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Bohemian Apr 12
My neck feels so anxious
The last time it had laid on a pillow
It felt an utter discomfort
Where on the bed should my hair be placed
For each strand has grown so tall with such a pace
My callus is so pale
Frozen are my palms
Lips fall dead dry ,no, I don't apply any flavoured balm
Eyes behold an anchor upon
I curl up under the sheets
But by the morning I'm fresh and flushed.
Allie Dotson Aug 2018
I cannot be moved
it isn't so
I am the ship
that is sinking low
you are the sea
that made me so
I put down my guard
yet you just take my soul
you said you loved me
and I took the blow
I am stuck
and no rescues to show
only you surround me
I have no where to go
I don't move
why is that so
I am anchored
To love you whole
Bree Torres Jun 2018
I sit here trying to wrap my head around the world.
Its hard when your anchored at at your feet.
You scream but no one hears you. 
Running to only find that your running in place the whole time.
Fear is real and there's no escaping whats right in front of you.
No choice but to deal with whats on repeat.
I used to be told sweet dreams yet dreams don't seem so sweet.
MickeyP Aug 2015
Anchored at the berth
For centuries
to gracefully
Slip the mooring
A distant yesterday's whisper
now steadfast
As if bewitched by the galaxy
Unaware of the
Land and liberation
Tauntingly so
Refusing to be liberated
Time and time
again it slips from moon to sun
And time has stood still for so long
It has become
Zainab Attari Mar 2015
A little aloof I shall stay
Before another tempest hits the bay
Anchoring me down again
Into surplus societal pain

Sharing the ocean can get rough
Absconding high tides is tough
I need to gather myself in vain
Before I crash once again

So I shall breathe, smile and have a good time
And hold on to things that are mine
Whilst I cover up the timeworn stain
And soak my wrath in the rain!

-Zainab Attari
Sebastian Mar 2014
She calmly unlocks the front door
as the wind flings the screen
through wild tantrums. She droops down
into her dusted rocker, pushing
with her lavender heels to start the sway.

Her sole taps softly,
as the chair creaks onto fallen lacquer
and the porch plays in discord
through dancing lace.

Interwoven hands lie atop her lap
in a sea of navy with floral ships
at its surface. Silver strands
fall from her clouded bun
and a few locks float past her sunken shoulders.

With jaded eyes she looks at the corner
to a poor table, where a cold candle
peaks among a grassy field of melted wax
riddled with burnt fuses.

And near the candle, a dusted white hat
remains anchored to the wooden surface.
She can still smell the stale cigar smoke
lingering in the room. “He’ll be here soon,”
she thinks as her daze slowly sets in.

The world seems quiet
as she fills her eyes with sleep
and the chair continues its march.
Her hands unlock from their grasp
and the screen door gently knocks.
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