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Ivy Dec 2020
I had this thought which I have found a little scary
What if these things which you were saying
You said but didn’t mean at all
Who am I to you after all?
A friend? A person you hanged out with for a month?
Or just a gal you had acquaintance with?
Avoiding girly analyze
Of what you think and say to me
Of what you wanted me to hear
Or what you feeling
What are you feeling deeply?
Our relationship is going through time testing
And are we passing such exam?
Some time ago you even made a joke that we could marry
Each other
Oh my god  
I even didn’t know how to react on such request
But honestly I’d probably consider proposition
Not from romantic side and all
But just because it’d give the possibility to stay with you a little
And do the things together
The things we dreamed about
You know we short in options
In current situation
When boarders closed
And lockdowns everywhere
I wish to share with you my moods
Right at the moment
And now it’s hard to do
We’re having 14 hours difference
My sunrise - your sunset
It’s gonna be two years already
That’s why I’m asking you
If you’re ready
Not let your joke come true
I may not ask you for such thing
But do you wanna have with me
Some part of our future?
she was afraid
when they looked
at her
what did they see
always wondering
what they were thinking
how do they feel
analyzing every
little thing she said
she just cared
so much
she just wanted to be
Anya May 2019
What tends to happen with many a poem is
You hop in, then land up somewhere else
Like driving to Texas and landing in Maine Or
Going to India but ending up in the Caribbean

And it’s not nonsensical
Certainly not,
The poet is very much as sane as
You or me

But rather,
That walking or jogging at a
Steady pace as you’d do in a novel
Or essay or racing through a
Movie The poet instead likes to hop and skip and
Jump and race and dance and
Twirl and roll and fly

So much so that those whose minds would rather
Stick to a steady pace
Are absolutely ******* in knots

In this case,
One of two things may occur
Some may scratch their heads and give up, deeming poetry “not their thing”
While others,
May read the poem in bits,
At their own pace,
Maintaining a slow and steady while acknowledging and appreciating and analyzing the hops and leaps and twirls-
They are like detectives,
Tracing the possible routes through which the poet may have traversed

Coming up with theories,
And although a theory may or may not be accurate...

We don’t know how humans evolved
But we appreciate it all the same
(Feel free to comment with a different title suggestion, I’m not sure the one I currently have embodies what I’m going for)
Lacey Nov 2014
Tall, and sagacious, with unassailable secrets
locked by crooked keys in rusted chests -
stoic glances - upturned lips hiding more I want to see.
I find the mountains of my skin between my fingers,
hands on my hips, squeeze,
push in and battle the duplicities: more or less.
Does he look?
He uses big words I look up in dictionaries
I wonder if he likes complicated clamor of endless infractions
like the books he reads, like the characters he keeps in his
brain's edifice. And I'm volatile, I want to be written, but I know, yes, I know
I should be writing myself.
But I am small, in ways, somewhat sagacious, slightly introverted.
Does that even count?
I stutter, and feel my chest unlock then I'm
grasping at it like hands catching nuts and bolts so heavy
they're slipping through my fingers to dance on the floor.
The pieces I lose
make musical clamor, and I wonder if he's fond of the genre.

— The End —