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The best thing about having
big dreams is that no one else has to believe in them for them to happen,its just you.
They're yours alone,your responsibility.
If people frown upon them,
That's their business
When you work towards making them come true,its for sure they aren't meaningless.
So don't give up!
Great dreams give meaning to life,they're like a driving force.
In my head it would be;
Oxytocin + vasopressin --» love
But since that's not it,
Or maybe it doesn't even have one.
Meaning its form must be deeper,
Deeper than chemicals or hormones.
Deeper,deep,deeper.
Just thinking out loud!! :D
 Nov 2015 cleo
Miguela shine
My Life
 Nov 2015 cleo
Miguela shine
My Life In One Poem
.       .
.      .
  .     .
   .    .
    .   .
     .  .
      .        There is no poem  
        .     .
         .    .
          .   .
            .
             .            you see
              .        .
               .       .
                .      .
                 .     .
                  .    .
                     .
                                  *I have no life
I do of course, but sometimes it doesn't feel like it.
 Nov 2015 cleo
PaperclipPoems
I always find the good in you
Even when I don't want to find you at all
 Nov 2015 cleo
Tom Leveille
epithet
 Nov 2015 cleo
Tom Leveille
and here i am again
at the intersection
of pedestrian language
& old wives tales
swallowing gum
like 7 year memories
opening umbrellas inside
cause i can't seem get away
from all of this rain
i ******* with my left hand
cause i was told
back in highschool that
"it feels like someone else is doing it"
it gets me wondering
about the difference between
losing you and finding out
that some one else found you
or my sleep
or lack thereof
its starting to tear me apart
i keep having this dream
where you are in
an unfamiliar body of water
trying to wash my poetry
off of your hands
or the one where
something happens in my chest
every time you sit
on someone else's bed
i'm tired of feeling like something you've misplaced
but don't have the heart
to look for anymore
tired of you saying my name
like you're trying to bury it
i'm tired of wondering
if you can tell the difference
between the absence
of my voice & silence
the other day
i almost started sobbing
at work when a woman
asked me about
our equipment
i was explaining how
things come apart
and almost mentioned your name
it made me think
of how you used to say
things like "what would you do
if i showed up on your doorstep
one day?" now, i haunt
the windows in my house
i don't leave for weeks at a time
i sit on the porch like the dog
you didn't shoot behind the shed
the one that refuses to die
until you come home again
i told somebody once, that
you didn't even know
what my voicemail sounded like
i wonder if they thought
it was because you
are so important that i never
let it ring that many times
before picking up
or if you dont know
what it sounds like
because you've never called
you can't be the ****** weapon
and the search party
i'm tired of all the seats
to the ferris wheel in my chest
being empty
tired of your voice
being the one i look for
in abandoned places
that one sound i beg
to bounce back
down vacant hallways
i just seem to stand there
in all of that quiet
like someone looking for a mistake
on an eviction notice
so i guess the hardest part
isn't letting go
it's forgetting
you ever had a grip
in the first place
and since you've been gone
i wonder if when
you pushed yourself away from me
you used your left hand
so it felt like someone else did it
 Nov 2015 cleo
K Alexys
Deeply kept
 Nov 2015 cleo
K Alexys
Meeting you
Liquefied my heart
Brought it down to a state of art
Where knowing you has become such a blessing
And letting go of you will be lethally hard.
Time has pushed you in the center.
Mind has my ***** wrapping around you.
Slowly but indefinitely,
Closing the gap
No one can have you now
I froze you in my trap
Now as my heart begins to  set
Feeling each string of my art attach
I know the treasure it holds inside

It is you, my love
Just you and i.
 Nov 2015 cleo
Pax
stung
 Nov 2015 cleo
Pax
There are times stillness hums
sometimes, boredom sung.
The longing it create, stung.
“Writing, at its best, is a lonely life.” by Ernest Hemingway
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