, permitted to
Confer with him. I’ll quit you to the King.
Vile and ingrate! too late thou shalt repent
The base Injustice thou hast done my Love:
Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past Distress,
And all those Ills which thou so long hast mourn’d;
Heav’n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn’d,
Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn’d.

He shall find no Friend in Hell
can match the fury of disappointment in s woman! scorned! slighted! dismissed without parting Pang.
His Golden Key could open woman's door if he tried loving her but to him,
Heaven knows no rage like love to hatred turn'd, nor Hell a fury like a woman scorn'd.

But the above is a man's version and what if such a woman perceived Scorn'd is just Hurt and feeling so small she feels she deserves it for simply been who she really is..abandoned. Also known as abandonment syndrom.
Such woman is able to love why not? she needs the benediction loving kindness and understanding aproval
of a real man a true love?.

Yet some men resort to.mocking laughing tiranizing ridiculing witholding affection and expecting full disclousure to full trust before their grand exit

Don't men say that it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? So to men such kind of betrayal loss suffered by a woman from a man, renders her untrustworthy and unfit to give or receive love again?

So it is said but lets say a woman which was betrayed, lied to ,
dishonored laughed at, deceived and robbed of her honor due to her own innocence and naiveness.
Perhaps her self worth trust self esteem were violated by the usual two face wolferian garbage that many poison darted man are; maybe any other class act ingrate, inch long male Ant, infling a Bullet wound! on her first time is to blame.

And so doesn't the music of true love have charms to soothe the savage wounded breast, or soften rocks, or bend a knotted Oak, for any a disgraced young vibrant woman?
Why do men call her scorn'd? in her stone heart appearance?

In my experience attractive King of hearts men, can be so insecure that going for the ugly girl he feels rewarded then going for the true enchanting woman with her
killer white smile beauty is best to die in fits of jealousy for him?
just for
The man ends up with the unattractive giraffe who is demandimg and ready to cry in fits of jealousy even for a fly that lands on him a mare second! And thats love to him.?

Most men in my own experience distrust the pretty woman the shy one who offers the best when if after falling  she still rises confident despite adversity, she adores her new found treasure man healthily without any extreme jealouy, nor possessiveness, nor greedy agenda manipulations?

Why do most men perceive this kind of self made self taught rare jewel beauty a calamity and is not chosen as the best partner.

Is this then a hellish curse to be born a woman with a heart of gold peaceful land, and with beauty sparkly as a diamond and still be perceived as evil unloving and unfaithful worthy of nothing.but the misery of being left behind missunderstood and forgotten?.

I know this to be true.This beauty was me.
When a womans self worth and honor have been compromized to no fault of her own, aim for her treasures and aspirastions she might have in abundance of outer and inner attraction for you, and you towards her that most other women in your workd lack utterly. Shes isnt scorned if she doesnt trust open up to you. Especially dint treat her bad in an effort for her to open up about her shameoss and the many graves and stumps that others left of her family in her past.. Use honey ti attract this honey queen bee. Or lose her then go mendicate the love of a greedy humbly giant anaconda posing as a woman jealous and in love
Be happy lovely one
Don't let the cruel world outshine your smile.
Always look for hope in places your heart never got the chance to open
I love you.. it pains to leave you
The shortest moments makes the bruise heal less
As time goes by I wish we may end up happy
but I always pray
you'll find your happiness
Arianne Carmelotes
take care
A caw-
ing of birds
with blunt
-ed beaks
and clip-
ped wings
that can’t fly
or sing
worth a lick
-ety split
ing and peck
-ing a-way
at the best
ing inside
a chest
-full of
ing Blue
felt art
songs in-
of sing
-ing along
ing they
know better
-   the rest?
This in response to the deletion of a great and true HP Poet’s account tonight as a result of constant harassment by at last count 13 dumbass, iealous, couldn’t write a decent poem if the male har-ass-ers tripped over their stupid pricks and the idiotic wagging female tongues who all took part in this. You know who you are. This harassment was reported to HP and to Eliot directly without the courtesy of a reaponse, and without action to curb it. The creation of monitors was a total waste of time. Many of you know her as Vicki. I’m sick of this kind of shit done by supposed adults, and sickened most of all by HP’s allowing this to continue even after multiple messages. As far as I’m concerned, the Guidelines and the so-called monitors aren’t worth a fucking dime. Which is exactly 10 cents more than I’ll ever again contribute to HP.  Go ahead and lock me ip, put me in the corner for awhile, or expel me. I don’t care. Maybe  we will see if the monitors are paying attention at all, or just another silly myth. If you’re a monitor and reading this, I would like to hear your thoughts after you wake the fuck up.
Most Sincerely,
On days like this

We could we would should

Wake up super early

Write sweet letters too our creator

Deep breathing stretching

Just for a few till we get lazy

We would get high as mount zion

Cook a buffet of food just for the am

Pages of books would turn
Weeds too burn

Stillness will pervade in us

Bliss love fill every corner of the house

The kids still dead asleep

One wakes up smelling ethnic herbs

Tunes of bob marley find its way

Its way too all rooms

Little spirits awaken

He's the happiest on these days

Especially with you (them)
I willing and able so i throw my cards on your table
you said
you were afraid
to lose me
and then you
faced your fears
and left

I bet I could be an oak
if I tried hard enough

Extend my roots
maybe branch out a little
lead with my leaves

Reach for the sky!

Let my bark ring true
through the sea of trees
Watered by rain
Fed by sun
Raised in Earth
Maxim Keyfman
as though in a dream not to fall
as if in a dream do not fall
as though in a dream it will not fail
as though to not know in a dream
as if in a dream not to drown

and in fact there was darkness and lava
and the evenings consisted of luminaries
but there were lakes and stars
who were drowning somewhere there
where there is a strange and strange

as though in a dream not to fall
as if in a dream not to drown
but is not the dream now a dream
but life is not a dream unless why
you are in my dream my face in a dream

Melissa S
Dream of me
I am real...
I am where smiles are made
and tears fade away
Where hope springs forth
Away from the darkness
of the earth

I am the glow of the moon
and all the stars in the sky
those who seek the light
shall have me as their guide

I am the red bird or butterfly you see
Just keep your eyes open... to find me
I am where tomorrow is coming
and hope always holds on
My darling
I am never truly gone....❤
I have been dreaming of my mother lately and do not want to wake up because it feels so real and I miss her so. I wrote this from her perspective writing to me
grumpy thumb
Dainty hours
spent with her petal soft smile
lush exchanges
how her mouth makes words warm
delicate  moments
when our eyes held each other
little desolate
when hands separated
and time disconnected us
as it blindly does
without so much as an apology
I feel like a snake

Shedding its old skin

Shaking and snaking

Out of the old

And remaking and refreshing

What is new

What is to come

What it can transform into

Shiny, new, smooth

No longer hanging on to the old

Not safe keeping it

Simply shedding it

Leaving it behind

I’m snaking away into

A new place

I have not forgotten the old

I’ve just simply grown new skin

Tougher and sharper

Better than before

I remember the old

Like it was just yesterday

And older still

Are the ones before

I’ve left them in various places

In remembrance

Of the good times

And the bad

All to learn

Something new

To grow into my new skin.

- soulwriterj
Maybe 10 years from today,
Maybe only 1 year away,
Or even just 1 day,
I will be able to say...
Words that should be said
i never saw the ocean
... until today.
it was striking,
yet calm,
but i knew at first glance
there would be no easy escape.
so, naturally,
i went swimming.
and dear god, was that a mistake.
at first sight,
it was a murky blue,
the kind that
hides secrets in swirls,
holds troubles and teases.
the kind that
you knew you could get lost in
but took the risk despite it.

as the sun set,
it became a cool, candid blue.
it breathed with honesty
and covered your every inch
with a sense of power,
whispering with wit.
just a small leap,
and you went spiraling down into its depths.
after all of this,
i didn't want a new beginning
to erase the remnants
of the beauty that had once been.
i was never more wrong.

as the sun danced higher into the sky,
the candid blue before me
had become a picture of genuineness.
the golden light had begun
over the intermingling colors,
giving way to a light green,
filled with warmth
and dimpled smiles.
to look closer into this green
was like seeing
miles of untouched, rolling, green hills,
expressing a life of potential
and love.

no matter when i looked into his eyes,
the oceans of color and feeling
were always threatening to overwhelm me,
all beginning the first time
our eyes met.
hi sorry it's long, not in love with this piece but definitely with those eyes...
Ivana Rodriguez
Oh no! I fell too deep.
I felt the feelings creep
Up behind me
(And I couldn’t do anything).
Gravity has no say in my falling,
And as to why I’m not calling
Your number that you gave to me,
Or why just the thought of you is causing me to lose sleep...
Just when I thought you were mine to keep,
You were stolen from me;
A dream stolen from a dream.
Oh no! I fell too deep.
Whoops. Don’t know how I whipped that up. So sorry y’all had to read that random piece of 30 second shit.
rob kistner

our tent clean and white

our soft sculptures on display

patrons at the gate

handmade beauty thrills the eye

selling at art festivals


rob kistner © 2018
Tanka - contemplating our joy as artists, exhibiting and selling our creations.
Even if I fall in love with every single girl I lay eyes on for the rest of my life,
it still wouldn’t feel like the kind of love I felt,
when I fell in love with you.

Can you tell me
which way now is home
I used to know, my dear
The way was clear
There was no fear

Tying my walking shoes
I knew I needed to get clear of here
thought I'd find
all that was dear

The road though, it is narrow
The cliff it is shear
My balance is

Can you tell me my dear

which way is home
which way do I go from here,
I think I oughta know
But the hills they are wavering
The ocean is in turmoil
The mountains are slick
far too dangerous

The desert has no mercy

I know something and with this knowledge
I think I must be cursed
I think I have it
Peace & Home
goes and comes
and comes and goes.
I am like one of your beautiful plants,
that you are taking care of every day ,
watering just to make sure it will not die,
cutting the dried leaf that's ugly to see,
talking even if its not responding.
you're watching it growing , and excited to bloom,
and suddenly it totally die,
and never give up, you do the cuttings procedure ,
never get tired to replant ,
it's because this is your happiness,
until it grows , some leaf are dried , but you're still there waiting ,
you almost give up , and one early morning unexpectedly the best felling and the most awaited moment had come ,
the morning that sun didn't shine , the rain never stop , but you we're there to see how beautiful i am,
i am bloom according to how you want me to bloom.
she's the gardener and i am her one of her beautiful plant.
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