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 Feb 2017 dmperez
Mikaila
I am not old, yet.

My skin is not powdery and white, see-through like a paper lantern.

But there is a part of me which

When I dare to reach for someone I love

Reaches with brittle ***** fingers, soft and cold and fluttering like white moths

That edge closer to a flame until they catch.

There is a part of me that feels old, and fragile.

And already even in the crest of my youth I’ve cursed this body

For its frailty, its needs.

It suffers and complains, always crying out for something,

Never sated, never still.

I’ve said it feels like living inside a porcelain doll

A look, and cracks can spider out along an arm,

A word and blood can bloom beneath the surface, seeping up into

Bruised pictures and symbols.

I must always be gentle,

I must always be

Watching.

Too passionate, and fissures form, marring the cheek, spreading like shadows thrown by a lace curtain.

I stare out, burning to touch everything,

And yet I pull back:

To dare is to risk, and I’ve seen

Both reward and loss.

I have seen a thousand shining colors spread across me like sunrise,

Warming my skin,

Calling to me like prayer until a bit of light escaped through the spaces between my atoms and reached another person’s palms,

But I have also seen the pale, flat shards of myself,

Sifted through white dust in dismay

For a salvageable portion.

Indeed, there are rooms in this world where sharp edges of me still linger

Waiting in obstructed corners and beneath heavy refrigerators

To gouge a foot or snag a hem,

Interred

In the dark and hollow places where they flew when I shattered and could not gather them all.

I have known

Intimately

My own fragility,

How maddeningly breakable I am

And how difficult to mend.

And there is a part of me now, always,

Which whispers to me when I would be bold,


“You are not old, yet.

But wouldn’t you just love

To live that long?”
*title is a quote from T.S. Eliot's The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock
 Feb 2017 dmperez
vivian cloudy
I watch the water
beam from the sun
and that is what you call
making love
The Earth is the greatest poet I know.
I pluck at her expression
every so often
merely attempting
to translate her lyrics
into something,
just something
we can all feel and understand
My salutes to you, Earth.
 Feb 2017 dmperez
Chloe Zafonte
He was a spider who lured me into his web. He did not eat me nor try to harm me, he had no intention at all but to leave me there stranded and confused.
Well I'm single ... Again
 Jan 2017 dmperez
Moonlight Bliss
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 Jan 2017 dmperez
Moonlight Bliss
-
i am lying on my bed,
and i've got nothing to do,
now grabbing this pen,
with my heart torn in two,
still wondering what to write,
thinking this can make things right,
all i can think is you in my mind,
but i'm wounded and blind.
Can't think of a title.
 Jan 2017 dmperez
Louise Ruen
The more poetry I read
The more air I fill my lungs with to yell out the words as a tribute to one of the most beautiful artforms
I discover
No words are good enough to convey true feeling
Words will own belittle it, make out of the world emotion seem less, make incredibly untangible things grab able.
But you can’t stand with a feeling in your hands - yes, that was a metaphor
And the art of poetry is trying too belittle it as little as possible.
A mission to describe something indescribable with words as your only tool.
Explaining something you don’t truly know what is or feel is hard.
People don’t feel the same way or share same emotions.
Even every single human experiences love in different forms, different emotions.
How do you communicate your version, so that it can be understood?
Poetry and the spoken word should never be forgotten, but praised.
Let us show the world it is not an old dusty artform but an innovative reflection of today’s world.
I'm truly embracing the power of words
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