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 Aug 2015 L T Winter
mrs kite
gemini
 Aug 2015 L T Winter
mrs kite
i wish I could be beautifully sad like you
a dark velvet blue
suffocating all who try to get close

maybe my depression is only of
my own fabrication, a desperate attempt
to have something in common
with you.
I took two tabs of acid and fell in love with a tree
The splintery taste of oakey spines coated my tongue
And as a dozen fire ants crawled so deeply into me
I felt the stings and splinters fill my lungs

The sky spoke secrets through its poor tempered clouds
as it spelled out how and when and where I'll die
And it jumped right up from whispers to screaming out so loud
That my ears bled and death filled the entire sky

My feet slowly melted and I fell through the ground
As I turned to a puddle, I gasped and I drowned
The air settled down and the yelling then ceased
As my hatred was murdered, and my love was released
Please, take my skin off
Leave me naked in your sight
Hold my bones closely
Daily poems lack in flavor
Dull, blah, plain, and boring
Nothing exciting there to savor
Usually, I end up ignoring
Otherwise, they just always leave me snoring

Originality is unaccepted
Vanilla is the taste you all so crave
I like to leave my mind unprotected
But that's because I'm so ******* brave
While you all just live your lives as slaves


I'm just bored to death with poems about flowers,
About love, about stars. Write about something sour!
There are plenty of ugly things out there to write
They're lonely and sad as they're kept out of sight

So I'll spill my love of my hate for you all
And I'll sigh myself to sleep as I'm reading on the wall...
 Feb 2015 L T Winter
SG Holter
To write food in the stomach
Of every hungry child.

To spell war as peace,
Metaphorize flowers into the barrel

Of every gun on Earth.
The poet has responsibilities

Beyond those of mothers,
Of kings and presidents.

I refuse to give up hope;  
This could be a poem world.

Come on, write your worst piece
Of literature.

Even misprints may give other
Meanings to a word,

Write me a green sky, blue dirt,
Trees the colour of air.

Sometimes the best poets
Have the least to say,

So keep writing, write until your
Fingers fall asleep.

Write until you havent slept
For weeks in search of that word,

That one right word,
Then rest on a notebook pillow

And dream the world right.
Write the world right.

There is no such thing as
Wasted poetry.
 Jan 2015 L T Winter
B
-
 Jan 2015 L T Winter
B
-
Today, a man asked me if I'm happy. I thought about his question for a moment. I mean, there's nothing wrong with my life. I have a great family, I adore my friends, I'm going to a college I love, yet I still feel empty. I told him "yes" anyway. He looked me straight in the eye and said, "I know you're lying." I thought my facade was convincing, but I guess I'm losing my talent.


                               B.S.
 Jan 2015 L T Winter
Rupal
Sometimes,
the most honest
thing to do
is to lie
165

A Wounded Deer—leaps highest—
I’ve heard the Hunter tell—
’Tis but the Ecstasy of death—
And then the Brake is still!

The Smitten Rock that gushes!
The trampled Steel that springs!
A Cheek is always redder
Just where the Hectic stings!

Mirth is the Mail of Anguish
In which it Cautious Arm,
Lest anybody spy the blood
And “you’re hurt” exclaim!
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