spreadliteracy - Hello Poetry

In a silken stream soaked in sweat and sadist sun wearied women wane.

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Jun 19, 2019

Jun 19, 2019 at 10:13 AM UTC

In a silken stream soaked in sweat and sadist sun wearied women wane.

A fickle finch's heart always flitting from limb to limb, its gaze always fleeting. But colors worn so proud, gold in the green and blue in the briar, so like a fool I try to fly.

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Jun 15, 2019

Jun 15, 2019 at 12:23 PM UTC

Fleeting

A fickle finch's heart always flitting from limb to limb, its gaze always fleeting. But colors worn so proud, gold in the green and blue in the briar, so like a fool I try to fly.

6

Steady rain soft bossa nova in Rio.

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Aug 22, 2017

Aug 22, 2017 at 1:42 PM UTC

Haiku #5

Steady rain soft bossa nova in Rio.

3

Fragile ice under northern lights her green eyes

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Aug 7, 2017

Aug 7, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC

Haiku #4

Fragile ice under northern lights her green eyes

3

Brooding busy boys dewdrop grass in muddied dirt bent-back summer day

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Aug 1, 2017

Aug 1, 2017 at 12:45 PM UTC

Haiku #3

Brooding busy boys dewdrop grass in muddied dirt bent-back summer day

3

The scent-hungry hound Unthinkably finds what's lost That's meant to be found

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Jul 31, 2017

Jul 31, 2017 at 8:40 PM UTC

Haiku #2

The scent-hungry hound Unthinkably finds what's lost That's meant to be found

3

I find comfort in reveries written by men who barely breathe, or by women who find power in paper cast out because they lack political favor. Stories by the wealthy and bored fortunate but ****** enough to find life a chore, the pensive folk who peer and pry **** our thoughts into newfound high. We guess that they have measured motive to gorge on fame until they're bloated, or make their mark on mortal minds in desperate ploys to outlast time. Some riddled and ruined by reality who write to quell not critics but poverty, knowing that genius might swim in scribbles that earn a few pennies little by little. All cut from the same curious cloth willing to lay naked every thought, for everyone and no one to see and savor but for at least a single soul to find some flavor. God forget the queen and save these paupers the indifferent financiers of mind's coffers, the absent yet ever-present teachers the ones who give new breath to life's creatures. And every ****** or rosy rhyme owes its rhythm to well-spent time, of imperfect souls and fearless fighters the poets, the storytellers, the righteous writers.

0

Jul 31, 2017

Jul 31, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC

Righteous Writers

I find comfort in reveries written by men who barely breathe, or by women who find power in paper cast out because they lack political favor. Stories by the wealthy and bored fortunate but ****** enough to find life a chore, the pensive folk who peer and pry **** our thoughts into newfound high. We guess that they have measured motive to gorge on fame until they're bloated, or make their mark on mortal minds in desperate ploys to outlast time. Some riddled and ruined by reality who write to quell not critics but poverty, knowing that genius might swim in scribbles that earn a few pennies little by little. All cut from the same curious cloth willing to lay naked every thought, for everyone and no one to see and savor but for at least a single soul to find some flavor. God forget the queen and save these paupers the indifferent financiers of mind's coffers, the absent yet ever-present teachers the ones who give new breath to life's creatures. And every ****** or rosy rhyme owes its rhythm to well-spent time, of imperfect souls and fearless fighters the poets, the storytellers, the righteous writers.

28

Summer fields Awake and moving Infinite.

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Jul 24, 2017

Jul 24, 2017 at 5:30 PM UTC

Summer Fields

Summer fields Awake and moving Infinite.

3

Heart attack, Lungs collapse, Stomach sinks, Forget to think. Who are you, What to do, Try to run, Legs are numb. Never holding on, Getting pulled along, Wishing it was you, Something strange and new. But with so much certainty, A little doubt there will not be, I say it's a lie and yet I see, The weights and the burden, the irony, It's me, but breathe. One, two, three.

0

Aug 30, 2015

Aug 30, 2015 at 2:49 PM UTC

One, Two, Three

Heart attack, Lungs collapse, Stomach sinks, Forget to think. Who are you, What to do, Try to run, Legs are numb. Never holding on, Getting pulled along, Wishing it was you, Something strange and new. But with so much certainty, A little doubt there will not be, I say it's a lie and yet I see, The weights and the burden, the irony, It's me, but breathe. One, two, three.

18