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Madison Sep 2018
In backs of cars

Lips form stars

And then

Entire constellations.

You burn bright

Blinking satellite

And disrupt

My concentration.

Your hands cast light

Bleed through the night

And the sun himself

Envies you.

Galaxies swoon

And you're loved by the moon

But she doesn't want you as badly

As I do.

Under this black sky

My stars die

And my heart cries

Out for more.

You have me moon-struck

Guess that's my luck

Just like the planets' alignments

Swore.
Another writing exercise, this time in focused imagery.
Madison Sep 2018
Still, without the touch of the needle

The silent record sits in wait.

Line after line of etched in melody

Worn, -- even abused

Scarred and scraped

A scratch here

Some dust there

Replayed, again and again

Black vinyl, once heavy, worn thin

Only to be abandoned on the turntable

Where it once served its purpose.

Neglected, unused

The silent record stays still

Hoping to one day turn again.
For a workshop exercise on imagism, in which I had to create a 'portrait' of an object. I picked a record, of course.
Madison Aug 2018
Staring to the heavens above

Two poor kids release turtledoves.

Smiling silent implications

Of lifelong adoration

There's no denying, the two are in love.
I asked my family for words to base limericks off of. My mother's contribution: adoration. Hope you enjoyed!
Madison Aug 2018
There once was a man, so unkind

Who was constantly lost in his mind.

It was a laugh when the dolt

Startled with a jolt

The day that karma bit his behind.
Madison Aug 2018
Staying still
I try to drain
Every last
Little drop.
Tilting back, I
Grip the neck but
Don't break it, God forbid
I'm in no shape to clean up a mess
Though I'm an expert at making them,
I tell you what, I hate the television, all
those shiny happy people like in that
song I don't know the words to, but it's
obviously true, watching these shiny
happy lives with all of these beautiful
people who are probably ugly on the
inside, just like me, going home to sit
in their expensive new recliners and
grip the neck but don't break it, don't
make a mess that you can't clean up
drain every last drop even if you don't
really want it, 'cause it used to make
you feel much better, and now it's just
routine, like brushing your teeth and
trying to sleep and telling old friends
that you're fine, fine, just tired, so very
tired and I'm trying to stare through the
television to see these stupid phonies at
home in their own chairs, drinking from
a bottle like this one as if it might save
their sorry lives, like I'm trying to do
right now, tilting it back for just one
more drop, ****** there is no more
and I'm not done drinking but the neck
is slipping from my hands and I'm trying
to drink it down, **** it up when I let go
of the neck and drop it and there is a mess
for me to clean up, I tell you what, all that
broken glass and those elusive little drops
that could've made everything so much better,
could've fixed me but oh well, guess I can't
watch TV anymore, 'cause I've got a mess to
try to clean up right now, yes siree, guess
that even the shiny happy people have to
**** it up and fix it every now and then
just like me and you and everyone else.
My first attempt at shape poetry. Probably messed up a bit, but oh well.
Madison Aug 2018
Just when I think

I've known the world

I come to the realization

That I've only seen it

Through my own two eyes.

It eats at me

Though I shouldn't be bothered

And yet

I can't help but wonder why.

What do strangers see

When they watch my favorite film

And what do they hear

In their favorite songs?

What do others girl feel

When they knowingly fall in love

With someone

Who's stringing them along?

What do my parents know

When they look at the roads

They've walked down

Many more times than I?

What do babies think

When the world's so unknown

And they can only use their voices

To cry?

Where is the truth

In others' opinions

So very different from mine?

Where lies the inspiration

Of other writers

As they steadily type

Each line?

In the end

There's not much of a point

Unless reincarnation exists.

But frustration prevails

Knowing my eye's the limit

And my curiosity

You see

Persists.
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