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 Apr 2020 koketso
Olivia McCann
I've found a poet
Who sings
A boy
Who feels
And let's his voice
Shake in songs
About airplanes crashing
Who tells me
He loves me
Very very very very much
And-
Happy Birthday darlin'

He has dark hair
And walks on a bridge
To watch a
Bowl of oranges
Float away.

The Calendar Hung Itself-
He says.
He'll visit the band in the morning.

God he strums smiling-
In pain
Brimming with paint-
What a waste-
A stepping stone on a path.
If you haven't heard Bright Eyes- give em a listen... My favorites are The Calendar Hung Itself, Lover I Don't Have to Love, At the Bottom of Everything, Waste of Paint and Bowl of Oranges
 Apr 2020 koketso
Olivia McCann
I wanted my life to be a poem.
That's what all of this is.
I date you
Because you fit into poetry
The way dark things do.
And you make me happy
But the truth is
I'd love you if you were only
A sad poem.

Cigarettes capture
My attention
Because they're poetic.
Poets smoke.
A cigarette fits in poems
Like writers pen in palm.

I listen to music
For the lyrics
Which speak to me
In the way I like
To speak.
For the drums
That now only mean you.
For the guitar
In the closet
I take out
On occasion.
For the rhythm
That makes my pen dance
When it would rather sleep.

I have the poem in my head
And I guess I'm writing it.
But you're writing it too.
So is she.
And him.
Mostly me.
But the cigarettes
Write too.
Disappearing through
Your lips--
Ash appearing on the page.
 Apr 2020 koketso
Olivia McCann
He sips at a coffee
He won't waste.
Is the milk rotten?
Doesn't matter. He's
Had that before.
Nice now, to have food
In the kitchen.

He chuckles in a developed
Version of how he used to.
Pitch rising at the end.
He's happier now
That hungry haze
Has lifted.
That dark *** fiend
Who used to tease me-
He's gone.
Or maybe stifled
By the angel.

But God,
His hugs still crush me.
Those hugs are the same.
The eyes are the same.
The story is the same.
 Apr 2020 koketso
Olivia McCann
My pencils are breaking-
Pens have spilled too much ink
But at least I'm still writing.
The flannel I have,
Smuggling collarbones
From chilly apartment-
I've worn that all week.
There's a cigarette burn
In one sleeve,
The buttons have come unhinged
During midnight runs to the corner
For cheap chocolate
And cigarettes.
Ramen boils
To salt my appetite.
But at least I'm still writing.
I leap from place to place,
Eyeing hoods passing by,
And I imagine guns tucked away.
The sink leaks,
There's not enough sun.
I'm high on debt
And college school books
Rot in the corner.
I guess my degree
Has gone putrid too.
My life's gone dingy and dark,
Suffocated by polluted winter.
Dark circles
Tell stories
Dreams can't remember.
But ******* at least I'm still writing.
Writing life//New York
 Apr 2020 koketso
Wednesday
"Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil. "
Loving her was a soft suicide.

A bottle of pills and a warm bath,
candles lit around your head like a glowing halo.

Loving her was a steady shock.

A fork in an outlet and a buzzing in your spine.
Loving her was the agony of a quick snap of a bone.
The long ride to the emergency room,
listening to music you never liked.
Especially not now.

Watching her leave was almost worse.

Almost better.

It was the swift pain of a steel toed boot in the
soft part of your stomach.
The gasp of the crowd in the busy bar.
The realization no one was going to step in and help.

Yes, loving her was surely relentless, inevitable pain.

So you turned into a person who kissed feet and
fell to their knees.
Bandaged yourself up and then asked to bleed a little more.
And the truth is..

You almost liked it.
 Apr 2020 koketso
phil roberts
Coughing like a cold start
Wheezing like a bag
Spitting through the back door
Have another ***
Doing the dying thing

Filling up an ash-tray
Feeding a fat face
Drinking cans of lager
Getting in a state
Doing the dying thing

Reading ****** papers
**** and bingo cards
Have another lager
Another pound of lard
Doing the dying thing

Sitting watching game shows
Rattling paper bags
Looking bored and farting
How the sofa sags
Doing the dying thing

Working for a *******
For very little pay
Yes boss and no boss
For eight hours a day
Doing the dying thing

Safely empty headed
Dull of thought and eye
Ignorant and vacant
There are many ways to die
Doing the dying thing

                                       By Phil Roberts
 Apr 2020 koketso
cheryl love
The aroma of fresh coffee brewing
the taste of rich chocolate on your tongue
freshly baked bread straight from the oven
newly picked rosemary to last all day long
talcum powder sprinkled on a beautiful baby
the splash of the sea on your skin
the salty smell of fresh fish at the market
tobacco ripe fetched from the tin.
rewards to keep, treasures to share
it is fascinating to breathe all these riches
and we thank goodness that we have them there.
 Mar 2020 koketso
Harsh
You've only ever seen yourself twice:
once in a reflection,
the other in a picture.

You've never truly seen yourself,
so I'll take the liberty to devote my entire life
to describing the extent of your beauty.

The first thing everyone notices about you is
that smile of yours, dear. It's dazzling. It's distracting.
It's absolutely lovely,
and no mirror nor picture can ever replicate its splendor.
Your warm smile melts the ice, while casual chit chat merely breaks it. When you smile, the edges of your eyes crinkle just the right amount, beckoning amiably.

Your laugh is a waterfall
and I want to spend my days letting it crash down upon me,
I want to drown in its bliss. Your laugh is a lilting balm
to the horrors these ears of mine have heard,
a soothing caress to my worrisome heart and mind.

Your eyes, you underestimate their charm.
You belittle them to simple drops of brown darling but they are transformed into pools of hazel, gold, honey, sepia, and cocoa in the sunlight.
I call them bedroom eyes.
I stare into them not to look at my reflection
but to look into your heart.
You smile with your eyes sometimes,
it's really quite lovely.
It's a shame you're not on the receiving end of it.

Your hair is absolutely stunning.
I could run my hands through it and let my fingers get lost in your curls and meet some bobby pins along the way.
You complain of it often, but
tracing the lines of your steep curls with my eyes
sends me into a happy daze.

On numerous occasions I have said it and I will say it again:
you feel beautiful. Your skin under mine feels absolutely lovely, my dear.
I could spend millennia letting my hands run
the length of your gorgeous body. And I'd do it happily, too.
I love the little moles you've got on your cheeks
and your ironing-board-scar and your lips (both sets).
You were born a blank page but now you're a beautiful work of art with depth and shades and texture.

Your body is a diamond: it is multifaceted and precious and priceless.
And it deserves to be looked at, my dear.
I adore your body, sweetheart. From the scoop of your collarbone,
to the curve of your back; from the gentle definition in your arms and legs
to the stronger curves of your *******.
I love the beckoning rise of your hips and your thighs, and the gentle mound of your ***. I could spend an eternity painting your body with my kisses, each a silent praise to the masterpiece that is your body.
I actually don't like this piece as much but I decided to share regardless. Please feel free to send me edits.
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