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  Jul 2018 Petrichor
devante moore
I’ve never received a flower
Or even a rose
But I’m a guy
So it’s acceptable I suppose
No kisses
Or sweets
No treats
That signifies ones feelings for me
No token of ones love
But I have gotten
Disappointment
Watered with hate
Planted in betrayal
Fertilized with lies
And maintained by fakes
Roses are Red
But my roses are dead
And crumble beneath my feet
Petrichor Jun 2018
You never held my hand too tight,
and i always wondered if it were
to not hurt me.

silly me,
why hold onto someone tight,
when you know you're going to let them
go.
If you say you loved me why'd you let go?
Petrichor May 2018
You came up behind my back
and wrapped your hands
around my eyes
"Guess who?" you asked

And how silly of you
to think I would not
know you by the music
of your heartbeat
against my back.
Petrichor May 2018
Flowers
have done nothing wrong,

yet we rip them
from their roots

and give them to people
who don't love us.
Dear little flower
Petrichor May 2018
Watching a giant cockroach was I,
pushing across a ball of dust
he seemed satisfied to trace,
a path between the table and door,
but soon he turned and jogged in crooked rings,
and flipping over to scratch his back-
as if a victim of a mild
panic attack.
After a while of climbing open shelf's,
he looked uncertain where to go.
I don't know what he was thinking,
but I knew I recognized myself so.
Noticing bits of myself in little things
Petrichor May 2018
I never saw a man who looked
with such a wistful eye
upon that little tent of blue
which prisoners called the sky,
and at every drifting cloud that went
with sails of sliver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
within another ring,
and was wondering if the man had done
a great or a little thing,
when a voice behind me said,
"The man's got to swing"

For he did not wear scarlet
nor did he speak of it,
for blood and wine were red
and so was the color on his bed.

He looked upon the garish day
with such a wistful eye;
the man had killed the thing he loved,
and so he had to die.
Inspired by OSCAR WILDE
Petrichor Apr 2018
I was in a train
when this old woman looked across
with a confused look.

"What's a pretty girl like you doing over here?"
she said,
her voice trailing with the
jam of stinky
half-brained men.
"My father has passed away. I am here to meet him."
Her face crumpled,
like her tongue had encountered
a sour taste
like her body
had touched dirt,
like her brain managed
to get hold of her daughters darkest secrets.
"I'm sorry" she said, letting out
the sour smell of judgement.
But she wasn't.
She wasn't sorry.
She was an old woman with sunglasses
to hide her scanning eyes,
an old woman with a mask of makeup to hide
the scars of revolution.
She was a stranger.
"You're not really sorry." I said, realizing how I
became her,
a young bag of judgements.
Sometimes you just write stuff when it comes to your mind when you haven't experienced them. You've probably seen them on TV or heard the idea of them form someone you know. But this one over here is one that I have experienced. Thinking of someone judging you leads to judgement, and I openly say I have experienced so.
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