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Khoisan Apr 1
Shut your trap
bag-it

drip drool
flag-it

I'm a man

who understand

that STDees
be dooming
me WOOD flacid
  Mar 31 Khoisan
Maryann I
They call her names,
send their curses through a screen.
She blocks them,
but the words slip through the cracks,
curl beneath her skin.

She scrubs her face,
but the insults don’t wash away.
She sleeps,
but the whispers slither through her dreams.

Years pass.
The usernames are gone.
The accounts are deleted.
The laughter has moved on.

But the words—
the words still stay.
This poem plays with the idea that words, once spoken (or typed), never truly go away.
Every poet is an old soul
with the remarkable talent
of carrying the centuries
of all poets' legacies
with just a pen
and a piece
of paper.
Being an old soul is a good thing. It means that you are wiser beyond your years and see the beauty in things that this current generation may fail to notice.
Khoisan Mar 31
I
love
US so much
a
madness
I'm
willing to strike up
Forever
.
  Mar 30 Khoisan
Keith J Collard
A thought from Frost,
"Fire or Ice* in the end?"
Fire is revenge,
Ice is cruel deep and dark,
both will come,
Like icy comets,
That heat up when breaking apart,
Not from the heavens,
But from the human heart.
*Robert Frost's poem
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