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My mind can not express my amazement of your beauty, the way you break me down to my simplest parts and make me new with feelings of love. The small magical minutes in between memories I once only thought old books and dreams were made of
Finding thing that are shocking to an old mind, realizing my time is short but my love is deeply engaged, I owning only sadness will be made when I am not her to draw her near.
Bhill Jun 10
Sitting here in total amazement
I am stunned by the beauty of her soul
What is it about her
How could she have stolen my heart

I’m lucky

Brian Hill - 2019#140
Are you lucky?
What happens when the weather around you doesn’t feel the same around the time it should
What happens when you don’t do things in the best times you thought you could
So much procrastination I could write a book about a book with out missing a single hook
What happens when the economy doesn’t fulfill how it should and they lied to us about everything we could
He won’t let that happen cause in my bible god is stronger than he should
God showers happiness in reciprocated perspective of person
Megan Edwards Feb 28
The sparkles of life
Trickle with trepidation.
Ripples ricoshade from one to side to another;
As life seems to stop.

Smoothly dancing along the top,
Gliding like a kite across the surface.
Winding, wildly along the curves; taunting Zeus of his power.

The birds call out far and wide
They communicate with the sea.
They understand him
And they understand what he needs.
This one is written in more of a Ted Hughes style. This is my first time getting inspiration from  materialistic objects. Hope you enjoy **
Rain Jan 20
"Do you ever wonder if a painter ever tires of his colors?"

Does a painter ever tire of his colors?

Well, here is what I consider;
Does a bird ever tire to sing?
Does an instrument ever tire of its tune?
Indeed, does a poet ever tire of his words?

I, though I am surely no expert, say that it is not so
For as a bird may sing a hundred songs yet speak no lyrics,
As the instrument may contain a thousand songs therein, whilst keeping its tunes the same,
As a poet may conceive of an abundance of lyrical wonders, poems so sad or sweet to make a grown man weep, but only the order of the words he uses may change

As all of this is so, I say this:
A painter may yet tire of his colors, but all artists are only given so much
So if a painter and a creator he truly is,
They shall surely find again a new way to use that which they were gifted
For colors, words, tunes- these are all limited, and infinity does not present itself in any
Yet that is the unique power granted to artists,
they create a multitude of works from the most limited material

And isn't that what sets us artists apart?
The ability to make something beautiful from but a few colors, from but a few words, from but a few tunes

To be able to carve infinity from something finite.

So again, I say it is not so - a painter should never tire of his colors, but only think longer on how he should next arrange them.
This was written in response to poet Eleanor Sinclair's work titled "Wonder", which asked the question of whether or not one thought a painter ever got tired of his colors. You guys should totally go check out her other poems - they're really good!!
Bardo Dec 2018
Maybe it was a dream, maybe not, I can't remember now
Walking homeward across town
Suddenly there came this fog in from the sea
It covered the harbour and the streets, enveloping everything
   so it seemed
A fog so dense, I'd never seen its like before
All you could see was the slow drip of car headlights
As they'd emerge from out of the street next to me
Eventually I had to stop, I couldn't go on, couldn't see anymore
It was like everything had just faded away until all that was left,
   all that was left there... was me
But then - suddenly! Looking up. There! Right above me
The huge spire of a Church, towering up,
Like it was coming out of the clouds
I was amazed... awestruck
"Surely this was it" I thought, "surely I'd found it
(That which had been lost... lost for so long)
The Church at the End of the World looking down on all
Even now after all those years I still had a memory of you
You were there... right at the beginning, right at the start, you
   were there
Those nights when I slept as a little child
You used come to me, come to me in the quiet, in the still of
   the night
I used enter and roam your hallowed halls...look out on your
   golden city...with eyes wide with wonder
It all started to come back to me
I grew excited, so excited
Because I knew! I remembered! I recognised you still!
You were there, all there just like you had been all those years
And you were the same, the exact same, you hadn't changed in
   any way
I saw the old familiar road down to you open up before me
And then the Bridge across appear
And then entering through your Gates
My heart it leapt inside me and my eyes they were filled with
I'd found it...found you again
The Church at the End of the World.
Mystical poem. A bit like the Twilight Zone this.
She lies there staring up at me
And I wonder whether my eyes
Know how lucky they are to see
An actual blessing from God.

She lies there staring up at me
And I wonder whether my heart
Knows that it’s heartbeat is precious
Dependent on this love I feel.

She lies there staring up at me
And I wonder whether her smile
Knows how much energy it gives
And yet I cannot look away.

She lies there staring up at me
And I wonder if her body
Knows the need my body feels
To be one with hers, head to toe.

She lies there staring up at me
And I wonder whether her soul
Knows how much I’m in love with her
Just lying there, staring at me.
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Isaac Aug 2018
People are a mystery.
They each have a history --
A story leading to now.
I can't help but question how
So many precious folks,
So many ladies and blokes,
Came into existence.
Unique, yet forming consistence!
Written 30 August 2018
Kayla Williams Apr 2018
Eyes open
We got this
i hate it
You're going to die soon
No I'll live forever
And I hate it like myself
You're OK
Nice person
Basic face
But broken
She fly
So empty
I like her
No point won't happen
She'll hurt you
Might as well quit
It hurts
Man up
I'ma good person
With bad thoughts
I'm worthless
Be fine
Allowed to feel
Don't feel allowed
I'm me
Am I?
Not the same
Cool leg
Tomorrow ready?
Not her
I wish I
Never mind.
- Kayla Lynn
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