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I love stone. Don't you?
We forget ourselves for
a moment when we stand
beneath
a mountain. A true experience
of a mountain makes us
feel small, which is right.
Because we are. But
we only forget for a moment,
really less than a minute, and
soon we cast about for a little
sharp-edged rock to carve our
names into the cliffside.

Once, a person lost
their faculty for emotion.
That turned out alright, though.
He wasn't ever sad.

But it was sad. It was tragic.
Because we listen to our
little voices, and grind our names
haphazardly into the rock,
and it's really very silly
to try to be immortal. Even mountains
know that. And we live
with these very silly
voices drumming all the time in our heads,
and we think that's us.

We think that those voices are us.

And that person? The tragedy
is, I don't know if he ever gets
to be corrected. Do mountains
interrupt him? To forget ourselves
for a moment beneath a mountain.
Does he ever get the chance to ask:
Why do we forget ourselves,
anyways? Who is it that made us pause?
The mountain? It didn't move.
Our little voices? Ha!

It's something else. Something powerful.
It shuts up your internal monologue,
and in those moments, you are at your
most agile, most eloquent, most true.
On stage. In a sport. When you read
a set of words that hold power to change
your life. Does it have a name? It has many.
"Soul" is only one of them.

And that person? Yes, it's sad.
But ask yourself this: you've seen
your mountains. They made you
step back. I know they did. There
was an instant that your little voices
were completely, utterly hushed.

That moment happens, and it's
entirely out of your control. The
next moment is truly up to you.

So what do you do? Take a picture?
Carve your name into a rock?
 Jan 2020
Jack Jenkins
Old habits smoulder in the secret places in my heart
Like a pack of unlit cigarettes stashed under the bed
Cancer waiting to spread and ignite desires
Oh how I love these wrong desires
Just a sip until I drown
Just a flame til I burn down
//On addiction//

I'm okay. But my demons want me to come out and play.
 Oct 2017
phil roberts
Grey and sodden clouds cry
From my north-western sky
Where I used to fly with satellites
Before I was stuck at traffic lights

I'm pretending that I'm sane
With a bandage around my brain
Pretending that I'm whole
With sutures in my soul

Tight and screaming reins
Hold the prophets in my veins
Aquarius turns again
Again and yet again

                                  By Phil Roberts
 Oct 2017
Star BG
Inside ones life are hidden words and experiences.
A non-poet and poet
both have hidden words and experiences within.
Differences, the poet takes those scenarios
and scribes them to unload their possible burden,
and share them with the world.

Everyone should write
even if it isn't to share
as it can lead to insight and peace,
tears and laughter, fun and aspirations.
just a thought
 Oct 2017
Ami Shae
Sometimes it's almost frightening,
daunting
to come here and see
all the beautiful poems,
all the poets
who are so much better
than me...
I have so much admiration
so much awe
that sometimes I wonder
why I try to write at all,
but now and then
I'll come back here
and do my best to pen, to write
and hope I can overcome
my sense of fright...
oh my goodness...so many of you are so amazing and so talented! I wish I were better at writing, at expressing how I feel inside, but all I can do is try, right? Thanks for the beauty of your writes...sorry I'm not around more... :(
She loved the mesh of hair over her eyes.

My hair is all messed up, she smiled
I'm enmeshed in love, she kept smiling.

The winds rushed past
piercing her with kisses.

There goes the girl
the sky parted the clouds to see
her cheeks are sunset blush.

The birds hovered low over her.

They cackled and the air rippled.

The engine in awed silence
felt her weight.

Oh she weighs so low
light with the burden of love
.

Over the bridge and down the highway
she melted in the crisp autumn glow
and he would never know
behind him she rose and fell
in that only once ride
with him.
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