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 Feb 19
Chelsea Rae
Do you still look for me

In all the people

You constantly escape in

To forget you're running from

How much you hate yourself?
 Feb 15
Chelsea Rae
When I grew up
I realized that none of us have a clue on
How to navigate these
Unknown waters.

When I grew up,

I looked around and saw
That everyone is still learning how to get their land legs
When we've finally run ashore.

When I grew up,
I started listening
And I noticed
Everyone has their own kraken stories;
Of monsters they have not
Yet laid to rest.

We're all just swashbucklers
And thieves
Still trying to learn to
Navigate the seas.
 Feb 10
Thomas W Case
Make the static go
away,
the dead-dog depression;
the fleas tip-toeing across
my brain.
Hate locks the
door to the heart,
and puts the
soul in a cage.
The rage consumes,
like a west coast fire.

Make the static go
away,
the electric anxiety;
the butterflies swimming in
my blood.
Love is a fantasy,
a fairy tale for children.
Devotion
imprisons
the mind and
subdues the heart.

Give me sweet
apathy, beautiful
sedation, let me
float in bliss;
untethered by emotion.
Let me get lost, deep
in the core of the orchid,
and sail aimless,
in the
vast chasm
of the sea.
Give me radical
lethargy.
 Feb 9
Ashly Kocher
It is such an amazing thing to see children grow and learn, but growing up is hard to watch, yet satisfying at the same time...
You are sitting in a desert with no one around.
The sky is blue, with a scattering of clouds.  
The sand is white but very fine.
It’s soft to the touch like fine silk.
There is a slight breeze which is not too hot or cold.
It brushes against your face ever so gently.
There is no noise.
It is quiet and still.
You can hear your breathing.
Over the top of you sits a translucent umbrella of light.
It’s made of peace, love, and protection.
As you start to walk, the umbrella follows you.
It will be with you forever.
 Feb 7
Traveler
Can our consciousnesses be
Fast or slow?
Can our awarenesses be
High or even low?

You do realise
Of course...

Language was simply designed
to hide our feelings
We hide behind our poetic preserves
Whether were loving or were killing
Say what you shall
In the presence of light
Poets stands up with their words to fight

That was just a few rhymes of insight!
Traveler 🧳 Tim
 Feb 7
Seranaea Jones
-

I accepted this
portion of a

@-#)~"—?—"~(#-@


(conjured surely
from some black
cauldron)

And With Respect—

My mouth opened
wide enough
in the attempt
to finish the
whole thing raw
with a single bite–

but instead,
I grabbed one crumb
between incisors,

tugged
and tugged
until It tumbled
out of my mouth
and onto the arm
of the porch swing–

bounced and then
dropped
           between
                         cracks
amongst peelings of
old paint and then
into the funnel of
an Ant-Lion,

who thought it had
the catch of the day,
pulled It in,
bit into It–
went sour-faced

(as if it could)

and spat It back out
where It continued
into a wormhole
downwards
inwards
&
side-wards
inside out
through
multi colored
celestial
milky-ways—

bumping into a  
plastic spoon
spinning end
over end
along a
Mobius Strip orbit
between the
Rings of Saturn,
where It shall
                          (hopefully)
reside
For  Ever—

(Expansive Ten-Fingered
"E" chords played upon
Three Grand Pianos)

Finis
            Coronat  
                              Opus...


­

s jones
2021


.
23 Jan 2021


.
Sailing the mystic omnipresent seas,
on a craft made of dragonfly's wings.
Tacking across the magical breeze,
caused by songs that the sirens sing.

Weathered and worn by infinite tides,
holding lines made of eternal foible.
The warrior's blade like a rudder she rides,
in a sheath made of filigreed sable.

Virulent flow of futurity's pandemic,
vibrant waters fertile subtle surreal.
Ephemeral beings translucent endemic,
purveys omnipresent augur's appeal.

The starlit sky imbues waterfall's mist,  
myriad creatures seek eternity's mantra.
Vivid delineations of artistry's gist,
seeking virile omnipotent yantra.

Celestial heights where eagles traverse,
soaring and gliding we learn to fly.
Must life be terminal we say of terse,
whilst composing music to make angels sigh.
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