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prophet tongue with
stabbing perceptions
i gave him my name
while in bed.

soft white curtains
though still chamber thick
cold steel hands
and the room sliced into pieces
by morning light
but haunted by night sounds
crept into open wounds of the heart

chills.

his hand
resting on my thigh while he snores
summer bruised and adventurous
though callous youth
with his unbandaged scabbed knee
skating last night.

moment forgotten in the carride
but a stone monument staring
at me on the kitchen counter.
sorry michael.
 Mar 2016 Wanderer
Poetry by MAN
A poet is not perfect* although some claim to be
Scribblers of thought watchers of humanity
Pen every emotion fill it with devotion
Ride waves of passion chaotic like the ocean
A poet is not perfect with more than eyes we see
What's hidden what lies between prophecy
Future unfolding the past we keep holding
Now keeps rolling do you remember where you're going?
A poet is not perfect hmm what does this mean?
From life experience write a scene
Words forever blending combinations never ending
Translation of thought keeps the message sending
A poet is not perfect neither is humanity
Speakers of truth live on edge of sanity
Recognize what's broken book wide open
Read between lines multiply the hoping
A poet is not perfect many strive to be
Most fall victim to vanity
Born reactive to what's attractive
Division of emotions leave most subtracted
A poet is not perfect or what you might think
One universal mind flowing in sync
Discovering depth waking from sleep
Breaking silence with words perfect poetry we speak
Poetry By M.A.N 3-1-16
 Mar 2016 Wanderer
Jay
I'd love to curl up with you tonight.
Feel you next to me.
Learn the pattern of your breaths.
I'd love to cuddle up in a blanket and watch
the sun dip lazily behind the mountains,
the golden rays reflecting your soul,
the breeze playing with your hair.
I want you to tell me the meaning behind each tattoo
and talk late into the night about life's important things.
I want to fall back, and look at the stars,
and as I look over at you, wonder how you're not up there with them.
Fingers interlocked,
souls dancing under receding moonlight.
Your presence, reflecting the world.
I'll have to dream of you instead,
 Feb 2016 Wanderer
Jay
How can somebody be as beautiful as the poems they write?
I have no idea, but **** you do it well.
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