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Dark n Beautiful Sep 2018
A visible spirit
She came to me and
Asked for my name
I asked her why:

Does she need my name for?
She said that I yelled at her
And if I do it once again

I would see the visible spirit of her
I have come across so many spirits,
On my job, and none could match
My mines: I stood my cool,

And I vouch never to encounter her
I would walk through the valley
Of the shadow, of death, and I would
Fear no threats, not for the likes of her,
I know her, I once was her, but
Not as ****** as her, wraith

I will not let it rest, I whisper
Under my breath, another one
On my radar, another close called
My way of doing things:
Elioinai Nov 2018
walls go up like tinted glass
Each blurs the view more than the last
the tinge of blue turns Midnight
as each panel raises up
Alas!
we’re separated
as I spread the molten soda-lime
upon the molten tin to add another
to my rows of perfect pain
I’m powerless
to end this game
I’m powerless
to stop my hiding
Rescue me with Your sledgehammer of Grace
protect me from the shards
of a silent broken heart
I’m describing the image of putting up emotional walls between me and God, made of float glass, which is a process where a soda-lime-silica glass is poured onto a molten metal to form most modern glass panes.
  The only solution to my walls is God’s overwhelming Grace. It destroys my attempts at control and sweeps away my self-harm. It’s terrifying and wonderful
Zell Oct 2018
There i saw him standing,
Peered at another angel flying by.
Others had wings of varying colors,
And hers was painted in gold.

Mine was something of lesser value,
But it's what i treasured most.
Incomparable to platinums & such,
But it made me twinkle up above.

In silence i watched over him,
Heart aching to his praises.
With a tone of great awe,
He spoke of her wings.

He was encased in diamonds,
From wings cut off of my back.
We were surrounded by embers,
But i was unable to soar.

In exchange i was bound to suffer.
I remained invisible but immortal,
In a state of death but still alive.
Much like breathing through thin air.

This shield would eventually break,
Yet i had no regrets.
For what broke me kept him alive,
Even for a short period of time.

There at the sight of him,
I felt peace despite the pain.
For as he admired her golden wings,
I learned how a human falls inlove.
© 2018 D.A. Barreras
Robert Cayne Jul 2017
I am currently a remote neural monitoring victim:

email: magis213@gmail.com

Reminiscent of a dream:
    (The mirror, the ghostly figure,
    The long, loving grass.)

    The infinity mirror, for all its fury
    To Smooth over the untamed roughess
    Of Humanity's core,
    Draws blood with shaving blades,
    And magnanimity in masquerades.

    And still the pallor of blush,
    And the discoloration of adoration,
    Are but servile to anticipation.
 
    The reflector of infinity
    The eery promise
    Reaching towards divinity
    Or a torturous, blind ****-bent path

    The blind mirror promises
    Infinity, duality
    The shattered, puerile ghost caught between
    The Ubiquitous, sterile host of magisterial illusion

    The fragmented stone beneath him
    Like a altar on a monestary
    Grounding him to the magestic illusion
    Of groundless deceit, Of Boston's conceit

    Reverse that curse! Oh arrow-bent skies
    Of intrepid, oblique, malleable time
    That bends about paths through human hearts
    To human marrows, to decay, to remorse

    The skin, like a cage like a gibbet upholding the body
    Knows not the force of infinity's grasp
    Until it overtakes him in a moment of intrepid deceit.

    In these hallowed halls ghostly particles dance,
    Ghostly bodies collide and recombine into once visible
    Charades of macabre cavemen.

    Once, always visible in the mirror, unknowable is the heart.
    In this illusory rebirth, is the ghost in the machine,
    In deed through imprints the duality of despair's duplicity
    Onto a parched heart's never-fingerprint

    Identity is unknown to the mirror (clearly)
    Vanity is unknown to the self
    How transparent the mirror makes
    Blood-meat of a man!

    Gushing listlessly, he retraces the mirror's arrows
    Onto the lines on the page.
    He retraces the chalk on the lines.
    He becomes just the vane words on the page.

    Words, and the mirror of language
    The potency lost to fragmented duplication.
    The mosaic is born,
    Unseen, to vague, blurred visions of a fragmented nation.

    But language outcasts him,
    Him tangled deeply within its moat,
    Its dubbed deeply embedded within him,
    Ah, again the duality!


    His mirror-image, the words
    Against the page, untold sillhoutes
    Of a dark, flickering, menacing display
    Of brash omens.

    The words, his craft of silence's
    Burrow, of despair's unlaundry,
    Of an empty room without
    Any charge at all.

    The words, against the words.
    But that he sees not.
    The words against the self.
    He sees not.

    Blinded by narcissism, by that mirror.
In this poem the mirror is personified as an artist. As a reader, the quest is to evaluate him/her/it (the mirror) and discover your relationship with her.
Left Foot Poet Jun 2018
a thousand brilliant lies
(Hafez, Iran 1320-1389);      (L.F.P., USA 20~21st century)

- Hafez -                                 - Left Foot Poet-

“I have a                                  if only, in my meager posses,
thousand brilliant lies,          but one lie when easy asked
For the question:                    the simplest damning of,
How are you?                          are you generally happy?

I have a                                    what is god you ask,
thousand brilliant lies.          no lies required,
For the question:                    many answers upon my face visible,
What is God?                          unsure if any worthy of believing

If you think that the               8 centuries separate us, yet
Truth can be known,              you lie; we poets - you, I, all believe

From words                             in the divinity of words

If you think that the                a thousand brilliant sparkles
Sun and the Ocean,                 when Sun loves the Ocean,
Can pass through that            each one a poem passing,
tiny opening Called                my mouth, my wide eyes,
the mouth,                                uttering a Cohen's hallelujah

O someone should                 So we gleam, mirthing in glorious
start laughing!                         and gleeful delight at ourselves
Someone should start             for your brilliant happy lies easily
wildly Laughing Now!"       
                            
                      
­                            unravel into a thousand laughs
hafez
Äŧül Apr 2015
If one day in the imaginary ideal future,
We get stuck by the rocky Konkan beach,
And not even a decent sand bed is there,
To you for resting my body I shall offer.

Waiting for the tourist bus back we talk,
Tired we are from taking the sunny walk,
The evening the sun we wish will balk,
Our neo-natal plans together we chalk.

We shall sit on the bench by the beach,
You'll then rest your head on my side,
In comforting you I will bear much pride,
About being one forever we did decide.

Then you will soon sleep in the evening,
I will watch our hands and even the ring,
Angel on my shoulder you'll be sleeping,
And me??? Oh, I'll just be calmly smiling.

The baby bump is now visible so happily,
I'll think of unique names for the baby,
Basis of our relationship is really lovely,
The healthy baby will be so very chubby.
The most cherished dream of mine in which I visualize myself and my ultimate lover.

My HP Poem #829
©Atul Kaushal
Face after face after face,
they stare out at me.
I look into eyes
full of hope and pain,
fear and courage,
longing and loneliness,

and the faces,
the voices,
the yearning
are all my own.

How are we to find
the one who is looking
for us,
with that unique blend
of terror and anticipation
that makes us
their "perfect match?"

We each want to
change our subscription
to the romance channel.
No more docu-dramas,
please!

So much history,
so many angry
silent nights
The full moon mocking,
cold and distant.

Please care.
Talk to me.
Hold my hand--
Dance with me!
Be fun!
Make me laugh--
Don't hurt me.
Please,
don't hurt me!

We smile bravely for the camera,
affecting a nonchalance
that is gone forever,
and we show our friends that
we have recovered--
the surgery was completely successful!
See?

The scar is barely visible,
true.
But tell me honestly,
can you really feel life Now,
through the scar tissue of
Then?
Written 2005
Copyright 2010 by Michael S. Simpson.
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