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Baylee  Mar 2016
Baylee Mar 2016
When you hold a flame to an unlit wick
It takes an unbearably long time to catch.
The wick is pretty and new,
Covered from top to bottom
In a waxy coating of armour
That keeps it safe longer.

When you hold a flame to a previously lit wick
It catches fire within a few seconds of exposure.
The wick isn't so new anymore,
It's walls have been burned down
It's armour is gone and the
Beaten up wick is vulnerable.
Joshua Neill Jun 2014
My eyes drink in this beauty, this horrible beauty, its way to much, oh to much. I think I'm going blind. All I've wanted was trust and caring, but I swear that I didn't get it didn't get yours. Am i just not enough, in your eyes.

Here we are, standing face to face, those **** eyes burning holes into my memory. Is all my sorrow, all my heart ache not enough, to feed your hunger.

We went though hell and high water, but you're the one that killed it, the wick of the candle burned all the way down. So get away. Get the hell away from me.

I am the victim, I am the prey, I am the victim, you better pray. I'm done wasting time trying to stand by your side.

You left me with all my desire, break me free. Wipe that smile from you ******* face, I'm done being toyed with, wipe that grin of your **** face. I'm ******* done.
CK Baker Oct 2017
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park

combine shavings
in crack rust brown
scissors chips
fall to the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts)
give thanks

joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle the fore-wind
and goblins
pull at the seeds

wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
blood rush churns
in a chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound

jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball park empty
with pennants past

barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch

brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from timber tops
3 wick candles
set the dinner place

shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return ~
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
Zoe Green  Dec 2014
Our Candle
Zoe Green Dec 2014
I don’t always know what you think of our love
Or if I’ll ever learn
But I picture a two wick candle
set out to burn

I don’t know the depth of the wax

Or who’s wick will be the longest to last

All I see is the flame
So untamed
The light of the two wicks look one in the very same

The scent of everything
Happy and sad
Thoughts said and unsaid

I would turn my back to the sun
Watch our candle for eternity as my new one

I don’t know about you
But as long as I see our
Wicks in your eyes
It will always be you
I come to
It's just another cheesy, love poem.
There was an old person of Wick,
Who said, 'Tick-a-Tick, Tick-a-Tick;
Chickabee, Chickabaw,'
And he said nothing more,
That laconic old person of Wick.
Left Foot Poet May 2015
for Tascha

deep in the pond of unhappy, swimming,
drowning the next contemporaneous
depression thought quickly swallowed,
desperation in quick glances everywhere,
dawn is no consolation but just another
daily drawing tighter of twine cutting

dear god, commences every thought,
delayed answers have yet to arrive,
**** the deity's non-responsivness,
dare not say out loud lest,
deserved fates be worse, be realized,
didn't know? how can that be?
disguiser par excellent, I am the original

But I never think about

death or dying, for that would be
defeat finale, a statute to, a status of none, a
destiny some wick spark, still insists can be

differed always,
diffidently, but grasping yet at the
double entendre that is my
dark vision of a future already past

May 2015
may 2015, back when I could write...
Melting, dripping with time passing,
Wick still clashing.
Ashen, waxen,
Flame un-passion.

Holding candleholder handles,
Snuffing candles,
Watch smoke-shadows
Dance to who-knows.

Out! Out! like the light that it is,
But witness yet
Grey pirouette's
Dark banishment.
Chalsey Wilder  Sep 2014
Chalsey Wilder Sep 2014
Please be the wick to my flame
Or I just might burn out in shame
Please be the passion of my fire
Or my poetry might make me a liar
Please be my ink and paper
Or my fire just might waver
Please become part of my solace
And I'll be your palace
And you'll be the wick to my flame
Not to burn out in shame
But to make a fire of eternal oneness
I am quite terrible at rhyming .-.
Daniel Magner  Dec 2013
Daniel Magner Dec 2013
Watching the candle burn
head filled with urns
dead friends and dead thoughts
let the wick destroy itself
till there's nothing left to tell
Crisped and turned to dust
my life is the wick
and if I must
I'll let it consume
to the very end
Daniel Magner 2013
Amanda Dagnall Nov 2012
Its the flame that dies
which is reckless to hearts,
an aching burn that awaits peaceful sleep.

But eyes cannot shut
and hearts cannot heal
as the flame no longer flickers.

When did that familiar burn leave?
When betrayal became its motive;
to abandon its wick of sturdy compassion
for something of foreign smoke.

And forever shall that flame live in guilt
as its sturdy wick shall falter;
and fall into a dark abyss
of a light without its flicker.

That scented aroma that once was sweet
is now bitter and choked forever.
The foreign smoke overcomes all light
and pollutes the scented quiver.

Yet soon that smoke shall be blown!
As the wick begins to rise;
and that feeble flame shall light again
to banish foreign cries;

"In hope I raise my tarnished light
against your betrayal and pain
and soon I shall burn
like my sister the sun
and never stray again!"

Eyes may shut
Hearts may heal.

My eyes will shut
Our hearts might heal.
Bruised Orange Mar 2015
You are not my children,
tender as you are.
You are not my lover,
though you cause my heart to yearn.
You are not my sun,
or my moon,
or my star.

I set you on this rock;
you will not make me burn.

You are simply sticks,
arranged upon the pyre.
You are clever tricks,
though you flaunt my clear desire.
You are not the match,
or the wick,
or the fire.

I set you on this rock;
To see what might transpire.

You will never be a pheasant's egg to be coddled.
You are only this: a calf led to the slaughter.
A poem addressed to my poems, in the midst of the dreaded poetry workshop, where my lovelies are torn to shreds.  An attempt to maintain distance, for the sake of learning.  It's hard.

— The End —