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Leal Knowone Dec 2019
A thinly veiled disguise
Is really what you want on their mind
So they never see the wall you hide behind
The ones put up in your mind.
A heart like an open book riddled with redactions
Your actions an abstraction
Longing to forget the obstructions you encounter and create.
Laokos Aug 2019
torn free from the ground of
pregnant ideas and withered
internal dialogues.

aloof in the face of destiny, crying
for refuge among the disowned,
the dismembered, the disinterested.  i
alone exist in the maelstrom of abstraction
crafted painstakingly through my ages
and seasons.

a mind as sharp as mine
to raise me without feathers
and place me
among the mulch.

i blanket my canvas with
woes and worries alike, neglecting
the foul-mouthed begotten son
arranged among the pillars left standing.

crooked trees and iced stone to
vibrate
through these ears of clay.  

i miss the days of youthful
ignorance and exuberant hope shot at my
future like a cannon of pride
and confidence.  

today the final summer flowers exhale
notes of sweet becoming, ever mingling
with the hum of nature's eternal embrace.  
the bodies celestial in ambiguity spin and
swirl in irrevocable sincerity.  from rise to
fall, through night and naught, the world
recurs again to weave itself anew.
Gabriel burnS Mar 2019
What leaves won’t leave you
What’s rooted holds you
What flies sees you exposed
What lies stays a child
What dries up won’t remain dry
What’s come to pass shall roll again
Old songs don’t go when new ones play
Things drip and flood, dance out their pace
A snaking river knows its way
No tongue to speak or eyes to see
This realm spins to realign
So every sunbeam finds its tree

*   *   *

Което те напуска, няма да те пусне
Което корени е пуснало, държи те
Което лети, те вижда открит
Което лъже, дете си остава
Което пресъхва, няма сухо да остане
Което е минало, пак ще се търколи
Не изчезват старите песни пред новите
Неща капят, заливат, танцуват си темпото
Лъкатушеща река пътя си знае
Без език да говори и очи да види
Тази шир се върти до подреждане
За да може всеки лъч да намери дървото си
Translated my own poem from Bulgarian, my native language...
Gabriel burnS Jan 2019
It’s obvious why we tend to become stuck on the details
And I mean “when”
It’s no surprise it’s through the surface
That we explain what can’t be seen
Yet can be eyed by heightened senses
The softest to know, the hardest to describe
It’s not a place, that knowledge, but “a” time
sink to resurface
Alok K Panda Dec 2018
I see the stars,
hot and fiery,
holiness looks from afar,
beauty flowing in theory;

the darkness rolls its covers,
spreading afterthought,
the abstract talking in shivers,
as it takes the onslaught;

then the beauty rolls high,
starry lights descend nourishing the abstract;
the moonlit highway turns apple pie,
soothing the soul with beauty's pact;
Madison Oct 2018
Sometimes, it looks like lenience.

Small passes for big faux pas.


Many believe that it's absolution

Locking themselves in boxes periodically

To cry out, bleeding painful catharsis.


Some sneak it in with charity

Use compassion as a puppet in their mercy show

Throw underhanded in the name of grace.


Some offer it when they're bruised and broken

Spit out blood, then turn the other cheek.

Others give it away with full bellies and warm hands

Either out of purity

Or some nefarious need, pushed down deep.


And I wonder and wander all the while

For I am the fool

Who begs to receive

But can not give.
A prompt from my 'Write This Poem' book. Any guesses what 'it' is?
May Elizabeth Jul 2018
You pushed.
You pushed me too far.
Too far I fell.
I fell down the hill.
The hill you built,
And then I stop.
I stop rolling and
I stop crying.
It's dark.

But I am safe here,
Comfortable in the ditch,
Comfortable in the rut
That you placed me in.
One big eye watching me.
One force keeping me
From the unknown.
One push and I roll down.
I roll down into dark oblivion
And absolute uncertainty.
But one push and you’re
Gone.
I literally wrote this an hour ago. I based it on Georgia O'Keeffe's painting "Black Abstraction." I went to an exhibit at the Ashmolean Museum earlier and was given the prompt and wrote the poem based on her painting.
Timothy hill Aug 2017
Her and his hands cake for noon.
They love the chalk taste of spoils.
From, when did he ask for a tree.
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