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 Dec 2018 Anya
Max
Weird book
 Dec 2018 Anya
Max
Well I'm like a weird book,

With pages unnumberd
And stories not told.
With a cover that's bended and not carefully folded.
Sent this to a friend a while ago..
 Nov 2018 Anya
Kim
Anyone can rhyme
Or hum a melody
But to lay your guts out on the table
For everyone to see
That’s what art is
That’s the soul
That's hunger, pain, and glory
As the artist tells their story
Living your truth
And telling it straight
Is what sets some apart
The secret of the greats
Stop fumbling with that metre
Don’t fret over the rhyme
Pour your soul onto the paper
Pull the tears from our eyes
 Nov 2018 Anya
Emma
the starfish embodies
shape on clear moon and flops to
the marked and old sand
I think my next couple of poems will be haikus. This is...I guess about how you can imprinting your creativity unto a blank canvas as well as one that's already been started to be painted? After all, many things have been made based on or as a spinoff as an older, already established thing.
 Nov 2018 Anya
sir humbug
the job of the artist
is to be
luminous and dangerous

luminous to others
by being
dangerous to themselves

when the words are ripped from the chest,
atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes,
starburst fireworks,
luminous and dangerous,
luminating the shared night,
laminating your truths,
in poems disguised


and so the job,
our work,
begins
 Nov 2018 Anya
Crystal Freda
book
 Nov 2018 Anya
Crystal Freda
she lay
in a corner,
turning each page,
enjoying the read,
soulfully
inhaling the words
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