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It was many and many a year ago,
  In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
  By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
  Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
  In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
  I and my ANNABEL LEE;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
  Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
  In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
  My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
  And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
  In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
  Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
  In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
  Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
  Of those who were older than we—
  Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in heaven above,
  Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
  Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
  Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
  Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
  In her sepulchre there by the sea—
  In her tomb by the side of the sea.
 Nov 2014 MysteryBear
unwritten
she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.

//

he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.

but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?


this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

(a.m.)
this is more of a story than a poem but i like how it came out so leave thoughts & comments please
 Nov 2014 MysteryBear
Traveler
I LEARNED TO RUN WHEN I WAS YOUNG
FROM A WORLD OF EVIL, AND THEN SOME
THROUGH WICKED SKIES THAT STAINED THE NIGHT'S
I TORE THE FABRIC TO PEEP THE SIGHT

GATHERING SHADOWS WATCHING ME BLEED
FLASHES OF PHANTOMS WHO LONG TO FEED
WITHIN THOSE NIGHTS MY SIGHT WAS FORMED
WITHIN THOSE NIGHTS MY HEART WAS TORN
Traveler Tim
re to 02-17
Sometimes, we seem to lose sight of who we think that we are;
Something can happen, and it feels as if we are broken into pieces.

You forget who you are,
You forget why certain things in life had or have meaning to you,
You forget how to smile with the same enthusiasm as you once had,
You forget why you found happiness around certain people or in certain events,
You forget your reason for living.

Yet, you pick yourself back up, give yourself a pat on the back and carry on.

You remember how to smile,
You remember how to laugh,
You remember how to be yourself,
You remember how to live again, and go on with your life as if nothing had ever happened.

In each relapse and recovery, however, a small piece of yourself is lost in the process. You cannot feel it, but you can see it when you take a step back and reflect upon the past.

An old habit is replaced with a new fixation,
A new characteristic has taken over in your personality,
An old friend is no longer on speaking terms with you,
A plethora of old notes and keepsakes were destroyed in an erstwhile fit of rage,
A sweet memory turned sour by a recent event.

Each time we fall into this cycle, we lose a small piece of ourselves.
We change, sometimes for the better, but sometimes for the worse.
Some never leave the cycle, while others simply relive it one too many times.

Valuable people, places, memories, recollections, and thoughts lost to the past, pieces of you that you tried to keep but ended up losing in the process. You don't want to change, you don't want to leave these pieces behind.

But each time you break you forget to pick up the pieces that fall off of you, or you lose them. You can never fully heal and return to the way you were before you shattered into shards. Without certain fragments, you can never be put back together the same way.

Yet, people grow, people change. These missing pieces grow back and manifest in new and strange ways, and it isn't all anxiety and melancholy.

Eventually, we can learn to live, love, learn, act, and behave freely once more; we can use the new pieces of ourselves to change into something great, new, exiting. We can flourish in another form, because sometimes, we are meant to be something other than what we had originally started out to be.

Sometimes, we seem to lose sight of who we think that we are;
But then something can happen, and it feels as if we are made whole again.
The most **** thing about a guy has nothing to do with his clothes, hair or eye colour.

It's in the way he looks at you with longing, when you finally find out he wants you just as badly as you want him.

When he pulls you so close to him that there is literally no space between you, because he can't stand the thought of there being any.      

When he kisses you, so that it feels as if he is stealing the air from your lungs, and for those few seconds you forget what air even is.
    
When all thoughts go out the window and its just him, with you,in the most simple way possible.

Now that is the definition of ****.
Pure passion is ecstacy...
A Salt Shaker Glass

*Just a folded piece of paper
In a salt shaker glass
Placed deep inside the cupboard
Hiding memories of the past

I would watch her as she'd take it out
To read the words it said
Then place it back deep inside
And slowly bow her head

She kept it in a shaker
Hoped salt would heal the wound
But each time she read the words inside
The pain would seem so new

That folded piece of paper
In a salt shaker glass
Was delivered from the courthouse
To set her free at last

A divorce from my father
Who had walked away from us
She folded and refused to sign
Till that day that I grew up

As I read that piece of paper
From the salt shaker glass
I thought of all she gave to me
And felt the love inside she had

Just a folded piece of paper
In a salt shaker glass
Placed deep inside the cupboard
Hiding memories of the past

A folded piece of paper
In a salk shaker glass *

Carl Joseph Roberts
If you like share to a collection and help it trend.
Pour Me One More Round*

Each night I go from bar to bar
Instead of going home
To drink away the pain I have
Now living life alone

Inside I feel this emptyness
Thats deep down within
I try to drink away the pain
Still knowing it won't end

All these bars they look alike
And I drink more every day
Wanting just to the fill the void
Make the memories go away

The lights go down and the bars they close
So I walk around this town
The memory of you fills my heart
An empty lonesome sound

These drinks I know will never end
This pain I feel inside
It only helps me to forget
But only for the night

So please one more
Pour me one more round
Help me push these memories down
Just pour me one more round

*Carl Joseph Roberts
Okay, guys its a poem about how I thought my father handled life. He drank himself to death many years ago. This is not a poem advocating drinking. I drink very little and can count on one hand the times I've been drunk in my life and they were all in my 20s. So If you like this poem, please add it to a collection.
 Nov 2014 MysteryBear
mrmonst3r
She is gone.
Pack importance neatly away,
Strike dumb the dialogue,
Blur the details,
Lay dreams in the dark.
Dismantle the stage,
Make each player retire,
Tear up scripts,
Hush all ad libs and quips.
Lose joy in white noise,
Forget breath,
**** desire —
Let all souls expire.
No beauty awaits,
Beyond pearly gates.
Kick out the chair,
Let me swing in dead air.
I really hope this dance
Doesn't end up like all the rest I've attended
I'll act like I'm not lonely
The way I've always pretended
And when the slow song comes on
I'll be standing in a dress
Fighting back tears as I watch couples dance
With no one to impress
Even if I AM lonely
I just really want this to turn out right
I just want to be happy with the lights and the music
If only for a night
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