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aa Nov 2020
my perfect love

My perfect love is 5’10 and tall, lovely but not to lovely, quiet but loud, and graceful but not too refined.

They need to be 5’10 or taller to catch me when I fall from the unrequited love cloud that broke under the pressure of vulnerabilities that weighed it down. They need to be tall so that they can catch me when my molten wings flee my body and the ocean holds her hands out to me and attempts to drown my cries with soothing waves. They need to be tall enough to wrap their arms around my waist so that they can bring me down to earth again after I got lost swimming through the galaxy trying to piece together the orbit.

They need to be lovely so they can be my world when the world is cracking under the noxious fumes of its societal fuckery.
They need to be lovely so they can distract me from death, whose hands will dangle over my shoulder and rest her ***** upon my ******* and whisper sweet fulminations while wiping my tears with her pungent mantle. They need to be lovely so that I can pretend love exists and I can pretend that love is not made up by those who found happiness in people they’ve sparked with and not AIs that attempt to take over the world.

They need to be withdrawn because silence fills the gap in my heart; it brings serene happiness and languid joy into my full body and teems with bright flares of boorishness. They need to be loud when the silence gets thunderous and chokes me into compliance; they need to be loud when the world stops rotating. The ghost of the people before me try to make my life theirs, when they fill it with melancholy my lover shall be able to conquer it when they cast hell upon those around me, my lover should draw their ****** sword and pierce them with the glory they’ve held.

They need to be graceful, because the world needs grace, they need to dance around the cracks in my person, and jeté around the deformity of my mental health. They need to be dignified, so that at least one of us hold dignity in the relationship, because I, as I am, have been incapable of keeping my dignity to the light of acceptance since my birth, they need to be graceful because when I am tripping over my hubris and falling over my obtuse declarations. They can save me from the humiliation that is my existence and hide me from the mockery that has carried on through my life like a shadow.

They need to be everything I am not so I can finally be at peace knowing that there is someone for me, that’ll love and accept me, that’ll indulge me and dote when my unachievable expectations get the best of me and my world moves on without me. They need to be able to do the improbable and defy the odds. They need to be able to be idyllic and transcendental because that is what they’re here for. they need to be my perfect lover and not leave me for another when this “perfect” becomes defective and broken. They need not forget me and my existence just the surface deficiencies.

They need to be my world as I am theirs, obsessed and their only fixation is me. They need to be nonsensical, so I could make up excuses as to why my lungs fill with lead when I talk about love.

My perfect love. My perfect love is mine.  My perfect love is a lie.
MSNewhadney Nov 2020
Voidward, Sindark, starknell, Seraphim
Wow! Weird words woven in each other
Neither librarian nor dictionary can help
To figure them out, you have to ask him
All against Imagist instructions
- Where is common language? –
Poem needs to alter its definitions!
Will intellect select help?
Can we get out of the vague cage?
Look! One of the words shaken
Burden of ambiguity, taken
Scorpions shout: send me an angel!
Calm down singer! I said
Look the last word, it’s indeed an angel!
Coming down from heaven with a mantel red
No one can’t help watching, even dead
This is Seraphim! Don’t hesitate to ask him!
Said player of Being wearing ****** red
But I extremely fear of him
It may be a devil in disguise
Like a child I take refuge in ***** of my mom, kim
Although it’s against what done by all other guys
1- This poem was inspired by Nightscape composed by James Joyce in 1915.
2- A seraph is a type of celestial or heavenly being originating in Ancient Judaism. The term plays a role in subsequent Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.[3] The singular "seraph" is a back-formation from the Hebrew plural-form "seraphim", whereas in Hebrew the singular is "saraph".[4]
3- Scorpions are a German heavy metal band formed in 1964 in Hanover by Rudolf Schenker.[ and “send me
Nica Monet Aug 2020
I've fallen
fallen off from the perfect image framed of me
for me to embody a perfect daughter
daughter that's no longer me

I was one of the nicest
I was one of the best
Fell off my high chair, can I just lay here and rest?
It feels as if I have to live up
to the things I no longer want
to the expectations not of my own
but of the people that dares to throw me off my throne

The fire and desire to break away grows in me
Yet I'm stuck inside a cell where they claim I'm free
As I stand still in the same root like an old tree
I envy the leaves of life falling when it felt right to flee

I'm no angel, I'm no devil
But in this earth,
to look after thyself is seen as a deed of evil
Self-worth constantly shattered
and we ask why people lack the effort?
the effort to be and stay true to ourselves are enough of a riddle
I'm not the same as I used to be, I'm no longer the little me.
Internal conflict within me in the environment that disguises itself as a safe haven to be me. I'm living in a small *** not for a big tree.
Hannah Christina Jun 2020
“A veil!” someone shouted.  I remember the cry.  Agreement surged from gasping elders and wide-eyed youths alike.  The first man to move snatched a scarf from his startled daughter and threw it at me to wrap over your head.  He couldn’t imagine touching you himself.

We had to find a veil to cover your shining face.  We couldn’t have the people blinded.  Radiation, of course, must be contained.  We didn’t have anyone infected.  It stuck to your forehead at first, your sweat thick like the dew the cold morning after a thunderstorm.  Wrinkles whiskered as your face strained into expressions few mortals have had.

That mountain was saturated in every form of electromagnetic radiation and energies unknown. It bludgeons the heart.  Melts the eyes.  The people could not bear the sight of anyone who had come so close to such a power.  I think their hearts need a good bludgeoning.

The wind streaked your hair for a micro-eternity.  It retained the swept-up form for nearly an hour, though no one could tell once you put on the veil.  Have you touched it to see if it is still cold?

Your fingers—what was on them?  Smoke, or earth?  Melted stone?  Incinerated atmosphere? Pure carbon, black as the abyss and under nearly enough pressure to crystalize into diamonds rarer than hope? When you grabbed my arm with those fingers, I nearly screamed.  You left black marks everywhere.

What does the veil cover now?  It's edges are no longer like the cracks beneath Heaven's doors.  What is it you wish to hide?  Isn’t it time for this mask to be cleft by a seraph's sword?
This is one of my favorite things I've ever written.  I hope it's enjoyable to read as it was to write.  I started scribbling down lines for an exercise in poetry class, modified it into an assignment, and edited it a whole bunch.  I'm finally getting around to posting it now, but I'm too afraid to actually read it again.  I don't want to start doubting it and I don't want to work on it any more.
chitragupta Mar 2020
To judge, to write
to scribble in the daylight
and crumple at midnight
To account for placid instincts
with the strength of an eagle's sight
The blue ink, the golden pen,
and the satchel white
That is all my birth-right

Belated world poetry day. Mash up chitragupta and a poet. I wanted to put this out sooner but just got caught up in a lot of work from home. Stay safe, everyone.
Rochelle Foles Mar 2020

 ­                               I
                                ­  N

our sitch
                   at the moment
                   is quite the same

unless we are crying
                     WOLF! WOLF!

              thank u
               miss info
                  donny j

    without whom
     we wouldn’t
                                     be standing
                                      under umbrellas
          with baren spines
           as the thunderous
                      angry skies
           fully open upon us

Presidential now, are we?
           Yoda would posit
To the game, late you are #45

as wall street is

               shelter in place

               social animals that we are

     self isolate
     worry     catastrophize    ignore
     attempts to hold on

                   reach out to comfort
                                   to be comforted

get out your cards
throw the i ching
           the runes
program & grid your crystals

wash your hands
cover your mouth
maintain isolation
                social distance
daren’t cough

try not to breathe

                  thru all this
                   cling to sanity

         cuz baby

             looks like we just

                     stepped on the carousel
i rate write social commentary, but i joined in@amycuddy’s #allwritetogether isolation writing hour one day this week and after a year+ writers block scribbled this rough first draft.
absolutely welcome any instructive criticisms and ideas.  i’m totally out of my realm here.
thanks so much for reading!
Mike A Eyslee Mar 2020
I tattered your Yellow Wallpaper,
And trenched along your Groves.
To find that little special place,
Creeping amidst your Prose.

I scouted your Lands in search,
For what I found most dear.
But frankly I never found much,
That Gem was always there.

So as I walk my fickled Wood,
I realized something good.
I really never understood,
And I never really could.

Light Eddies And Venerable Elm,
Meant Everything.
acrostics are always amazing. allusion to "The Yellow Wallpaper," by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.
Yash Jan 2020
My heart beating alone in a Ghosttown, dhak dhak
The ringing phone in an empty house, ring ring
The dripping of water in an abandoned home, drip drop
The soft breeze rustling the curtains in an isolated place, swoosh.

My soul in a Ghosttown, cry.
Sylvia in her kitchen, cut.
Whitney in her bathtub, drug.
Lucy Jordan in her house, laugh.

My love in a Ghosttown
Hades in Tartarus
Hestia at the Hearth
Kitty Genovese in New York.

Adam and Eve in Eden.
Zeus and Hera at Olympus.
Marilyn and John in the White house.
A Ball, A Ballad, A Masquerade.

A Dove in Normandy.
An Olive branch in Kashmir.
A communist in America in 1940.
Dreamers & Idealists in existence.

Mahatma Gandhi in 1948.
John F. Kennedy in 1963.
Martin Luther King Jr. in 1968.
John Lennon in 1980.

I have a dream that one day
we need men who can dream
where there is love, there if life.

A heart beating
beats of isolation.
A soul weeping
the tears of loneliness.

My Soul
My Love
My Heart
all in a Ghosttown.
This poem is ultimately about chronic and deep isolation and loneliness. A poem about the deprivation and lack of love from the person.
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