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TheRhymeRenegade Feb 2018
do you recall
the crunch beneath our feet
a gesture small
as we ambled down the street
dirt and gravel
I felt pebbles through my shoe
I unravelled
When I looked at you

Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face

Sunlight peaked through maple branches
in such a tranquil way
missed chances to make advances
I always hoped you'd stay
a fork in the road ahead
we went different directions
I used many different methods
to try and snag your attention
Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face

you never seemed to notice
you just stared ahead
heart bloomed as if a lotus
while I tugged at a loose thread
sometimes I'd begin to speak
but choked upon my words
so I walked next to you without a peep
and together watched the birds

Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face

it's odd and super subtle
the synchronicity
insignificant and pointless
yet means the world to me
quiet walks every afternoon
past the garage and dead leaves
we watched the starlings courtship
do you remember me?

Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face
Eva Reid Apr 2016
The freckle, in the center of the back of his right hand, is the color of autumn leaves and tree bark. On it I draw flowers of love and waves of want with kisses and touches. His right hand is the one that fits perfectly into mine, crafted and cut from the same stone to connect at the lifeline on our palms. I notice everything about his hands. The scaly red knuckles and the delicate milk skin between each finger. The dark dirt under each broken nail that never disappears. His hands are the thing that passes over my arm and sends prickles down my back. The hand with that beautiful freckle is the hand that I want to hold for the rest of my life. I love that hand. I love the boy that is attached to this hand. His eyes are deep and bright at the same time. They are the color of a sunrise- dark blue with flecks of orange and yellow. Every day I look in to those eyes and I drown. I drown in the want and the need of him. The hair on his head is the color of happiness- blonde and brown and soft and long and perfect. His lips are average and insignificant but to me they are everything I have ever wanted. They are the color of melted and spun sugar that you get at the carnival. I want to press mine to his, I want to stand on the tops of my toes to reach his lips, to taste him. I want to make constellations with my kisses from the freckles on his nose. I love those freckles but my favorite one is the one on the center of the back of his right hand. The one the color of autumn leaves and tree bark. That freckle made me fall in love with him. The day I noticed that freckle is the day I knew that I was completely, utterly in love with this boy. I was drowning in everything that is him and I was deprived in everything that is not him. But this boy is not mine. He is no ones. He walks this earth with the intent of ruling it and though I am by his side this boy King does not love me the way I love him. I know he loves me but we are platonic. And platonic people do want to press their lips together. And platonic people do not want to wake up tangled in sheets in the morning to see one another. No, platonic people love at a distance but I cannot stand that distance anymore. I want to take my sledgehammer of impatience and dynamite of want and crumble that wall. I will do anything to close that distance because I want him, I need him, I love him. But what does that matter? He is the boy King that cannot be held down and I am just a peasant girl waiting for her Prince Charming.
Duke was admiring his puppy self in the mirror,
when upon his nose a bright red spot did appear.
Turning his head first to the left, then to the right,
studying his nose and this strange red dot so bright.

His young Master Ryan had red dots across his nose.
“Freckles” Ryan had told the pup, with eyes so sad.
So if it was a freckle it was also bad.

Ryan,  his best friend was human, you see.
Duke was a puppy, one day a dog to be.
Humans sometimes got freckles.
Dogs sometimes got fleas.

He remembered another time,
When he had found a flea.
That was so long ago.
But not like this one, that
in the light seemed to glow.

Maybe if he barked, it would go away.
“ WOOF!” He said, and still it stayed.
Scared, his master Ryan he went to find.
lying his head in Ryan’s lap, he whined.

Ryan looked at his pup and laughed with glee,
a the red spot on his puppy’s nose he did see.
Duke looked up and was surprised to see,
that Ryan had hundreds of the same red fleas.

In the room Ryan’s Mother came,      
“So this is where my glitter went” She exclaimed.
Ryan laughed at his Mom and Duke was relieved.
This strange red spot that had made him so bitter,
was not a freckle or a flea, but only red glitter.

Kathleen Kohl/Levinski
For My Grandson Ryan
Al  Jun 2014
Al Jun 2014
i love the freckle on your eye
that's why i like to sigh
cause when i do
you look
down at your shoe,
close your eyes,
and ask why?
i say
so you close your eyes
and i can see your little freckle
i love so much
this one *****
but it's for you and your little freckle.
i love you
Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter

the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile

they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world

they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write  
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you

but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
beside you.

gee  Jan 2015
gee Jan 2015
termites crawl in my stomach; you
are my disarray, o soft and golden -

take the curves of my feet, the
freckle on my lip, and

hang me on your wall, you
compel my speechlessness.

i'll keep guessing, guessing
and unguessing.

i am up all night over this.
Victoria Garcia Apr 2015
You should be here with me
My heart is as empty as the side of the bed that you used to sleep on
And my life's crashing harder than the waves on the shore like when you first kissed me
And I'm falling harder and faster into loneliness than I was when I fell for you
And I know there's no stopping this
But you should be next to me
Kissing each freckle on my arm and tracing "I love you" into my palm because each letter deserved it's own recognition for it made up a larger picture
And you should be next to me
With my head leaning onto the very shoulder I spent entire nights crying into
You should be beside me
But I guess this was all besides the point
And now you're next in line for a new girl
I just wish you would give me a next chance
Randi G Dec 2014
You told me that you have
Over one million hair follicles
And I believe you.
I do.
But, if it’s okay, I’ve never counted
To one million before.
I heard it takes a really long time,
But after I count all of the spots
The hair grows out of you,
I want to count all your freckles
And connect them like constellations.
You’re just like the universe to me
And each freckle is a star.
There are lots of stars we can’t
See with the naked eye,
But I want to find those too.
If that’s okay.
zebra  Feb 2019
The Scarlet Woman
zebra Feb 2019
scarlet haught
queen of mirth
dog ****
drooling jewelry red splits
pulled by a chariot  
of six hundred million house cats
dissembling for freaky insertions
of scarlet bud flowers uterine tube

breath of spit
while ballet toes kiss fingers and tongues
glazing thickly tides sweat
bamming greased ****

Christ *****
"once upon a never more"
bi-sexed up
**** twitch glistening holes
drizzle fish
in red tents overturned
for fabulous *******
and angelic *****'s
flirty dance the come **** me  

her throat a never ending squealed gullet
sublime Madonna of Oor
bare thighed and pulpy spread
scissor strokes and stride
wagging tongue for rosy oleo sticks
and **** pastry rectums pulled tight
in lop sided temples of split flesh

another ambulance to the emergency **** ward
in a dreamland of leggy nurses

sacred fig of Freyja
Goddess to **** toys
and pretty pretty who go that way
hocus opus poke and stir
freckle face **** mouth
a lapping menagerie

i gird my ***** and follow her
into a cologned room; of dark rim box butter
***** yelping for
a slow grind in a belly of clams

red and velvet pageant
she nests in the heart
a midwife disturbia
to pregnant lust
being pushed down and worked up
till loosened in thick ****
and black whip afterbirth
like flowers of curves and blood

her banquet; a platter of wet orifice
trilling vibratos ******
and anxious kisses crawling through her mouth
like fallen angels flying
dire sister of knock out *******
pleading goth nuns for lesbian heated
Satan loving veiled Christian crotch
and a thousand delicious gaped
******* **** poundings
and mouth ***** **** plunge

crucifix of wrack and *****
****** and beaten senseless
instructions from the  book of night
of **** and spite
written by
Abrahams primitive nations
arms of the cross she is nailed to
sweet ***** waifs beaten dead
in a tillage of brokenness

mans club
shore of incinerated witches and tortured justice
shut up when your talkin to me
clan of honor
duo troupe
almanac of hell
Tom Leveille Sep 2016
okay so i’m beginning to believe i was born asleep and still haven’t woken up, or caught in a day dream where my name is the answer to all your security questions. okay. a thousand years of wondering and all i can come up with is that you fell in love with me at a picnic in my imagination. the lemonade we always talk about swimming in sugar and tiny handmade sandwiches from my kitchen, your favorite, extra pickle. don’t forget about the pickles. of course the clouds march in stomping out the sunshine, of course. it was dark and there was lightning so much lightning. don’t be scared just now darling don’t be scared. in the middle of the night we only talk about your version of the story. how i’d ask you to stay, asking you to tell me what’s real asking you with my hands asking you with maps, a country called please listen to me, you should know by now that it is an island too far to sail to according to you. i know i know, who dared name an ocean lonely when all the ships are sinking. we can go back we can turn around where the sky is the gentlest shade lavender, we can go back and have a conversation that has never happened before. when everything is the color of day old bruises i won’t let you down. i promise when i get home i will count every freckle every one. when i get home can we open one of those mason jars full of fresh air because i can’t breathe. i remember that day, although i pretend it was more recent than it was. you were there in a swell of green grass in a dress that makes me blush, and there i was blushing. i’m not sure how i made it out alive, skipping the part in the song where you, long gone come busting through a doorway, through the well air conditioned living room and and across the kitchen tile, to the refrigerator where just like in elementary school, my fourth grade heart wrote all your favorite things on flash cards in the blackest magic marker so i could memorize the things that made you happiest. and you turning around in slow motion to see my face, or where my face should be, the only expression i can make anymore, realizing that you realized that i only ever wanted to be something that made you happy. suddenly you’re tired, and i’m tired too, goodnight goodnight, i’m falling asleep because it’s the only thing that doesn’t burn. i’m falling asleep to go back again. everything glitches and i’m underneath your perfect teeth. you say “i would never hurt you” and i say “just like that?” and the layer starts over again, always back to the moment i asked you in my bravest of voices if i could hold your hand. you probably don’t remember that moment, or maybe you do but don’t particularly share the same sentiment over its importance. you see, i’m always fine until the part where i have to say it out loud, and then time stops. i have always wanted to tell you that something happened inside me that night and now i’m not the same me as i was before. so if you ever cross a bridge. if you ever get my voicemail, if you need me, i’ll be sketching up the dramatic parts in my head and they’ll happen just the way i imagined just you wait you wait. the last scene the very last one, the bottom layer, knee deep in mud knee deep in i told you so, you say “i would never hurt you” and instead of saying “just like that” i reach up to kiss you and the room evaporates. so if you want lemonade and bedtime stories, if i can make a believer out of you, if you want bucketfuls of november if you want grace if you want the courage it takes to ask for grace, you’re over the train tracks you’re almost home you’re almost there. what else can you say besides “okay pumpkin okay sweetheart, in my head everything was beautiful" the doorway now filled with people who send you birthday cards saying welcome back welcome home we’ve missed you, hello. hello. the time spent waiting, chorus of rain, i only invited you over so we could make perfect sense. i only gave my hands away because you didn’t want them anymore. and days later a man with a shark tooth necklace asked if i was okay and i lost it i just lost it. all the little red bricks with their little names carved into them, how they don’t feel comfortable under your feet, how there were hundreds of flowers but somehow we took a picture of the same one the very same one, and how we can’t talk about things like that anymore, how i was sitting on a bench and i didn’t hear you call my name, shaking hands on accident with your parents hello sir hello mam, your daughter is my favorite ghost.
my book "down with the ship" is availible for purchase at /

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