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All armies are the same
Publicity is fame
Artillery makes the same old noise
Valor is an attribute of boys
Old soldiers all have tired eyes
All soldiers hear the same old lies
Dead bodies always have drawn flies
He is two -
Like a vinyl record--
he has an 'A' side
and a 'B' side;
guess which one
I love to listen to,
on repeat,
over,
and over,
again?

He is two -
Like cuttlery--
A knife
and a fork -
one is sharp
and cuts deep,
and one picks me up;
guess which one
I love to spoon?

He is two -
Both,
the sun,
and the moon;
and I,
... well,
I was doomed
from the beginning,
just like a shooting star;
guess which one
I fell for?

By Lady R.F. (C)2017
 Nov 2017 JD Harold
Caleb Stevens
Remember homecoming night?
We were awkward.
Wouldn't look at eachother.
Laughing in my head.
Wishing we weren't friends.
let me touch our souls together once more:
comforting insecure heart breaker pocket lover,
be mine - i show up to class but i'm
still in your bed there's
no time for sleep
only dreams of
pink hands and red tea
unconditional
keychain
of
me.
i loathe rhyming poetry so much but still wrote this so??
 Oct 2017 JD Harold
Anna Blake
it's you.

i would have never known
unless i saw
the light meet your face
that morning.

neither of us are early risers,
but i couldn't waste
a second.

above me,
at 6:40 in the morning,
a perfect blend of
blue, gray, and sincerity,
which was born
on the rising sun,
peered through an ivory curtain,
and landed on a gentle face.

infinity soaked gaze,
honey coated touch,

your color was
the crisp mountain air
through a rolled down
Jeep window.

your color was
a John Prine record
and local barbeque

your color was serene.
it was the light's reflection of
a summer enveloped
by two people
in love with
right now.

-Anna Blake
The tendons
in your body
must rip and tear,
must bleed
and suffer
to become stronger,

and I think
it must be the same
for our
*hearts.
I feel so stupid.
 Oct 2017 JD Harold
Phantom Poet
Poetry,
Started out as a hobby,
Encouraged by family,
Write on topics variety,
Started with topics like,
Sleep,dream,summer,music,my bike,
I realised what gives my poems emotions,
I write about my life,
About love,
About death,
About happiness,
And sadnesses,
Later did I realise,
Poetry,
Went from a hobby,
To a therapy.
 Oct 2017 JD Harold
Lain Ender
In the chair he played,
His muscles burned with his pain.
It was always constant,
The needless burning of his nerves.

Fingers curled he played,
There was enjoyment in the music.
It erased the pain and the sadness ,
The that the many scars of his nerves gave him.

Then he was gone

17 and gone in the last beat of the hearts
we cried happy birthday
But he wasn't the only one
What of the one teacher?

You helped him play through the pain,
While you yourself suffered,
How soon were you torn from us too?
Its all to soon.

You know their will be a final symphony,
they wont let you go without the notes.
draped on your shoulders like wings,
Angels of the band.

You both were pillars of strength,
And we all remember and sing and play.
For the good don't just die young,
They are set free of their suffering.

And we love you,
Let the symphony play.
I will cry for the man i barley knew,
For he helped the one I loved.
I'm sorry this is so slap dash and likely terrible. Its hard to write through tears. I know no one on here really knows me so i will explain my hurry and my tears. 2 years ago, on his 17 birthday, I watched the brother I helped care for so much die suddenly from Multiple sclerosis. I sang him happy birthday through tears as his heart came to a stop. He was a great kid and avid member of the band where despite his illness he played the biggest instrument they had ( the Marimba). The Instructor who taught the class was a pivotal influence and was infinitely patient with his shortcomings. He too had a chronic illness, Cancer. After my Brother died he did everything he could, the band played at the funeral, the took donations and had a special  marimba with his engraved on it and even fought to have an award that is given annually to winner of a band tournament held every year in the school district. Mr Jackson (the teacher) suddenly died today, barely over forty. I cry for him because my brother could not, because i know he was a great man. I apologize for this sudden spilling of my true self but in this circumstances i can not hide behind a pen name. I remember  www.facebook.com/groups/167503548802/10150543131228803/?notif_t=like

and

www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1598573011

I cry for the ones who fall too soon, the greatest of us. I would cry for you.
 Oct 2017 JD Harold
Kellin
Grey
 Oct 2017 JD Harold
Kellin
Sometimes I see everything.
Often to much in color,
To vivid,
To bright,
Blinding actually.

Then sometimes I see nothing at all.
Total absence of light,
To dark,
To secretive
Just dull aches.

Remnants of the person I used to be
What living with depression is like for me. Really high highs. Really low lows.
 Oct 2017 JD Harold
Lunar
"When you're lonely,
what do you do?"

"I take pictures
of my favorite places."

"But why do you
keep taking
pictures of the same spots?"

"Because sometimes,
I wish
you'd appear
in one of them."
(j.m.)

i take many pictures of my favorite places almost expecting you'd be what i captured, wjh.
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