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 Mar 2016 Sarah
Jasmine
I wake up at 4 am every day just so I can see the sun rise
I look out my window at 6 pm so I can see it go back, set, rest
I marvel at its grandeur and I muse over how the universe can draw Breath and contain such a thing
You, my love, are my Sun

I watch the moon go through all its phases - new moon, first quarter, full moon, third quarter
I think about change; I think about its beauty, its air of mystery
I recall those articles I used to read about how the moon only shows you one side- the near side, from Earth
I ponder on all the reasons why the human race goes through all the trouble just to see its other side
You, my love, are my Moon

I look at the stars and get lost
I try to fathom all the reasons why they exist so close, yet so far away  
I attempt to conjure all the possibilities of a night without them
I think of what it would be like to lose sight of the only thing that keeps us connected to the unknown and the unexplored, the beautiful
I look at the stars and think, YES, they are the windows to the universe
You, my love, are my Stars

I think of you, I think of me, I think of us
I think of all the infinities between you and me and the truth jampacked in just three words, in just eight letters
I love you, merely words coming from my finite being meant to transcend all that there is
We are the universe

Shekh ma skieraki anni
Until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east,
Until the rivers run dry, and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves
I will love you, I will always love you
Perhaps I always did
 Mar 2016 Sarah
PJ Poesy
Dusty universe
with sprinklings of light,
you're a magical pondering.

I wonder if you wonder back.

Then expanse hits me.
Fascination of winsomeness
in elements crashing,
forming new star clusters,
nebula unknown or yet to be
sowed, beckons an idea of
horror in mediocrity. How
should one stand out
amongst your immense glory?
Will effervescent bubbling spectrums
with spiraling arms of some
galaxy suddenly singe
any existence known to man?
Could any man guess your plan?

Earth shattering revelation,
I'm guessing there is no plan.
So I'll make my own,
and let all this revolving
and evolving
take care its' own.
 Mar 2016 Sarah
NuBlaccSoul
Till you can’t walk
Till you are sore,
Yet still smiling
from the thrilling experience,
Till you are sweating pleasure
from every pore.
Till your breath murmurs
my first name with every inhale
Till my voice is the only sound
your ears need to hear.

i would
rest my head on your breast
and listen
Enjoy the sweet tunes composed by
every noted word you harmonize

Tales of your life stories before they became entwined with mine
Narratives about your dreams
About who breaks your glassy heart
And what tickles your eye-ducts
into opening a flood of tears.

an inner world of wishes
she deserves beautiful things,
The Nubian Queen,
Sunflower Child.

~ New-Black-SoUl #NBS
inspired and dedicated to my muse - a banquet of beauty, a model of black excellence and a colourful character and a bubbly spirit. God bless her soul.
                           |
(c) 2016. Phila Dyasi. All Rights Reserved. Intellectual property of author.
 Mar 2016 Sarah
SøułSurvivør
off the roof  
like
rain  
from  
the
gutters
eaves
filling    
with
blue  
berry
ink
i    
taste    
the    
sweetness
on
the
warm  
tongue
of    
pages
before    
they

blow

away            
with                  
my                            
                      
breath                                  
.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/16/2016
 Mar 2016 Sarah
Jake muler
My room today such a fatal mess, try my hardest and clean the best
 Mar 2016 Sarah
Jake muler
The moment when your not at home, a public restroom even isn't around, your stopping off at a job site where construction workers work during the day. And big burly men take craps in porta pottys, with no toilet paper left but only left upon a ****** topped toilet seat. With the fresh stench of ****, crap, and men's beer puke and *** smell aligning the walls of the *****. I wish an inventor (poet inventor) would make poet's special pottys. I'd be his co-creator. We'd call it,
Poetry pottys!
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