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 Nov 2017 Cleo
Ashly Kocher
Fantasy
 Nov 2017 Cleo
Ashly Kocher
What is real
What’s pretend
Go to hell
Come back again

Are we human
            Or
Wondering souls
Roaming the earth
Until we grown old

Making mistakes
Fulfilling dreams
Everything around you
May not be what it seems

The grass isn’t always greener
On the other side
It’s all about interpretation
Through someone else's eyes

Crystal waters
Golden white sand
Palm trees swaying
Listening to a band

Looking at something
Believing it’s real
Tangible items
You will always feel

Is it real or fantasy
Either way you look at it
You will see clearly now
When you close your eyes and BELIEVE
 Nov 2017 Cleo
Keara Marie
Ink
 Nov 2017 Cleo
Keara Marie
Ink
I'm the author of my life,
but, unfortunately,
I'm writing in ink and can't erase my mistakes.
 Nov 2017 Cleo
Dead Rose One
<>

No, He said.

I want you
wanting.

I want to taste the miracle of your desperation,
need,
lick the sweet sweat of tense from the hairline well hid
on the back of your pleasuring neck.

I need your needing constant completion,
but not succeeding.

The airborne aroma of your desires are fiery, arousing,
stimulus sensating me by the unending beauty of dissatisfaction,
this virus desirous, infection, makes my perpetual wanting  
for an incomplete perfect woman,
forever seeking betterment,
perfectly complete.


<>
11-15-17 11:51pm
mixed up emotions re this one; who is the striver, who is selfless   and/or selfish;  can be understood in many different ways
 Nov 2017 Cleo
Qynn
over
 Nov 2017 Cleo
Qynn
Resilience is the most cursed gift
The hand that never tires of holding
And how eager the heart is to hurt.

Forged between the veils of anger
Of sorrow
Of wretchedness.

We beg like children
To never feel the heat of the same tears
Wetten our faces.

But the past shall repeat.
But the past shall repeat.
But the past shall repeat.
 Nov 2017 Cleo
17morae
you just never know
which late summer night will be
the very last one
 Nov 2017 Cleo
Krista DelleFemine
Poets have magical powers
Though they'll never tell you so
They can list all your faults
Right to your face
And you will never know
You'll get so caught up
In the beauty of their style
They'll flat out call you a bafoon
And you'll just sit there and smile
If your poetry *****, get drunk.
keep drinking until you manage to ***** up something that bleeds with your blood
something that shakes with your breath,
something pitiful and cold on your bedsheets
drink some more and watch it writhe before you,
shatter the glass in your hand and hear it scream for you,
curse and die for you,
drink until you feel better, drink until you sleep,
drink until you feel hollow enough to swallow the weeping creature,
put down all the bottles, and the pens, and the sadness,
you'll try again tomorrow.
side note: this is terrible advice don't get drunk kids

— The End —