pugh - Hello Poetry

A day is nothing special One of three hundred and sixty-five The preservation of a day has not the power to revive Not even remembering the day of your birth from when you were alive

0

Jun 7, 2016

Jun 7, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC

pugh

it's today

A day is nothing special One of three hundred and sixty-five The preservation of a day has not the power to revive Not even remembering the day of your birth from when you were alive

4

You were a shepherd Someone I followed incontestably Someone I trusted to guide me to safety You were a new pasture Someone far off that I thought would be different You had a wolf hiding in the bushes - "Anywhere but here" is what was on your mind The thing is, I'm still here Your dreams had no intention of including me in them You were boarding planes and driving far away I was boring and driving to coffee shops I just couldn't hold your interest You had bigger things on your mind You didn't bother to ask what was on my mind I think you would have found Some common ground - I fell to the riverbed having fallen for you You had already pulled your feet out of the water You stayed on the dock of disenchantment While I touched the bottom of disillusionment - I've never said a word to you I didn't mean You never meant a single word you said to me I can't blame you for it though, Transparency, of words and of heart, has gotten me nowhere You meant everything you said, except I lost it all in transmission And I found myself making up the messages I missed - You were summer Sepia stained, longer than it felt like, innocent and sweet You were fall Starved of warmth, not long enough, the moments leading to a freeze - Before you, I didn't know how to feel After you, I never wanted to feel again

0

Jun 7, 2016

Jun 7, 2016 at 10:41 PM UTC

pugh

compare and contrast (bits)

You were a shepherd Someone I followed incontestably Someone I trusted to guide me to safety You were a new pasture Someone far off that I thought would be different You had a wolf hiding in the bushes - "Anywhere but here" is what was on your mind The thing is, I'm still here Your dreams had no intention of including me in them You were boarding planes and driving far away I was boring and driving to coffee shops I just couldn't hold your interest You had bigger things on your mind You didn't bother to ask what was on my mind I think you would have found Some common ground - I fell to the riverbed having fallen for you You had already pulled your feet out of the water You stayed on the dock of disenchantment While I touched the bottom of disillusionment - I've never said a word to you I didn't mean You never meant a single word you said to me I can't blame you for it though, Transparency, of words and of heart, has gotten me nowhere You meant everything you said, except I lost it all in transmission And I found myself making up the messages I missed - You were summer Sepia stained, longer than it felt like, innocent and sweet You were fall Starved of warmth, not long enough, the moments leading to a freeze - Before you, I didn't know how to feel After you, I never wanted to feel again

37

She was wild like skinny dipping at midnight, stars watching overhead and falling in love with moonlight. The way it lay upon her skin made the ocean envious of her depths within and sometimes between us. She was my sister, not in blood but in orbit. A Venus to my Earth, forged from the same collapsing star and if the universe was in fact to be infinite then this moment would happen again, and again, and again an immeasurable number of times. I found comfort in this thought, knowing though our existence was meaningless, it was still full of feeling, and this feeling, right now, it insisted on existing forever.

0

pugh

Mar 15, 2016

Mar 15, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC

j-r-potts

She Was Wild

She was wild like skinny dipping at midnight, stars watching overhead and falling in love with moonlight. The way it lay upon her skin made the ocean envious of her depths within and sometimes between us. She was my sister, not in blood but in orbit. A Venus to my Earth, forged from the same collapsing star and if the universe was in fact to be infinite then this moment would happen again, and again, and again an immeasurable number of times. I found comfort in this thought, knowing though our existence was meaningless, it was still full of feeling, and this feeling, right now, it insisted on existing forever.

1

Space— A great communicator How we increase it with unfamiliarity Or even… Familiarity that is too painful Like the way I tense When you're in my mere vicinity Vicinity— Heavies the heart Certainly relative to space How having you near me Can be my favorite thing one day And the next It’s hell and hard to breathe Breath— Subjective in nature You’ve always made me hold it, I wish I could have held you instead But it’s different now I hold it to hold back tears Tears— They’re neither subjective Nor relative They’ve always shown my grief For the loss of you

0

Mar 15, 2016

Mar 15, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC

pugh

Subjective and Relative

Space— A great communicator How we increase it with unfamiliarity Or even… Familiarity that is too painful Like the way I tense When you're in my mere vicinity Vicinity— Heavies the heart Certainly relative to space How having you near me Can be my favorite thing one day And the next It’s hell and hard to breathe Breath— Subjective in nature You’ve always made me hold it, I wish I could have held you instead But it’s different now I hold it to hold back tears Tears— They’re neither subjective Nor relative They’ve always shown my grief For the loss of you

25

But what of warm winter, where the grass hasn't a chance to whiter and die, like the rest of us, where a single meadow wildflower, grows with wavering courage beneath the thin, fretting frost. Not yet cold enough for it to finally go along, with the birds and my father, yet suffering so that the chill, Oh, that frightful chill, penetrates the very cells that allow it to carry on. And what of the wayward wanderer Treading without direction, with spirit breaking and eyes heavy with knowing, mind numb as their fingers, lumbering (and) without knowing, crushing its perseverance.

0

Jan 9, 2016

Jan 9, 2016 at 9:00 PM UTC

pugh

Warm winter

But what of warm winter, where the grass hasn't a chance to whiter and die, like the rest of us, where a single meadow wildflower, grows with wavering courage beneath the thin, fretting frost. Not yet cold enough for it to finally go along, with the birds and my father, yet suffering so that the chill, Oh, that frightful chill, penetrates the very cells that allow it to carry on. And what of the wayward wanderer Treading without direction, with spirit breaking and eyes heavy with knowing, mind numb as their fingers, lumbering (and) without knowing, crushing its perseverance.

21