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Ivy Jul 1
I choke on feelings, then just stop
existing for a little while
and half-dead suddenly, I drop,
devoured by the minutes vile
that lead me to my gruesome fate,
thus written by your hand, dear Love,
with ink of sorrow, without hate
yet soullessly and in the sky above.

I stand there in the starless night,
discussing with the rainy storm -
Will I expire out of sight,
or maybe craters I will form,
when all these feelings ill suppressed,
a little ugly and a little stale,
explode and fall out of their nest
turning into a vicious gale?

And in its anger will it then,
begin to rage upon the earth,
or simply choose your face, so zen,
who boldly started his rebirth...
who after stepping on my heart,
squashing it like a nasty bug,
tearing my breathless soul apart,
drank up my essence from a mug...
Ivy Jun 2
With my wings cut off, I am trying to fly,
but am floating with a crushed, wounded soul.
Bloodstained flowers are quietly sprouting inside.
With my voice all dried up, I'm not whole...

Like a kitten curled up in a glass, very tense,
in a teardrop I fit and submissively bend.
Looked at under the staring gaze of a lens,
full of holes are my clothes, sewn by hand.

Trampled on are my dreams and audacity.
With my head bowed, I start sifting sand.
My hopes are entangled in webs of opacity,
and my light’s dying out where I stand...

With my wings cut off, I am trying to fly,
but am floating with a crushed, wounded soul.
Bloodstained flowers are offered to me by the night,
but the morning invites me to flow...
Ivy May 27
My love is like a nature park,
you take a walk and gather flowers...
Its light is shining in the dark,
worming you up with lucent powers...

My love is like the summer rain,
it waters you with gentle showers,
washing away your every pain -
before it, any dryness sorely cowers...

My love is like a burning fire,
engulfing shame and all restraint,
your home address, it may require -
its passion could ****** a saint.

My love is like a white, small dove.
Yet, it can carry you on its almighty wings.
It fits your soul like an all fitting glove
and plays the music of your heart that sings...
Ivy May 25
One life is not enough for me to drink you -
all at once, or slowly, sip by sip ...
to gulp up thirsty from your sweetness
and in the rye, to touch you with my lips ...
with eyes to stroke your every curve and crease
with hands to say it all while we make love,
bathing in it until we reach a sweet release …
my soul to play your soul’s thin string, with love
And I will never cease to want you,
just as you are, imperfect and unworthy -
if I could splash your pain with fresh dew
I’d turn it into cool and purifying rain!
One life is not enough for me to love you!
My love’s a pretty wound, I don’t object,
I’d go to hell and back, if I could have you!
I give myself to you without regret!
Ivy May 24
I am alone, It's raining...
Rain’s drumming on the sweaty glass...
I find it hard to breathe, I’m waning...
My hollow bed turned cold, alas...
You went away and snatched my heart.
Abyss is gaping in its place.
Disheveled is my soul and dark.
Alone you left me and escaped.
And after you, silence took over,
it’s loudly screaming in my mind.
An empty feeling keeps me sober.
My thoughts - wild horses, they unbind.
A hundred “whys” are madly racing
and hurting like a bleeding sore.
Oh god, is this reality, I’m facing
or just a nightmare that I can't ignore?
And where am I supposed to go
unhappy, scattered and betrayed?
There’s nothing left for me to know.
Love’s hostage, I begin to fade.
If only everything I could erase
like all my memories and feelings.
Your touch and smile, your warm embrace,
all lost their useless, stupid meaning.
The rain keeps pouring, pouring, pouring…
Worn out and tear-less, I’m spinning.
I try to breathe but pain’s ignoring
my tired mind and it starts winning...
Ivy May 23

Sharp is my tongue.
Sometimes it's wrong!
Biting and strong,
it doesn't belong
to a text in a song.
It can also be right.
Its audacious insight
could profoundly ignite
feeling gentle, or bright
in the day or at night.
On occasion it's met
with injustice or dread.
Then, its angry and red
and could knock you out - dead,
or revive you instead.
It is sure as a rule,
it's a powerful tool -
could be cool, or cruel,
if given some fuel,
by a sage or a fool!
Ivy May 22
My poetry is young and maybe crude,
Yet, it was born and begаn walking.
Happy or sad, but never rude,
it hugged me, then it started talking.

It smells of fresh and fragrant coffee
from many mornings filled with drive
and painted pale but somehow cocky,
it woke me up and made me feel alive.

My poetry's a penetrating subtle song,
caressing very gently - heart and soul,
redolent with a perfume slightly strong,
it’s served with thought and in a bowl.

Sometimes it's daring and audacious
spontaneous, unburdened, free,
shining like pearl, it’s rare and precious,      
in spite of how acutely timid, it might be.

It’s not fame worthy, pretty or refined.
You can't compare it to a finely crafted vase,
not either to the best food you can find,
but to a fresh bite at a loved and quiet place.
poetry, insight, awakening, revelation, spark, awareness
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