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 May 2018
she reads books and she plays music
the cute, innocent
clumsy girl
with freckles on her cheeks

you like to read and listen to music
the cool, handsome
sweet-talking man
who likes freckles on her cheeks

[ or at least you said you did ]

she rolls her eyes at your compliments
the cautious, bright
guarded girl
with curiosity in her eyes

you lay them on thick
the certain, sharp
imprudent man
with hidden agendas on your lips

she lingers a little longer
in hopes of crossing your path throughout the day

she laughs at your jokes
and you know they're not funny

she sings for you in the car because
you like her voice

[ or at least you said you did ]

she's become good at excuses
the hopeful, naive
kind-hearted girl
with sureness in her words

you soak them up
the stark, ill-intentioned
vacant boy
with uncertainty in your voice

she gave all she had to care for you,
the smooth, clever
self-serving boy

you convinced her that you loved her

[ or at least you said you did ]
sweet nothings are just sweet nothings
 Mar 2018
Smoke Scribe
all poems write themselves, following plans that are drawn only
as the poem goes along, neither leading or following, but
carrying the writer along as first violin, a VIP passenger,
the first viewer, a consultant but not a conductor

a poem is written based on what has happened
a poem is written based on what was hoped to happen
a poem was written based on what could never happen
but is so well imagined that it is more real than if it happened

I willingly tell you I will not tell you which is what, for there is no difference between them for the writer, the first passenger,
though undeniably fully aware of the quality of the ware
that is proffered, plottered or just perchanced

perhaps you are thinking, but of course,
this is the way,
the way of all of us,
the way it has and will be and no
disclaimer needed for no believable claims are made

for the weave is oft tight, tight as near-truth, and so well imagined, it wraps the first passenger in a cloak of skin
that actually feels, though cloaks cannot feel,
but belief is easily eased

there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth

my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum
but authenticated by me as
first viewer,

 Mar 2018
Jordan Danielle
night falls like eyelids
on the brink of sleep—
I lay on ***** sheets,
no fault but my own

there are 432 tiles
in my shower stall
I count them everyday,
twice a day,
three times,
four if it’s real bad

after the fith time there
is no more counting,
or singing, or crying,
just being.

water falls off my body,
into the drain,
and i go with it.
 Feb 2018
I hate that I care so much
I hate how much you affect my day
How when you text me I feel alive
but when you are ignoring me the next day I die a little bit inside

Why would you paint such a beautiful  picture in my head
When you know you can't love me back
Your thoughts are still going to a different girl but mine keep holding onto you
How do I do this? We are both hurting but for different lovers

I wish we could work
I wish you would realize that I would give you my world but no you don't care as much as I do I am just a rebound for all you knew
And you know what I hate the most?
I hate that after all you put me through I am still in love with you
 Nov 2017
John Michael Biely
In that time
When we were whole
When all we could think about
Was each other

And my soul was clean

We spent time
Learning the riddles
In each others skin
Painting with lightening
And ice
Words like brushes
Arcing across dimensions
All circling about our hearts
A wind in the weaves of fate
Whispering a gift to us
Like we had never known

In the morning
Before work some days past
You came out from about
A wooden corner
You seemed to have a billion eyes
And they all smiled at me
Like the calm luster
Of the moon

"I'm late" you said
And I got half way through
The stupid " you don't work toda...."
When my soul slapped my brain
Across the face with such raw ferocity
That I was worried the neighbors
Would call the police

Stammering like a drunken lunatic
I went to her and embraced the
Glow of her, the energy piercing us
Coiling about in infinite design

Just this once did I ever know peace

We talked about everything
My body went to work
My mind dreamt and my soul...
Well it danced. We brought life
to our parents eyes
and hope to ours.

It was just a few weeks in
And that same wooden corner
And that same beautiful woman
But there was fear
So much fear
A red red fear
And the world turned grey

Her words were like ashes to me
Cast over my frozen body
I stood blank
holding her heaving form

"It doesn't want to stay" she said
"Why doesn't it wan't to stay ?"

I wanted to say something
But I died right there
Still breathing
Holding her in Pompei comfort.
Like a little wooden man
Holding a plastic flower
Begging to forget the answer
To whether or not
God gave a ****.
 Sep 2017
Entry ~
You were the first man that ever broke my heart. It was the day I was born. You held me in your arms and made me a promise that would rip us both apart. You promised to love me unconditionally from the start. But time passed and over the years those words faded from your heart. In the presence of a war when you had one foot out the door. There are vacancies in my memories where a father should have played a part. Like teaching me to drive a car, or telling me don't believe boys that say I love you from the start. Instead, I looked at every boy with tears in my eyes and willingly accepted every single lie, thinking maybe if I part my thighs they'll learn to love how broken I am inside, but they never do. Just like you they leave without a single clue and I'm left alone, used, wishing my daddy would have loved me too. And I'm not writing this to blame you, or break you, or tell you I hate you. I've made mistakes too. Ones deeply rooted in my relationship with you. And I get that maybe you didn't have a clue that your daughter was struggling in the world without you. But I relied on you to set the standard for boys I would let into my heart. By the time I was sixteen, I felt like a tortured piece of art. I learned to love myself of course. Over the years of ripping myself apart I learned to chart the darkness in my own heart. I don't blame you anymore for my broken parts. I'm healed from being angry at you. I'm writing this to tell you I'm sorry for failing you, and I'm sorry you failed me too.
The apple never does fall too far from the tree.
 Aug 2017
poshal gyamba
I'll undress myself, undress all my coats,
undress all my fears, strip to my sheer.
I'll show you but will you want to see ?
what will your thoughts be to my naked, unadorned alive,
will you look around or will you hold your gaze,
as layer by layer i unfold myself,
strip myself down to my bare, undrunk skin,
will you still call me poetry as i take you on a tour of my anatomy,
will you explore all my fissures or stay gauging at the first shortfall,
will you understand the traces of my wounds,
the wounds not from battlefields but from gentle smudges of
unfinished love,
each covered with bandage, not healing just concealing,
trying to stop the pain from bleeding, covering my corpse in aches,
and so i keep my gaurd up, no strolling on passion boulevards,
for torment and agony were never printed on invitation cards,
but when the time comes and you compel me to,
i'll let my inner demons out for you,
and as i strip down to my sheer,
i wonder, will you peer or look away,
will your thoughts run astray,
will you love the bone and flesh just as much as,
you loved the carapace.
 May 2017
david mitchell
sometimes i get tired of working,
i'd like to be more free.
not spilling paint,
dotting i's or crossing t's.
so i take a walk, make some tea,
stretch my knees and try to breathe.
the warmth of this unsteady breeze,
puts me at ease, it could put me to sleep.
i feel at home among these sad, sleeping trees.
i wonder what gets them down,
or maybe they're just having bad dreams.

dear weeping willows,
of what do you dream?
a cold night of lonely moonbeams,
or of dead tiger lilies floating downstream?
i hope you're happier than you seem.
dear dreaming willows,
why do you weep?
this is not really about trees, it goes at least a little deeper.
dream more.
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