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 Mar 2016 Wanderer
Dream Weaver
I was the type of person
Who held onto things too tight,
Unable to release my grip,
When it no longer felt right.

And, although it gave me blisters,
And my fingers would all ache,
I always thought that holding on
Was worth the pain it takes.

I used to think in loosing things
I'd lose a part of me, too,
That slowly I'd become someone
My heart no longer knew.

Then one day something happened,
I dropped everything I once held dear.
But my soul became much lighter,
Instead of filled with fear.

And it taught my heart that somethings
Aren't meant to last long,
They arrive to teach you lessons
And they continue on.

I didn't have to cling to people
Who no longer made me smile,
Or do something I've come to hate,
If it isn't worth my while.

But you were my light,
And the hunt you make
Hurts in the moment
And takes away my breath.

That sometimes the thing you're fighting for
Isn't worth the cost
And everything I ever loved,
Was bound to be a loss.

But that's what addiction does
To crave, to ****
To **** out our souls,
To increase enmity between hearts and woes.
 Mar 2016 Wanderer
Jay
Empty Room
 Mar 2016 Wanderer
Jay
Meaningless words
float like stale smoke
in the stagnant atmosphere
of the space between us.
 Mar 2016 Wanderer
Jay
Practiced.
 Mar 2016 Wanderer
Jay
I think about your skin pressed against mine
and how I'm sure it would feel like an ******.
You wreak of *** and
I bet those lips taste of blood.
 Mar 2016 Wanderer
Jay
Small Things
 Mar 2016 Wanderer
Jay
I really just wish
I had somebody to talk to.
 Mar 2016 Wanderer
SG Holter
Fooled again by spring changing
Its mind and retreating.

Skies are waterfalls of snow above
The white veiled construction site.

I can barely see the crane, blowing
Grey slush from my walkie before

Telling the driver to lift these
Two-by-fours that just days ago

Reminded me of lake piers and
Diving boards under tomorrow's

Summer sun. Today they are
Firewood in these eyes blinking

Snowflakes into tears that I wipe
With padded gloves, leaving

Streaks of oil and concrete on
Cheeks pale with winter under an

Icicled full beard.
Fooled again.

This is Norway.
This is where giants come to shiver.
 Mar 2016 Wanderer
SG Holter
Losing physical weight as my
Mind expands.
I have been mouth for as long
As I can remember,

Now let me be hands. Hands, so
I may release you and hunger on.
Blessed be all things un-eternal.
I can only sleep in burning houses.
We always compare food to women.
****** metaphors are the height
of good food literature,
but I wonder how it would work
in reverse...

If I met a beautiful lass,
eyes the color of fallen leaves
in the deeper part of the forest,
and I told her that she was lovely
as bark on a roasted lamb,
deeper than massaman curry,
more complex than pho,
hotter than szechuan rabbit,
sweeter than fresh cream...

I wonder.
letting loose old chains
you and your wry laughter
defeated by the day old machines
of life and their constant clogging

time's hands tear into spring
nail first, peeling off the light constricting canopy
twisting barbwire off delicate skin
strangling you on a couch from hell

wake up to the smell of bourbon
and dead roses - so pretty
your lashes creating the shadows
on your gaunt cheekbones,
and your name is Soul
i struggle a ton with full length poems but thank you all for reading

edit: thank you, sexywiggle, for lighting this poem up
 Mar 2016 Wanderer
Rowan Deysel
Fresh from the kennels. A whole world away.  
Companion conversion for a young castaway.  
A darling of distraction with irrational fears.
The clumsiest canine with ever aware ears.
Guardian of gourmet. Suspect of all sounds.
He'll catch himself someday, spinning around.
A tug of war here. A muddy mess there.
A lick to the face of the humans in his care.
How thrilled his tail and tremendous his teeth.
How dug up the planet from paw underneath.
The running for fun. The claiming of trees.
The car window ride along - face full of breeze.

--------------------------------------------------------

But now he's a master of "Stay!".
His eagle ears succumbing to gravity's sway.
Napping much more, barking much less.
Now rarer the cuddle, the clean, the caress.
Patch protector. Owner of no debts.
A veteran of various villainous vets.
Birds as trivial as the tennis ball is far.
Eyes now as hazy as the indistinguishable stars.
A howl at the moon. A loosening tooth.
An ode to memories of a modest youth.
They still love this pup. He still loves them back.
May he long be remembered as he faces the black.
 Mar 2016 Wanderer
Mateuš Conrad
a former convict,
a thief,
who was imprisoned
once,
upon release
called me a
'garbaty anioł',
i.e. a hunchback angel;
the weight of wings
too heavy, like the globe
for atlas;
i gave him money and
cigarettes,
and we had the genesis of philosophy
talked as chaos around us ensued;
paweł.
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