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wmv Sep 5
From a Galeano-style piece titled "DISCOVERY":

He can see himself standing there, happier than he is right now. He can see himself with everyone else together, laughing and enjoying life.  But he knows, “That isn’t me”. At least, not yet. But he knows he can choose to be that person who knows who they are. He knows he will discover who he is.

He can see himself, just beyond the veil.

But he won’t cross it. Not until he’s sure it’s himself he’s looking at.
a piece written for an activity in my freshman year english class. meant to emulate the style galeano used in book of embraces.

dated october 20, 2015

roast me fam
Broadsky Aug 8
Maybe if I could find pills that give me the same effect  you do when you  say “baby” I’d be okay.

you got your college acceptance letter today and I’m so proud, but the minute you sent me that photo my chest collapsed.

I just want you to be happy even though most of me knows you’d be happier else where, I grasp all the time I can get with you like it’s special tokens that will give me life.

I told your mother I loved you and she smiled, she told me she thought i was a good person and that I would be fine in the world; I think she knows you’re going to leave me soon.

my skin crawls, my veins shake, and my stomach flips when I think of the inevitable dust storm that comes every year, hiding my happiness in a blanket of opaque grey, leaving me coughing in the bathroom trying to catch my breath as I mutter through my broken sobs “you’re okay”

but I won’t  be okay

because there isn’t anything like watching you live, getting a second older.

there isn’t anything like feeling you move your face from side to side so you can get deeper in my neck

there isn’t anything like touching your skin, or tasting your tongue, and I’m afraid I’ll never forget your name.
April 15th, 2015
M e l l o Jul 6
Maybe I should
keep it and bury
it down
in the deepest
part of my soul
and let time
decompose
my feelings
for you
slowly
I wrote this last 2015. 2015 it was the darkest year of my life.
HeWhoExplores Dec 2018
Nihility

The place where all but anything occurs.
Where order and disorder have no meaning.
Where dreams are chased but left unattended.
Where solace is never found, and with all the right reasons.
Where pride is hindered, hurt and paraded with hate.

Nihility
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2015
Time: 7:30 pm
Temp.: 68F

~~~
overlooking the runways,
festooned by
accidental heavenly whimsy,
or humanistic whimsical inten-sity,
all the the planes and trucks are flashing
electrifying speckles, of eclectically synced
red and green

it is not my holiday,
but no matter,
like every New Yorker this day,
I am happily celebrating its
double U,
unique, unusual

"record breaking warmth"

yes, the Fahrenheit is outtasight, and by the dawn of
early eve~night,
the Centigrade is spiraling in reverse retrograde,
as the temp eases on down, just below seventy degrees,
on this dewinterized twenty fourth day of
December, two nought and fifteen

traffic is light, the terminal, an unbusy, slim shadow of itself,
the maddening crowds gone, now all are among
the dearly departed and either/or, the newly arrived

so composition of the observational, brings cheer and smiles to my faith,
(I mean my face),
the crowning quietude of clear skies, the absence of street smart
city  bustle and hustle,
the languid atmosphere at the gates,
(where seldom is heard an encouraging word)#
makes me reconsider the true meaning of
the au courant phraseology of this day

"record breaking warmth"

for there is indeed
a calm invisible warmth suffusing all tonite,
chests glowing from fireplaces within,
contentment chamber containers in both hearth and heart,
and I am thinking
miracle,
about all the human warmth
on this celebrated evening,
holy night

indeed,
it is breaking records of
recorded human fusion,
the united commonality of millions warming
his and her stories world-over,
that your personal poet is
warming to record
# but not tonight, as I am
unbelievably,
upgraded!
Stephanie Jul 2018
A simple stroke stemming from a heart-planted seed
Ice white and sky blue freezing every generated thought to one with its chills
Intertwining shades of brown fuchsia splattered to a black space - manifesting into dreams
Blue, yellow, and purple churning with hydrochloric acid forming butterflies
Pulse shooting through into the darkened mesosphere darkening fuchsia's mark
Darkened fuchsia turned deep red lustful passion
An unfathomable crescendo beading sweat with final strikes
Reaching the thermosphere - revealing an exclusive sight of our aurora
It hangs in the gallery "Of Our True Selves"
The finish product is almost disappointing

+ crowned saint
*circa 2015
stumbled upon this poem the other day
Terry Collett Apr 2018
Mindfulness
may help you
you told me

in that room
at the old
hospital.

Be aware
of the now
and each part

of yourself
in that now.
And I mused

back to her
how that night
under moon

and bright stars
we first kissed
hugging close

her body
close to mine
and I sensed

each aspect
of her there.
Moonlight there

on her hair
one brown eye
in shadow

the other
gazing out
on to me

like a lamp
lighting up
a darkness

within me
and her arms
wrapped round me

and my arms
drew her near
one hand felt

the outline
of her bra
the other

the pantyline
through her
coat and skirt.

Mindfulness
you told me
often helps

with people's
depression.
And I guessed

thinking of
her again
I got that

impression.
amber Mar 2018
I pushed you away.
You hurt me first,
I ran.
You hurt me again,
That time worse.
You knocked my legs out,
From under me.
Stop,
You're winning.
You always have been,
Can't you see?
Jenny Gordon Mar 2018
...'non'd solace broken me, no lover 'round to give a hoot.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMXIII)


Me.  Say t'invoke the violets' wonted tale
As if twould be what my soul'd cherish hence
To vaunted heights, aye breathless for intents
Could I but revel in that auld detail
Whose white and purple-striped wee faces' scale
Of sorrow drew me ere I could from thence
Acknowledge th'import's by all counts pretense.
Yea, trounce my songs, and whither to avail?
Should I don overshoes and search as twere
The forest's muddy trails like pilgrims who
Own heavn on earth, we'll call it far too poor.
My sonnets three years 'go belie what'd woo,
Cuz I ****** all joys where Death 'gan to tour,
And wrote to whom is not, that:  I need you.

14Mar18b
Yo.
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