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 Apr 2013 india
Paul Hardwick
Never thought that things i choose
to put it my mind can make me
feel like i never did yesterday

T H I N G S
like the words i say
that i have never heard before
now to me mean much more.
Through the half-opened door, I watched you dissolved yourself in the thousand places and hundred years in your book. The sun hadn’t gone out today, like yesterday. As you flipped the pages and contain love between your fingers, the cat beside you remained uninterested to the benign indifference of the world.

Your coffee had gone cold, cream flared indiscreetly like those letters I have written and never sent, torn to pieces, all bits screaming your name. I can hear the sound of your tongue licking your lips – you always do that, before you form your words. After I disappear with you.

The sound of my footfalls echoed and I watched it wrapped the wall, covered the hinges of the door, up on the roof, and then dripped on its edges, fell like rain, kissed the pavement madly, then broke irrevocably like hearts. In our sheer vulnerability, this is how we encompassed the world.

I moved closer and you disappeared in your secret self, again. Roughness seethed my palm as I invade the space you have fenced. I wonder if this curtain had ever questioned how long has it been since you last summoned infinity, with me.

In this dungeon.
That night.
When the stars were disarrayed.
When immortality was defied.
When heat was lingering on the wall, in the atmosphere.
When I dismembered the universe just to melt with you while the entire space is screaming at me to run.

You must have heard my plea, my open mouth just above your ear. You should have heard me, to never stop your lips from measuring the length of my neck, to never chain your hands set wild between my legs, to let me bury your hair strands between my fingers, to always encompass me in your scorching breath.

And then eventually,
To burn me away.
*Lacus Crystalthorn , 2013
 Apr 2013 india
Emily Tyler
Today she finally
Painted over her toenails
In that icky
Sticky
Thick
Bubblegum pink color
That her
drunk father
bought her for christmas

And it had a number
On the cap
And she didn't know what it stood for
But she thought that since the number was
783
Then it didn't stand for the kind.
Because who knew L'Oreal sold
That many bottles of nail polish?
How many different kinds of pink
Could there be?

She actually didn't care.
Because the only reason that she was doing it
Was to cover up
That bluish
Tint
That you get
In your finger and toenails
When you don't eat.

And before she could paint the last toe
Her drunk father came in
And shot her dead.
But she felt nothing
Because the squashed up metal
Bullet
Went straight through her stomach
Which was
Empty
Because she didn't eat.

And her toes were
All the way dry
By the time the police
Showed up.
If you want, check out my last few poems in my profile. They haven't been read like at all and,  IDK, I like them. Connect the Dots, Nerves, inspire, coldplay, when a shy person dies, um, thats so gay, and whatever else you can find!!!! :)
 Apr 2013 india
Taylor Henry
A big "dry clean only" coat, swimming straight in the mud.
And a beautiful white dress adorned with a merlot colored stain in my lap.
And long, dark, Italian-bred hair drenched in color-changing chemicals.
And an ivory complexion smeared with gray cigarette smoke.
And a handful of teeth painted yellow.
And a pair of strong hands that I never bother to utilize.
And a couple of shoulders carrying too much of the load.
And my poor, poor heart that took the blow for the risks I insisted on taking.
Maybe if I was a little better at taking care of my things,
My things would start taking care of me.
 Apr 2013 india
Francisco DH
Never be the one
To tell me that you love me
Cause I won't listen

Never be the one
To give up all just for me
You'll be wasting time

Never be the one
To long for me and need me
Cause I won't be here
 Apr 2013 india
Francisco DH
Every Poet has some story to tell.
every word that flows from their pens and onto paper is a piece of them they are willing to share
every Curve of a letter, every break between words tells you something you may have never known
every poet has some story to tell.

When the poem doesn't make sense
Grab some gloves and a mask and begin dissecting each stanza.
Each letter that hugs closely to each other break them apart
make sure to peer inside what's between them
Because every poet has a story to Tell  

A poet can tell you about  butterflies begin kissed by the sun but the sun, being selfish, doesn't leave a trace of saliva.
A poet can tell of love lost and about love ones tearing into their soul, shredding them like some paper shredder.  
A poet can tell of you anything they want with just whatever they have be it a napkin or computer
A poet can't help but to tell parts of their story even if the poem only makes sense to them
Every poet has a Story to tell.
That's just how they are.
 Apr 2013 india
Francisco DH
The stars shine on you.
They shower you with their light, letting every bit of you glow
The moon also shines on you but with only half of it self
The other half is unseen cause it doesn't trust you fully
To let all of it shine on you
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