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 Apr 2014 Amanda
karuna
"Forgotten" feelings come back to me as little pinpricks of memory
like flowers in march

I am the ground still cool and hardened,
but beginning to soften with the oncoming warmth of spring

Blooming sprouts of jealously bud in me as the days get warmer and my heart gets softer,
closer to the day we first kissed

But the small buds of beautiful of green soon die down with another rush of cold winter winds,
reminding me that i am not supposed to feel that way anymore anymore

For now these pangs of heartache are crystallized by the early springtime snows
And the icy sighs of winter shelter the shrunken seeds that have harboured in my heart

But they are waiting,
waiting to grow into long awaited flowers,
ready to suffocate me with their beauty.
yay been absent for awhile, not a lot of ****** feelings to write about. but they are again
 Apr 2014 Amanda
Ellie White
I still try to wash you from my life,
my body,
my mind,
I still take all my clothes,
my sheets,
my towels
And put them in a wash with too much detergent praying that this time,
You will not be there anymore,
That your scent which I know faded months ago,
Will be erased from my memory.
I still smell that ******* hoodie which sits folded in my closet,
Like it did,
When it,
When I,
Waited for you to come back and
Claim it,
Claim me.
I still smell what I used to when I burrowed my head into your chest,
And get hit with a wave of nostalgia,
Breathing deeper than I ever had before,
Because you taught me what breathing felt like.
Because you showed me that I had never known what air in my lungs felt like before
Because I feel like there is water in my ******* lungs and I am gasping for air daily.



[This will never be finished. I have nothing left to say. There is nothing left to say. This will be added to the collection of unfinished work which will never see the light of day again. Because we all need to give up on something in this world. And I can't give up on you as easily as you did to me. So I will give up on putting my thoughts on a page with some grace and delicacy and fluidity that moves perfectly. I will give up on that]

(e.m.w)
 Apr 2014 Amanda
Kason Durham
An old man whispers softly,
Bowing before the old grey stones,
Tears falling lightly on the brim;
Petals falling to the earth.

His fingers feel the coarse of death,
The cold stone, with words so heavy and grim,
Carries with it life, coursing deep in its veins.
A life now forlorn in the earth below.

Dressed in stark formality; his respects for the dead,
He yearns for the warmth in his hands,
The grace of his feet; the light of his head,
One last dance was all he asked.

Now waiting in the familiar silence of years come to pass,
He rested his eyes and let his head fall;
Quiet was the day when his heart followed suit.
Yet, in his redolence a golden tune had filled the yard.


And the gold had spread, captivating and encapsulating,
The leaves the flowers, the stones and fences,
All veiled in a vibrant hue of a time gone by,
Ethereal was the hand that guided him through nostalgia’s sweet haze.

Now vigor had taken him: embodied with life he stood,
The hands he so tenderly held once now returned to him,
Warm were their touch, though living they were not;
He knew this, his eyes closed in reverence.

The gentle tune had guided their sways,
With revived vitality he made his dance with death,
Graceful were their swings that led the ball,
Elegant were the strings that filled the hall.

With reluctance he made his final twirl,
Dropping her deep in a final embrace;
The music crescendos to finale,
Sorrowful, he lets a longing, loving smile escape.

Just as well, she escapes his fingers,
The breeze whispers softly the words of lovers;
Tender was his smile now, he opened his eyes and looked high above,
Not questioning where or how, but grateful beyond love.

He ran his hands on the cold stone once more,
His fingers feeling the smooth of love rather,
Those words now carrying with them the world he’ll leave behind,
As he walks down the green, cut path;
Leaving the graveyard for the very last time.
 Apr 2014 Amanda
bekka walker
I think I may like pictures too much.
Hang them on walls, tack them to the fridge, hiding in shoe boxes,
let me show you the ones from my wallet.
Smiling,
trapped but happy.
Captured.
Ordered to stay within the glossy boundaries. 
Maybe it's matte,
as long as it's framed right. 
Running my fingers along the circumference of the nostalgic circle,
Barricaded again and again, "I miss when"-
Held hostage behind the too examined life.
I think I like pictures too much.
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