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 Aug 2018
Poetic T
I was a journey of tracks leading to a
                  vacant lot. Never were my
wheels meant to traverse more than
              when they stagnated soundless.

But then you found the embers still
              smouldering ever so serene.
Not looking like they needed a breath
to give life to an ending that was certain.

You put your exhalation upon the tracks,
               warming the rust of sorrow away.
Where the haunting memories lingered, you gave
them the means to move past the forest of loneliness.

There was no voyage worth a singular motion,
         but you showed me the mist wasn't forever.
And together we tracked old tracks cutting deep,
             together we healed ever route yesterdays fading.
 Aug 2018
Valsa George
on a sea strand,
have you watched empty shells
mercilessly tossed from sea to shore
and from shore to sea?
      
often I shrink and reduce to such a shell,
with jagged and broken edges
colorless and empty

among many a debris cast on the shore,
i lie half buried under the sand
waiting for some mighty wave
to wash me away
all the way to the sea

how tedious is my voyage
shuttling from him to her
and from her to him
unable to openly confess
who weighs more
on the balance of preference

through how many alleys and by ways
I have wandered, questioning my identity!
am I a puffer fish, being toxic
the fisher men have discarded?
a jarring note in a discordant symphony?
I wonder....! I often ask myself!

destined to grow
in mercurial climes,
planted in arid shallow soil
with the tap root trimmed,
branches pruned,
growth denied,
I, a stunted bonsai!

still I dream to be a towering tree,
that in profusion gives fruits and shade!
a ****** aspiring to be a Goliath
a hollow reed,
longing at once to be the singer and the song!
When a divorce occurs, the threat of losing the home and losing the purpose of life confronts a child, especially in the younger age. Children of divorced parents experience a real trauma and they begin to doubt about their own identity!
 Jul 2018
japheth
if i get the chance
to write a letter to say goodbye,
i’ll probably leave it blank
— don’t ask me why.

if i get the chance
to collect all our pictures
and put it in a collage,
i’ll probably not do it all
— again, don’t ask me why.

if i get the chance
to see you one last time:
hold you again and kiss you goodbye,
i’ll probably take it
but turn around at the last second
with my head down as i cry.

don’t ask me why.

don’t ask me why
i’ll waste all these chances
to say farewell,
because our love ended
and it didn’t end well.

don’t ask me why
i’ll give in to my sadness
when we could’ve had saved this
because
even if i tried to give my best
it’ll just end up the same;
a big old mess.

don’t ask me why
i’d rather leave than stay,
why i choose to walk away,
because all i’ll probably say is:
we tried
but love ran away.
 Jul 2018
Srijani Sarkar
Morning blue night
pouring into our time,
dying seems so sweet in silence.
 Jul 2018
Midnight
don't let the past
**** with your future
don't let the memories
ruin your adventures
and don't let the reflection
cloud up your vision
the past is not where you should be living, but rather reflecting on occasionally to improve yourself. breathe in the moment, and look forward to the future, but don't get stuck in the past.
(this may be cliche, but i need to hear it)
 Jul 2018
L B
Can I tell you how seriously I take this poem!
_
Could the sun be
    just
    a hole up there—
    that if I could leap
    would enter that breach of light

Someone!
   Throw me a line!
   Give me a reason
   There’s never enough
   in this life of breathing!

Someone!
   Explain why dreams roll a soul
   toward the cliffs of day
   Wakes to ache
   then stuffs its mouth
   with necessary same
  
Inhale—
   button shirt—brush hair
Exhale—
   necessary glance in the mirror
   (yes, still there)    

A lifetime!
   in a shallow instant’s stiff clear water
   (Yeah— still there)  
   in endless caverns of tired eyes
   above mouth still trying
   to say SOMETHING!  
   from ever smaller eternities
   in the glass-flat empty....

Please! Someone explain!
   this draw of breath
   one forcing itself upon another's
   life
   of beating —
   Violence in my chest!

Why hearts don’t sleep—

and I wind up watching
again and again—till
I am the ******...

...Morning lies
   in the mists of a humid *****
   who moans and sweats
   and boils her hips—
   and I wind up watching!?

“Will someone please…!"

   ...and I wind up watching
   bedspread, bed sore, death bed
   till you’re breathing easy
   when she sits and picks
   her collapsed bouffant
   damning the makeup
   that got crushed in the sheets

…Morning
Lies--

   with no expectancy
   both tired of knowing...

   ...The Devil lost his balance
   in my presence one night


...tired of knowing—

THE WILL!  
THAT WILL!

  ...walk away
   or continue to play

   I could open this screen!
   watch the world STEP BACK!
                                 SLAP FLAT!
   as trees and dwellings flush like quail
   to prop their tottering panic
   against the blue—

You—assume composure...
   compose assumptions
   Await my next—

Move like a spy


1990


Take careful note:  

Why I don’t play chess or any other game
for that matter.
    
    
“...and when you're really out there
the windows all have opened onto nothing...
Death having long since-- left the scene.
When you get really out there
it's all--
and nothing…”
 Jul 2018
Alberto Cornejo
We beg to be broken by love,
In hopes of feeling alive for just a moment;
Drunk on the feeling of bliss.
Over and over we touch the fires of lust;
Endlessly descending into heartache:
A bittersweet aphrodisiac.

Every kiss is a scar on the heart,
Every sweet nothing is a beautiful lie.
Oh, how good it feels to hurt:
Ecstasy buries us in a sea of false hope.
Promises made in a state of blind faith;
Unreciprocated feelings left to die in a casket meant for two.

We beg to be broken by love:
A guillotine built for hopeless romantics.
Sent off to Limbo by the patron saint of heartache;
Bleed well and bid blind romance farewell.
Perpetual suicide of the soul:
Holding hands with loneliness until the sun rises again.
Listening to H.I.M.
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