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 Mar 2016 Emilie
Poetic Artiste
They'll write journeys of you,
within the depths of their eyes,
They'll think of you often,
and remember all times,
They'll paint passion,
with the sweep of their pen,
They'll feel deep, evocative spirits,
when voices relay what silk sheets have penned,
They'll tell of your kisses,
how they taste sweeter than wine,
They’ll tell of lips soft as clouds,
And tongues passionately sword fighting,
They'll speak of your flaws,
as if they are perfection,
They'll walk you into new worlds,
and seize hold of your heart,
They'll scribe their innermost desires between lines,
and grasp onto your soul,
They'll tell of your softness,
and how your skin favors silk,
They'll tell of your scent,
sweet and inviting,
They'll tell of your taste,
as tongues beg for nectar,
They'll speak of faith,
and the linking of two beings,
Fall in love with a Poet,
to be loved endlessly.
Fall in love with me and I will never let you forget that you are loved.
 Mar 2016 Emilie
Mitch Nihilist
your name
tattooed on
the inside of
my chest and
every time my
heart beats
it reminds me
of you
#2 of the (-X) series

If you want to be part of the brevity series email me at mitchjburke@hotmail.com or message me via hello poetry
 Mar 2016 Emilie
Jeramy Hale
i have a burning in my chest ...

i am a mad poet ...


words are spilling out of my pores ...

the words that don't get used and make it to paper ...
are all over the floor ...

glad to be anywhere near me ...

knowing they have come thru me and that at any time ...
they might get the call ...


i love them as my children ...
i love them as my partners ...

i love them as my allies ...


they love me ...
knowing they were born in my blood ...

remembering how long they have waited ...
for the time to be right ...


they recognize me ...
as their father and their mother ...

they ride the burning in my chest and wait for the moment ...

knowing i am a mad poet ...
Copyright 2009 Jeramy Hale
 Mar 2016 Emilie
Ashley Garreau
When I was little I would always
Draw my mother’s hair with a yellow crayon
And my father’s with an orange one.
I would use both to color in my own hair
And we looked like the most colorful family
In poorly scribbled blue pants and ugly brown shoes.

As I got older
My mother’s hair turned less yellow
She started drinking
My father’s hair grew redder with anger
I turned indigo
And I learned to draw us always
With pencil
Sloppily scrawled
And easily
Erasable
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