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 Jul 2017
Lvice
This girl
Who talks about honesty
Like it grows out
Of a crack in cement.

The flower that blooms
Purely out of spite
And takes what she gives
To herself without another word.

And if she's ever been hated,
She's never noticed.
This girl is beautiful
In her self love.
For my first and truest best friend, I love you girl! Thank you for being the only one to really stay, and the only to understand what a friendship is supposed to be like. Thank you Jasmine, for everything.  
Forever yours,
    Your Jo.
 Jul 2017
Tina RSH
I have travelled from the lands
Of an unknown master that used to be you.
To a distant destiny, a residue
Of silent tears I shed past midnight
For the absence of you.
My throat clogged with screams.
My lips apart for expected moans
And eyes tight shut!
Crying over the absence of you.
The Absence of you
In a world so empty of light
And full of must-dos
Spinning in my head
Lies an imperfect dream
Of holding your hand
In the morning dew.
Tina RSH ©
14.04. 17
 Jul 2017
chris
a I
he kissed
her like her lips
were air
and he couldn't

*breathe
 Jul 2017
SøułSurvivør
steam slides stealthy
through demarcated
deadzones

egress in earnest
evades erstwhile
ozone

firmament freedom
fulsome and flatulent

pedantic ponderings
perused by the petulant

Baroque to the Gothic
baleful buttress

hopefully honing
the hooks of
injustice

l sleep in the city
and dream looking
down

men muse in their
countries, and covet

a crown


SøułSurvivør
(C) 7/2/2017
 Jul 2017
Pagan Paul
.
'No man is an Island'
Maybe not true my Dear friends.
Perchance in general, contact is good.
But take a good look.
There are many Islands in the emotional ocean
with closed harbours and sealed ports.
Refugees of romance; Tortured traumas;
Insane individuals; Mental mercenaries;
Each one a lonely star,
a pinprick of light, disconnected,
on a girdle of the sky,
protected by a carapace of experience,
cold, distant, drifting further from the source,
in a race for consolidation and annihilation.
Islands of safety become Isles of danger.
Selfishness; Self-hate;
Self-perpetuating; Self Destruct;
The inward circle and downward spiral
cloaking the Island, shielding its existence,
shunning the continents of integration.
So can it be true my Dear friends,
no man is an Island?


© Pagan Paul (28/06/17)
.
I wish I could remember how to swim! PPx
.
 Jun 2017
Born
Finding hope at the dimming tunnels

Can
            be
                     Illusive

My heart paused when I opened the casket
.
     .                 .
          .        .     .
              .            .
                              .
                                .
                                  .
and saw that you were still dead

A promise of happy ever after was

B           o            e
      R            k              n


            ­                                             Caught
                                          between
                                  fate
                         and
          destiny

I
Clung
To
Those
Scratched
tears
on
the
wall
 Jun 2017
Sally A Bayan
Once upon a time,
i had a book i read nightly....without fail.
t'was a compendium of impossible dreams,
big plans, summaries of late night talks
on "long-shots-but-worth-a-try," stuff,
...our very own fairy tales, where we
wished for magic wands and wings,
written on nights when sleep was elusive,
when bottles of cold beer had lost their effect.
talks were long...my fingers grew tired, for,
my guitar wept with sad songs....t'was then
i learned to pour martini...into my coffee.

::::::::::::::::::
lost my guitar one day, got busted....but, life's
many notes and tunes, played on with time.
eclipses shaded the already dimmed horizon,
floods ruined boxes of souvenirs...stamped,
handwritten...with ribbons of silver and gold...
people died, some left...some fell out of love,
moved near the mountains, others left their
preferred milieus...for uncomfortable zones...

the moon, looking down from mountaintops,
was a witness to tears...of sufferings,
.....realization, and of acceptance.

when nights refused to end,
when the howling of distant dogs, echoed
and shattered the stillness of the night,
i question marked our tales with suspended
endings...tore off  unfulfilled, hopeless pages,
i crossed out those with "no forever afters,"
only a few pages were left......so, i began
creating new plots......and new settings
i added new characters, and new twists,
all written in the midst of unholy hours
.......til a new dawn....proclaimed itself...
:::::
to this day,
i write my own fairy tales, with no beer, definitely
i still have my night coffee...though sans martini
......it could be black, or with its mating cream,
....and all the dark curves and swirls, in between...
:::::
"a long shot, but worth a try," it may seem,
...yet, i do wish, i could put some sugar and cream
......upon everyone's dark, and bitter coffee...
:::::

Sally

Copyright June 6, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
(This is the shortest I could make of
   this poem...i apologize....)
 Jun 2017
South by Southwest
+
rust × steel

turning
wheels

<>

mechanical
dragon
strains
squeals

=

click
click
clack



­click
click
clack



Horn
moans
in
subjective
dejection

//

there
is
no
caboose

&

therefore

no

end

to

the

dragon's

agony
 Jun 2017
Polar
When life feels suspended by a delicate thread
Change is inevitable
I sometimes feel stifled
Tightly constricted
Like a chrysalis
Struggling against transformation
I oppose the transition
And need more time to adapt
Today
A butterfly tapped against my window
Like change asking to come in
If I can comply with Grace
Maybe I too can transcend
And withstand the butterfly effect
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