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The system
Always wins.
It's how
You lose
That counts
 3d
Malia
four-thousand feet in the air
looking over the edge of the basket,
the feeling of wind in your hair
like a pipe has burst and you’re the gasket.

the feeling we’d feel if the world spun slowly,
if the poor were rich and the rich were lowly,
if the strong were weak and the weak were strong—
when Words are art and art is song.

my cup runneth over, it is filled with ink
and doubts and depths and doublethink
the wool is spun, this mess of thread
is the sunlight, the shadow, the sea in my head,
and i untangle it the one way i know how—
i pick up the pen and i write it all out.
it’s been a while! hello again
 Sep 15
TS
Poetry is my getaway
Every thought that comes to mind
Has a story to tell
At the end of the day
When I make time for poetry
It takes my mind away
Away from the stress
The worry
The hustle
And bustle of the day
It allows my mind to slow down
To rest
To rest for the next day
Like a train route that runs all day and night
Busy working
Getting things done
Then it’s time to wrap up for the night
Or like a water machine,
Filling everyone’s cup
And not until the last person comes for a cup
That you notice that you’re empty
Did they notice?-
Did they care to refill you?
But at night when I snuggle up
I grab my notebook
I escape
It soothes me
It’s refills me for the next day-
Off I go
To my poetry getaway
 Sep 7
Bekah Halle
I discover,
Ground coffee beans
All around my pad, under and over.
My bookshelf, my wine bar,
my kitchen bench, and in places I'm yet to uncover —
No matter how much I clean, they still appear
Much to my utter
Disbelief. Do I give up coffee for the sake of a pristine keepsake?
Or do I embrace the daily grind’s remnants as part of my life’s clutter?!
 Sep 2
irinia
ask your blood
your limbs, your breathing feet
what Poetry is -
a phylogenetic anomaly
in light’s discontinuity

or just…
the strange yearning of hematopoiesis

ask the silence in your lungs
the bursting DNA, reinterpreted
how it allures memory inside your bones
how it treads conventions of sleep
with the weight of a sigh

if you ask me
what Poetry is
I’d say: breath calligraphy
a winged dream of depth
on enchanted retina
the bitter-sweet art of airy harmony

ask your hands
what Poetry is
perhaps they’ll take a moment
to bloom
 Aug 19
irinia
your eyes incite such an echo on my lips
it reverberates every time I hear the trees, it engulfs my hands
I  feel how your gaze caresses my hair
sometimes only poems keep me whole
the hidden parts play hide and seek with daylight
all the me that cannot be create holes between words
I wait for time to confess its indifference
the solitude of skin is inborn but
poetry is this incessant birth of an imaginary me
 Aug 10
Nat Lipstadt
be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit

give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration

so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction

more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying

speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them
Oct. 6, 2015
4:30am
Manhattan Island
 Aug 2
Ami Mathur
I couldn't read.
I couldn't write.
The lines in between your heart and mine.
Lost focus —
The love is lost in magic.
The Abra ka dabra, yes the "hocus pocus".

Now, this air feels dry—
Are promises really meant to be broken?
Is it a season with staleness inevitable?

Aren't trees great with patience?
Silently they endure the winds and growth.
Even their death leaves them with a meaning.
Like a leader's selfless path.
An unyielding oath.

The sorcery of poetry...
Is that how it teaches the heart to empathize.
Which ultimately turns into our own vice...

I am feeling my breath flowing into my senses.
Living—and dreaming—up the glances

The only question that needs to be answered.
Should we believe in second chance?
Even just for instances.
 Jul 6
Bekah Halle
Poetry should  be taught —
But it's better to be tried.

Poetry can be taught;
But it's better to be lived!
Do you agree?
 Jun 15
Bekah Halle
The coffee dripped
Into my mouth,
little droplets of life;
The rich, dark roast
Layered my tongue
Like velvet;
So sensual —
I could wrap it around my shoulders like
Helen’s, my Nan, foxy-red fur coat,
From the 1920’s and 30’s,
I am back there with her now —
With each drip,
And the zoot, zoot, zip
Of the trumpet
Bleating out
As dancers flapped about.
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