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Upon the dark night, striking three;
A tick representing each step in time,
but time overwhelmed by a trinity
of peace, and a plan greater than one's wildest dreams.

As the trees clap their praises unto a summer wind, and
waves flood the skies with their roaring rumbles of exaltation,
a bird sings unto the dark night her song, unique, sweet, and free-spirited

Another beauty upon the night, a tulip,
blossoming, not fully grown, in admiration of this free spirit, the bird.
The tulip observes from a distance the song the bird sings

A praise, a never ending thankfulness
"Thank You for the trees,
Thank You for the waves,
And thank You for me," the bird sings.

In awe of the song bird, the tulip longs to grow, to blossom, to fly, to sing;
Oh, the joy, the praise, the song she'll bring
when fully grown to exemplify her thanks to the three

But, Hold! The clock ticking three, a breath He takes.
The songs of beauty the bird once sang
are silenced more than a whisper

Oh, dear, wilting Tulip; she wonders,
"Why?" she misunderstands, "Why has the bird's song been hushed?"
Oh, so joyful with praise, the songs she sang,
but now unto another Audience, unheard by the flower;

However, the sun rises, the flower realizes,
A new day is upon her. The trees clap their praises unto a summer wind, and
Waves flood the skies with their roaring rumbles of exaltation,
Just like any other day.

Partaking in full bloom overnight, grown, she hears the call of three:
You're unique, sweet, and your free-spirit will sing,
for the steps of time past quicker than the steady rhythm of that clock ticking

Fly free, song bird,
Your legacy will only grow sweeter with time
As the bloom of a tulip smiles and praises the One unto which your song once thrived.
Written sometime around January, 2017.

This was written out of pain: legitimate heartbreak, but I suppose most poetry is, right? This was my first "real" poem that I've ever written. This began as an assignment and became a coping mechanism with a serious loss. I did, however, learn an important lesson: loss can be beautiful... I was very particular and purposeful with this poem, so there is a lot of symbolism. Interpret it as you please.
The voices in my head
keep me up
all night
deep in thoughts
making me replay
things in my head
they break me down
shattering my soul
into a million pieces
making me weep
till no words can
be spoken
and no more
tears can flow


The voices in my head
so wicked are they
for
they make me miss
the people who’ve left
me damaged at every
phase in my life
they make me regret
the things I’ve never said
when I had the chance to,
they make me believe
that I’m flawed
for always feeling
depressed
they get me
drunk on this bottle
of whiskey to
shut their
obnoxious voices out


The voices in my head
so merciless are they
for
no reasons at all
they throw me down into
this abyss of thoughts
that I can’t escape
spiraling downwards
I fall far into
the bottomless oceans
of undesired memories
that I yearn to forget.


The voices in my head
they call me names
fat.
ugly.
failure.
useless.
embarassment.
the list eventually has a full stop,
but these voices don’t.
There’s a reason these pieces of entertainment
have earned themselves the title of “puzzles.”
You would think that once you sat down with them, that
it’d be relaxing,
                            it’d be fun,
                                               it’d be easy.
But they’re not.
They’re confusing, rightfully so.
And once you finally think you understand them,
they throw a cu
                           rve
                                 ba
                                      ll
They don’t fit. They seem so stubborn, so misunderstood.
But this isn’t their fault,           entirely.
This complementary relationship requires my eyes.
I   must    see   the big   picture.
I need to
                                        stop
                                                and understand
how important every detail is.

This task requires
patience,
                                     so I wait.

I wait for the perfect piece, an inner piece,
In all its beauty, to complete the picture that was envisioned.
8/29/17

Totally a metaphor, but it's up to you to discover the rest...
Cleo 4m
I'm Wolfgang
you feel the scent of a flower
i feel the scent of the full moon
it drives me crazy sitting under a moonlight
so next time you are feeling romantic
lets hold hand at night and i will give you a flower
.....next full moon is on 2nd of march save me a kiss
love moon romance
sancus 7m
i stand beneath a dim,
flickering streetlight.

darkness seep onto every nook and cranny, every street and alley of what once was a hustling and bustling city.
everything in plain sight is almost monochromatic, faded from the decades of untouch and neglect.
a gust of wind tickle my bare neck, seemingly like a touch and a whisper, as if it's someone alive.

i glance around

black and white,
black and white.


the streetlight shows its last flicker.


i see purple.

i see red.
Self-analysis, self-criticism & introspection can't be all that you do. I'm hobbled on the peppered lane by the stultifying complications of nouveau-moderne, civil wedlock, all the crooked cunt & all the cold cock. Waking up is hard to do. Lay it on me. I'm all reconstructed ears. Women must have babies as pregnancy aligns priorities and provides for you a stake in the future, genetically.
His father
threw
tabby cats
off
the tar roof
by their tail
as a boy
with his younger brother in tow.

“Winner!” he swanked,
hairless chest puffed out
as the heat of the day
scorched the
furry heads
of the felines
in the brown bucket beside him.

Saliva escapes
in a dribble
down my son’s chin
when he cries.
His father gives him
something to cry about,
as promised.

I am an addict,
craving kindness
from my
son,
who is also my
sun
when my days are spoiled.
His love for me
is laced with
need,
sticky like fly paper
or the molasses
he spilled
on his sister’s hair
on purpose
by accident.

His father demands
answers
while shining a desk lamp
into his son’s squinted
eyes.
“Tell me the secrets,
I need to know.”
The details escape his
loyal lips
like a slithering serpent
swimming
through his mother’s milk.

His affection is
viper’s venom.
I am a
junkie
and,
he is my
drug.

His weighty brows
are down-turned in warning.
If I had a tail,
his father would pull it.
I brace for the next
attack,
my enigmatic eyes
closed tight
so I am
deliberately blind.

The calico cat
hobbled away
on broken bones
wondering why
two young boys
played their
beastly game.
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