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Khoi-San Feb 13
Cloaked wings fuel feeds

Tongue loaded flint locked bullets

Eve stuck to her leaf
Stick to your instincts you probably right
his fingers traced every angle of her body
like a mathmatician conjecturing a new formula
slowly yet profoundly
Andrew Rueter  Jun 2017
Andrew Rueter Jun 2017
I need to change the circles I'm in
Because I fell into the trapezoid
Of trying to fit a square peg in a round hole
Making people believe I was a square
When I was really a rectangle
You just had to look at me from the right angles

The shape of things now
Is me looking at you from the wrong angles
You're pretty hot
When you turn away from me your hotness doubles
I think my Pompeii worm could survive the temperatures
But if you were to turn back around
No creature could survive

The paradox of the parabola in my pants
Will never be solved
It's not your math problem
We're just two points on this rotating sphere
Where time is a straight line
And our's is a segment

I wish I understood the formula
So I could predict the outcome
But there are too many variables
Leaving my head spinning in circles
And myself running in circles
Meant to be avoided
Because within those circles are triangular trials
Where two points create a perfect line
And a third point ruins that

As points are added to the population
Lines only get larger
Like the welfare line
Mammoth shapes grow wider and more complex
Like the Pentagon
Lines become more easily crossed
Angles more easily tangled
And my freezing point becomes my boiling point
While I wish for a world more two-dimensional
Because once I consider depth
I realize I could never measure up to my ruler
Meredith Ann  Jan 17
Meredith Ann Jan 17
She's high fashion on a budget,
capturing the world from her own angles.
Watercolor stains on anything she touches,
but vibrancy is not for her.

Her voice is the texture of heavy-duty paper,
and something about her seems littered in floral,
But she is too industrial for that to make sense,
as the city breaths her in and out.
nojak  Feb 2017
nojak Feb 2017
he spins round
and he is rough
he picks up
by the scruff

collection of power
rough edges and angles
complex network
of wills entangled

to a new baby's sigh
to a little girl
he is no good friend
not the world

he roams until pitch
just like me
wonder which
of us is free
journal scribble; in which the world is a structure and not a glorified mother but is also just a non-sentient dirt being covered in snakes
DivineDao  Mar 2016
Fado liberty
DivineDao Mar 2016
Fado fado fado fado
Golden seams
Candle dreams
Rose wine in vintage glasses
Cherry wood tables and sweet
Fado fado fado queens
Kings on the strumming strings
White dry fishnets in the cosy rooms
Shells and seastars pinned ups
Decorate visitors visions
Wonderfully sang
The violin her first lover
We enjoy the gentility
Fandango Fandango
I've got a Venusian time
Planetary movement falango
Five coned angles spread
One angel drawn in a round chart
Pentagram watches over me
This star follows even
Our dreams of Lisboa
coração de um momento
Fine destined liberty
A bit of beautiful fado. Beautiful organic music
one feels deeply within. My poem speaks also about a precious yearning to visit a nostalgic and colourful city of Lisboa again. And about a natal chart of mine where one of the main geometry shapes emerges as a pentagonal star formed by all connecting aspects. I now humbly wish upon my star to take me and my darling on travels far. It ain't nothing greater then a feeling of total freedom. Travelling. Seeing beautiful countries, meeting nice people, tasting different cousine and listening to amazing ethnicity music every land has to offer ... Ahhh ... gorgeous days ! :):)
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