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Synonyms hurt
I want my AP English teacher to like me. What does that say about me. This is a fantastic font.
Carlo C Gomez
You're an afterimage
You shine so bright upon me

You're an inducement
Your eyes draw me forth

You're a vibration
Your voice shivers my spine

You're a compression
Your legs wrap about my will

Here I am now
My fatal sweet
Waiting to be consumed
Sade Rowland
It waits for no one,
not even for the most powerful and rich.
It moves on the same paste from when we all know ourselves.

It could never be controlled,
I wonder if it rewinds sometimes,
Because then I could say I know the reason for deja vu.

It can be very funny when we say "time fly's fast"
Or "time is moving very slow"
It makes me wonder and think.
But what I do know,
It waits for no one.
I never thought I'd matter
To anyone

Until you
Came along

And changed my perspective
Of the universe

You made me feel
Like I matter

And I'm grateful
For you.
Nathan Tom
Please tell me
What gives you suffering?
What’ll make you give in?
Please believe I’m only a friend
The wrong messages that I’ll send

A gentle whisper to you
I want to be there, and I do
But should I just bid you adieu?
Just leaving out of the blue

You don’t say
What the
Point is
If I try
It’s that I
You’ll walk away
Care for you

I really can’t let you be
You’ve set me up
Down on my knees
And all I do is beg you please

Sing that cute song for me
One of the days we were free
Before the menageries
Of dark days well before seen
A hint about that third stanza: Try reading every other line, as in, the first, third, fifth, and seventh lines together, as if it was it’s own stanza. And then do the same for the even ones. Might be a song someday.
Joe Marcello
Approximately 1 million dogs in the US are named as heirs
Inheriting millions after their owners pass away
Now it does seem a bit ironic
Since dogs rest in peace every day
Kris Fireheart
As I walk in the sunset,
Through silent, empty streets.
They peer through their

People are afraid of me.

The virus has arrived
This newest of disease,
And with it comes the worst
Of humanity.

"Stay away from him.
He's Asian. They have
That coronavirus."

First off, I'm American.
I have to live here, too.
And yes, I'm scared,  I am.

I swear,  I'm just like you.

But don't look at me different.
Don't walk across the street.
Don't lift up your collar or
Tighten your mask
When I smile and wave to greet.

I am human. Not a monster.
I am not your disease.
Don't blame me for the mistakes
Of man.
I'm just trying to be me.

I just want to believe...
Coronavirus has brought out racism against asians in a way that I haven't seen in years. I wrote this to address that.
Monsters don’t exist
Still, we are very afraid
Because we made them
Monsters. A concept so often used to represent anything dislikable to society, which we are afraid of. Yet literal monsters don’t exist.
Rupert Pippingford
Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.
Get to know me like I do you; inside and out.
ethan gaskill
i keep waking up
with you on my lips
but it's only your name
and not your kiss
screaming your name at night in my sleep
you make me feel beautiful
in three ways;

one - by calling me beautiful,
two - by looking at me with such
loving eyes,
and most importantly,
three - by being with you
Anastasia Rose
Was my birthday,
Belly shakes with giggles,
Mood up and down,
Time continues on,
Golden sunlight brushes skin,
I only wish,
You would have kissed me.
Well beneath my sarcasm
My hatred for the world

There is a different story waiting
Waiting to be told

For I am made of poetry
Of sunsets
And the moon

Of summer rain
And chocolate smell
And nights that end too soon

It's hidden well
It's out of sight
It's on you to find the key

For my fragile little world,
My dear,
Is not for everyone, you see?
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)
Heavy Hearted
A beacon in the sky
A needle in each arm,
Dispirited, we try-
To distinguish habits charm:
The interchange, of reasons why,
And exchange of modern harm-
Stay in the shadow's constant sigh

Dizzyness / freedom's alarm.
The CN tower from romfield circuit
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 am an artist
I draw my life.
I am a teacher
I teach my steps.
I am a doctor
I treat my destiny.
I am a lawyer
I judge my actions.
I am a builder
I build my success.
I am a translator
I translate my opinion.
I am a  photographer
I take  my memories.
I am a writer
I write my future.
I am a chef
I cook my mood.
I am a businesswoman
I manage myself.
What ifs
dance through my mind
parading one after the other
What ifs
swarm around me like a hive of bees
attacking at every turn
What ifs
rush over me
a tsunami I cannot control

I have been trained
I have the tools
I have the knowledge
but I cannot seem to find
the golden key
the solution has escaped me
and so I suffer in
What ifs
When butterflies fall in love, do they feel humans in their stomach?
birds are chirping
flowers have bloomed
love is flowing
but yours is fading
Nat Lipstadt
improving our collective lives, one pandemic poem at a time...


a stray-dog-thot that bites my ankle,
saying ouch, you see a poem here?

it’s 1:14AM on a Sunday and generally I see at this generalized
pre-dawn, can’t sleep pleistocene period, non-extinct poems
roaming everywhere.

but the pandemic on my mind and giving me pause to wonder
how much can I love, and a questioner-poet needs and desires an answer,
post haste, pre apocalyptic.

S. travels for two days by airplane to fulfill a promise
only to find out, upon arrival, the promise made is
pandemic cancelled.

but the-promise-I-made silently, to her, faraway, that she never heard,
for why, stir-up-the-ruckus, asking for a visit from the evil eye,
if she falls ill, coming back to me, is stone cold stolid, no cancellation policy,
I will:

nurse her, brush her hair, anticipate the achey need normal, before she can ask,
hold my body’s warmth full and frontal, a cooling blanket for heated times,
retrieve her ***** tissues from the floor and make lousy jokes about her lousy aim.

and what I wrote, “improving our collective lives, one poem at a time,”
is here institutionalized, organized, galvanized, mesmerized,

legitimized and lionized,

proving only that stray-dog-thots @nite, they  bite,
hard immediate, and that
later is never better

she would say,
“what would I do without you, my children so far away,”
my reply instanced, nuanced, instantaneously, non-Amazon delivered with a double frosted eye twinkle, no-extra-charge,
“hey! that why I get the big bucks, god’s love to deliver!”

she, a profound atheist, snorts with practiced derision, which is fine,
cause I see the welling, tear droplets, laced with viral virus communicators, smiling weakly, asking, instructing a cure:
“play for me some Janis and some Joni, some Mozart and Mahler, climb in beside me, my old man, let us, let us rock our gypsy souls, drinking a case of each other.”

who could refuse such a invitation... to become the plasma of the sun’s corona, if only for a moment


1:38am Sunday March 15th, Twenty Twentyfold
“For Who?” (an excerpt)

by Mary Weston Fordham

Should dark sorrows make thee languish,
     Cause thy cheek to lose its hue,
In the hour of deepest anguish,
     Darling, then I’ll grieve with you.
Though the night be dark and dreary,
     And it seemeth long to thee,
I would whisper, “be not weary;”
   I would pray love, then, for thee.

Well I know that in the future,
    I may cherish naught of earth;
Well I know that love needs nurture,
    And it is of heavenly birth.
But though ocean waves may sever
     I from thee, and thee from me,
Still this constant heart will never,
    Never cease to think of thee.

Mary Weston Fordham was born around 1843. She ran her own school during the Civil War and worked as a teacher for the American Missionary Association. She is the author of Magnolia Leaves (Tuskegee Institute, 1897) and died in 1905.
Richard Smith
If time is healer
As they always say
Why does  it still hurt
After all these years

The loss of love
Is never replaced
No love is the same
From another’s face

Each love is different
None are the same
So the hurt from a lost love
Still feels fresh through all time
They call me a nerd because of my looks.
But they don't know that there's a bad boy inside of me.
Which is tamed by the nerdy looks
Looks can be deceiving
21st Century
Sun, moon and star

Brighter than darkness

Day and night

Shining like a star

Shooting star

Unending wish

Promises is like a dream,

Forever dream.
To all the stopovers
and endings
the delays
and the in between
and the waiting.

I know that it was God's plan
so I will keep still
while pouring all my faith
and trusting God's hands.
God had and always been my refuge. Never did he fail me nor left me. That's why I leave it all to Him. He knows and wants what's best for me.
Micah G
Can I give a girl anything  
Except what she wants
But does it
sink to your bone?
Like a belief

So heavy
from pain
The weight of fear

And I don't see
And I don't hear
And I do pray
But my hearts here

Does it
leave you?
Do you
want it to believe you?

You can't change it
so don't try
You don't life
So do cry

Keep on crying
Keep on praying and crying
Read it good
Because you know he's not lying
I always think of gospel I think? Lovely singing, different from reciting though. Also not lyrics, but kind of singing a story. *Not talking about the poem here*
"I love you", his message read
and my heart feel like it would burst
but I remember the day
it's April first.
late post
to me,
you are
an art

                              to you,
                              I was
                              a tragedy
you still remain, and will always be
a fine piece of art
to me.
// edit: thank you for having this in the daily. ♡
I've drank the finest of wine
Down to the bottom of the bottle
Only to witness an ocean alone
Barely surviving my own hands

A fire burned through my viens
That was blew out by the wind
Breezing through the leaves
A calmness that sits with me
Before calmness dismisses me

I walked across the tallest blue sky
Where wide winged birds soar high
Til promises of white clouds turn grey
And so there I fell with the rain
Dripping through the lowest gutter

Many times I was buried, lying in dirt
Like a grave, needing no help
Finding the dark inside of myself
But I always rise with the blades
Of the greenest fresh spring grass

No matter what feeling I catch
None of them seem to everlast
Demons are just FALLEN ANGELS.
They fell
And unlike angels,
DEMONS have a STORY to tell.
Good and evil.
It's just two sides of the same coin.
often i feel like a doll with mismatched parts
a vile heart and soft eyes
it's why i seek out the people
i wouldn't want to be like
i either remain desolate
or end up getting worse
when ever i hear your name
my heart instantly
to the bottom of a
Love didn't end wars
It started them
Thoughts were toxic,
Filled me with strain.
Listened to music,
Eases my pain.

Lying on my bed,
Soft is the music I hear.
Went out my shed,
The music became clear.

Danced with the music,
Swayed along the trees.
All night I frolic,
With all the coldest breeze.
I just love the rain

-added one more stanza to make it better ... I guess :)
Who are we when sometimes even stars are alone.
There's a thin line between lonely and alone. I can be found on that line, every time.
Nat Lipstadt
~for the men and women who fish to feed the soul of others~

this spring we will not walk Central Park.  The cherry blossoms and the new buds will go unobserved, and just like a
felled tree
in the forest, their birthing,  weeping, and silent dying, will go unheard.

but the roses come!

delivered by Whole Foods, red roses included with our food order,
for red roses are a vital staple, a gift of the globalized logistical feat that feeds we eight million prisoners, a red beacon to all currently

held in solitary confinement.

The men who bring them from the Netherlands, and the men from the Caribbean who deliver them, they by virus, as of yet, have not

been felled.

and I turn my mind’s eye to the mountains of heaven asking
“From Where will Come Our Salvation?”^

heaven answers with a wry awry, why Whole Foods, of course!

the cut roses pass in a few days, their heads slumped over, victims of their own virus, the inevitability + cyclicality of time.

but the petals, pose a question,
as they are felled and fall,
how is our death different from yours?

neither I, or the quietus of the empty streets,
even heaven,
have a ready reply;
all of us are
felled, fallen,
by an onerous, hungry

^ Psalm 121:1
Karly Codr
If I told you how much
I Love You
Would you run away in fear?
Or would you pull me close
And whisper
I love you too, my dear.
This is me procrastinating on my online homework don't mind me :)
Donall Dempsey

I like to say
your name

when you're
not here

turn you
into sound

conjure you out of
thin air

so that you appear
before me

dressed in sound

memory sketching in
the rest of you

as if sound
was just an outline

and love
colours you in

adding the voice last
so I can hear you say.

"Hello you..!"
and there you are

as present
as present

can be.

I like to say
your name

when you're
not there.
Foiled at every turn
some say this as cliche,
for me it is true.

Every love affair spoils,
each chance at wealth stolen,
any opportunity to get ahead blocked.

Flower petals fall when
the bee refuses it's kiss, or
light reserves its brilliance.
With eyes as dark as licorice
pierce through me, I don't exist.
Springy brown curls, I call them cinnamon,
wrap me up and strangle me within.
Razor-sharp wit, sarcasm,
trapped inside a crystal chasm.
Candy-coated, sweet outer shell, hiding demons, fire... and hell.
The outside is always different from what is held within.
In my mind
They bloom always
...along the fence
of Mr. Chauncey's yard
who cut and bundled them
for us to give to Mom

And suddenly
purple has a fragrance
I can see...
and another name
that follows me
infusing home
Insisting on it— everywhere  

...though it wavers
in the years
in clouds of Lilac bubbling
Memory's palest purple
amidst the golden-green

...I am a child again
running down the hills of May
in bee buzzing
in the lush warmth
and parachutes of fluff—
Next year's dandelions aloft
in the ends of this year's spring

Turning ferns to wings
twisted into tee shirt sleeves
We fly by sheer will to do so
Pretend to hide our nests
in forest of the lilac
Soon I will bring them in the house again, so I can drift in the fragrance and wake to it, filling the room.
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