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Poetria Nov 2017
quiet, stolen brightness
oh, it doesn't belong to me
but this sky is your black ceiling,
I'm just trying to be seen
and I see you-
I see you-
I see you shying away, yes
every few days, there's less,
every month the same cycle,
over and over again
and you don't know
how much is too much
and you don't know
when you'll be enough
and you're stuck
cutting those pieces
and you struggle
to bring them back
back to largeness,
back to circular-
insecurity,
phases of the moon,

and the Sun does smirk
in the morning blue.
write this whole thing solely for the last two lines? does that make sense?
Poetria Oct 2017
Don't you exhale around me.
Don't give me that poisoned air
spilling back out of your trachea
like it's fresh and healthy,
don't.

Don't you pretend the pieces fit,
that the glass is still transparent
that this box you've built
never broke in the first place,
don't.

Don't give me your traditionalistic,
misogynistic, conservative values
and expect me to digest them
like my favourite kind of chips,
don't.  

Don't you breathe in my space anymore. Don't you do that again.
I've been crying over you for over an hour. Fix this.
Poetria Oct 2017
I know you like your loneliness
but don't leave me here alone;
I'm in love with your melancholy,
your crevices, my home
(I stole the title from a band lyric)
  Oct 2017 Poetria
Zachary William
We are all planets
wanderers in an
endless waltz
across the canvases
of the cosmos
trying to find the
nearest star to
provide warmth
and light
to support the life
within and
we sometimes get
sunburned and
we sometimes get
frozen
but
the endless vacuum
seems a lot less desperate
when we are in synchronous
orbit with
one another
Asteres Planetai means Wandering Stars, which was the Greek observation and naming of the way the planets move in the sky.
Poetria Oct 2017
When our problems look smaller,
the good becomes greater,
the sky fails to fall at our feet.

Drink up the horizon,
pink stripes heading East,
the sky stays upright while it's sweet.
Poetria Sep 2017
My conscience
carries your voice,
it wears your face;
I'm talking to you
when I think to myself.
Poetria Sep 2017
16 years older
our faces painted over
wasting time to feel the rush
classic self-destruction
still, we are children
older, not different
pretending to be
bigger than the universe
and we are that, we are indeed-

-our facepaint glowing
a multicoloured mixture
in the sunlight now
and our heads are
loosening once again
16 years younger
as clocks chase the future
and we waste our time  
because we still can.
pretty much.
#16
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