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 Feb 2015 hiroki
Francie Lynch
A poem is like
A piece of wood.
It can be ripped,
Chopped,
Shaped,
Sanded for smoothness.
Sometimes you nail it;
And it can stick like glue.
You can drill a hole
Right through it,
It might bore one
Through you.
It can get under your skin.
But when it's cut
Against the grain,
It should be read again.
 Sep 2014 hiroki
unwritten
i remember those days when we would walk for hours and hours under the hot, beating sun with no destination in mind. nowhere to go, no one to see. just you, me, and the sun.

our bones were brittle, our cheeks were flushed, our bodies were sore. but we didn’t care. we had stopped caring about the little things.

we would laugh until our lungs burned and wake up every day thinking, “god, this really is a beautiful world if you make it one.”

we would smile until our cheeks hurt and pray that it would rain so we could dance in it.

we would sing until our throats were like sandpaper and lie down in the grass at night and look up at the stars.

we were wild.

we were beautiful.

we were free.

we were lost, but god, we were free.

one day you woke up and something shifted inside your heart and you said that you didn’t believe this was a beautiful world. you didn’t believe in you, or me, or us.

you didn’t want to laugh until your lungs burned or smile until your cheeks hurt or sing until your throat was like sandpaper.

you didn’t want to dance in the rain or look up at the stars.

one day i woke up and you were gone.

no note. no explanation. no goodbye. just gone.

you are gone, and i am still here.

i am still here, but now i wake up every morning wondering how i could have ever seen this world as beautiful.

i only like the rain now because it makes the sun a little more bearable (i’ve stopped dancing in it).

i don’t pay much attention to the stars anymore. all i know is that they make me feel just a bit less lonely.

it’s just me and the sun now, though sometimes i can feel you lying next to me and i reach over to grab your hand or look at you or say something but all i have is the sun.

not you.

we were never lost, you know. we just didn’t want to accept that we had always been found.

(a.m.)
.
 Aug 2014 hiroki
D Loup
Monsters
 Aug 2014 hiroki
D Loup
When we were children
We learned to fight
Fight the monsters
Under our bed
But how do you fight
How do you fight
The monsters in your head
 Aug 2014 hiroki
Stellar
Eleven
 Aug 2014 hiroki
Stellar
I  love  the way
you make words  hurt.
I'm  bleeding.
**Passionately.
Everytime we touched,
I felt a spark.
Eventually it grew to a flame
That destroyed me slowly.
Sparks ignite into flames, good or bad.
You sit at your screen
fingertips flying in the face of decency
like a spigot attached to a vat of arsenic
dripping your poison, slowly, surely into the ears of the unthinking.

You justify the burnt skin, the orphans, the unending torture as deserved.

Deserved?

How can it be so?

Go tell the orphan, scarred and screaming that her fate was deserved.

Go stand beside mass graves and thumb your nose at the deserving corpses, stained by the blood of ages.

Where is your heart? 
does it choke and sputter,
buried beneath your all encompassing loathing?

You call me stupid, maybe so,
my views naive, my compassion wasted
yet my heart beats proudly, swells with love 
while my tired eyes drown at the unfolding horror.

War is not a spectator sport,
it is not justifiable, nor deserved.

Call me stupid if you will, ridiculous if you must
call me any number of names in your attack on my spirit
I will not care, I will not bend or bow.
Your hatred will be your undoing.
Not mine
Got into an argument with a 'friend' because he couldnt understand why I won't accept his islamphobic views as my own, I would rather be tainted as stupid than as a bigot.
The trouble with Hello Poetry
Is that I fall in love daily
Held under so many captivating spells
moulded and crafted by all walks of life
I find myself longing for all of you
the broken, the fallen, the bruised
the saints, the sinners
the righteous, the dispossessed
the holy, the unholy
all meet here
to speak of life
as they feel it
as only we know it.
Onwards, upwards
Downward spirals
kindness, cruelty
crashing through boundaries
bounding across oceans
carried on wistful sighs and broken dreams
The trouble with Hello Poetry
Is that it breaks my heart
Then brings me back to love again
All within an hour.
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