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 Sep 2015
Melissa S
Is it just me or does anyone else think of their poems as
their kiddos??
We love and care for them pouring out our very souls to them
Even when they start taking over our lives
We feed them and nourish them taking care to only use
the very best words for them
Sometimes staying up very late or getting up very early
caring for their needs
Before we get them just right we may start to try and wean
them off but sometimes it is hard to let go
Then when it is time to send them off on their merry way
We hope for the very best...
We hope that when other people see them that they like them
That they get them and that they care for them too
Especially when they reach those milestones :)
Anyways, it is just a thought I had
 Sep 2015
Sjr1000
Poetry is too long too short too harsh
too real to ******* believe
when you're down on your knees begging for forgiveness for everything you feel.

poetry is too hot too cold too bold to fold.
too real to really feel
unless your heart is breaking.

poetry explodes your soul creates heat creates cold. drives the trembling soul right through that ******* hole.

poetry is all I know.
 Sep 2015
Mitch Nihilist
inhabited within a society
by a government who lies to me,
to us, on the grounds of money;
earning and spending more than saved
to enrapture the self and capture the enslaved,
working class citizens
who worry more about paying rent
than being mentally content,
Monday to Friday, nine to five
a chance to earn, yet not to thrive
the worry placed on the gratified at ease,
posing no harm, smoking their own trees,
years in the cage for a simple possession of
a couple bags, subject to unlawful repression
yet barred for being a simplified state,
there’s lesser charges for amplified ****,
a higher power twisting by the fist,
grabbing a free nation and twisting by the wrist
there needs to be a change
within a democratic range
that allows us to be the free country
we announce in our anthem
but the government keeps gnawing
and biting the hand feeds them,
we’ll be ruled, and controlled
until a social monarchist
binds together to bindingly subsist
we the people need to speak up
and repress this social **** up;
the need to always rush,
the need to brush
aside repressions until
obsessions of contraries
conflict with progression,
living each day dead
with no room to grow and
yet the only gift we ever bestow
is sleeping and drifting away
in the unconscious
only to awake again,
a conjure suicide with
your company pen.
To my fellow Artist tonight , a final word on the rhapsody of beautiful sentiments expressed regarding love , the human condition and hope written by skilled , emotionally charged men and women today ! With dignity , grace , and passion throughout today you have once again charged and reminded a humble colleague on the power of poetry forged by fierce imagination and forethought ! Thank you and good night !
Copyright September 15 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
 Sep 2015
Carl Joseph Roberts
My Last Day

It's My last day at work today
A new journey to begin
Just two short weeks ago
I turned my notice in

Memories with fantastic times
As teardrops fill some eyes
We share the stories of our past
And I say my last goodbyes

I will finish off my final day
And do my very best
Give to them on my last day
As I did on all the rest

I take my one last journey
To meet with all my friends
Listen to them wish me well
Hug and shake some hands

I walk away my head held high
And say there's no regrets
Knowing that the job I did
It was my very best

It's my last day of work today
A new journey to begin
Just two short weeks ago  
I turned my notice in

It's my last day


Poem by: Carl Joseph Roberts
Share , help trend and let some people know.
A poet is A Poet

when A Will to Write

Another one is Mightier

then A real work to be Done.
Imagined by
Impeccable Space
Poetic Poetess
 Sep 2015
Adele
“Here grab some apple pancakes”
she sings the hum
of  a beautiful today and tomorrow
where birds join in chorus

“It’s autumn, I won’t rake the leaves!"
She doesn’t want to see
the long face
I’m always wearing

“My dear, sometimes, you have to
cherish the ‘fall’
for days will pass,
leaves will wither,
a storm may blow off our roof.
But seasons are like people
they come and go,
but be ready,
and most of all be strong.”

She smiled like she never cried before.
All I want, is not to rake the leaves.

But her words...
'always' make sense.
 Sep 2015
nivek
Wind has a lot of say here.
Winter in the northern isles
- poets are more wind chime than anything else.
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