Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Oct 20 Rose
Malia
Vemödalen
 Oct 20 Rose
Malia
Why do I dare to sing
this melody, overused and
claimed by millions of
others, with voices nearly
interchangeable but barely off,
imperceptibly so, just a dash
too much of cinnamon, not that
you’d ever know, but still
I steal these hand-me-down
words, chasing the horizon only
to retreat back to the
well-worn reef?
Vemödalen:

n. The fear that originality is no longer possible.
 Oct 20 Rose
S E Pope
We've all become distracted by ourselves
Worried about how many Followers we have
Sixty second Gods of our own making
An electronic Bible in our hands

Comments then become passages of Truth
Faith being written by everyone else
Talking to no one alone in our homes
Influencing ourselves to Death
 Oct 19 Rose
Carlo C Gomez
~
I.
Killing Mary Poppins
with a spoonful of sugar,
the sugar from the medicine
on the other side of town,
the town called Silent Hedges
And A Bit Of Fluff.


II.
Only a display model,
her name is Marmalade;
skin white like the moon,
she wears her ****** stranger dress;
one of her sisters is dying,
the other never lived;
God is a far off concept,
the fuchsia colored ball on
an overhead power grid
points her way to salvation.


III.
Morning became something else:
bright decline,
cold things start to burn,
tragic saxophone
among the beckoning,
everything's a symptom:
tax exiles, imperialists,
girls talking nitrous
--mouths full of soil,
Virginia Reel around the fountain
(do-si-do),
ready to buy up impossibles
as the dominoes fall.


IV.
Memory is a chemical
to the girl who cried champagne,
like ceiling stars
during the prodigal summer,
she played the game
on all fours,
and found a drawer
full of quarantine polaroids,
some with blood in her mouth,
others, of rain on her birthday.

~
 Oct 19 Rose
Rob Rutledge
One day when we are old,
Yet not so old that wonder's lost.
We'll talk again once more of love,
Of loss and wanderlust.
While whiskey warms our aging bones
Waging war against the frost.
Our tales turn to pantheons
And the follies of fallen gods.
 Oct 19 Rose
Rob Rutledge
We are old friends,
This void and I.
Our paths would cross
From time to time.
Pupils both of the abyss.
Kicking rocks into the chasm,
Skimming stones across the mist.
Like all old friends we parted
Started ways that are our own,
Though we pick the path we tread
We do not own the road.
You took the turn to summer,
I chose the way of snow.

Those who walk in winter know
Warmth lives within the cold.
 Oct 19 Rose
Rob Rutledge
Ronin
 Oct 19 Rose
Rob Rutledge
What worries the weapon more than peace?
That sheath that seeks to still its story.
When kings grow old and tire of schemes
And children dream no more of glory.

What becomes the warrior
When heroes live only in song?
When there is no one left to conquer
And every battle has been won.

When the wind no longer speaks of steel
And mountains have forgot our name.
When all that's left are memories
Of the fallen, Of the shame.

Worry not though for the blade.
Spare no thought toward the sword,

For peace shall fall to slumber.

War will wake once more.
 Feb 2022 Rose
Sydney Rose
11:11
 Feb 2022 Rose
Sydney Rose
my one wish is
to find someone
who sees the world
as beautiful as i do
with their mouth
preaching poetic beauty
as i have once done
to all the boys
i have loved
Next page