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Trevon Haywood Mar 2016
Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.


Langston Hughes. 3/22/2016.
January was the first of many months.
February is the second time I realized that when
March rolled around that you wouldn't be there in
April to hold me.
May wasn't any better because,
June came too quickly.
July came in with fireworks but all I got was burns from the sparks.
August days were spent picking up grains of sand hoping in
September would be different.
October I carved a smile on me instead of the pumpkins but
November the scar started to show.
December. I made it thought another year alone.
I'll get through next year too.
You said that you loved me
Last january
We stood outside covered in snow
I remember feeling happy
All of february
When we went for long walks in the cold
The wind was so harsh
Until we entered march
and the sky slowly changed from white to gold
It was very painful
when you left in April
Off to see the world a new way
and I waited for you
Every second of May
Looking up and down the road all afternoon
and the joy in my heart
When you came in June
Slowly faded with every lie
I barely recognized you in July
You asked for time to adjust
I gave you all of august
It passed in a confused blur
In September I saw you with her
Sorrow took me over
All of October
Losing you while wanting to remember
Having flashbacks all of November
The cold came back, more falling snow
In December I decided to let you go
You said you loved me
Last January
and I´ll never forget it I swear
Now I know love is never forever
A lot can change in  a year
Wrote this last night, wasn´t quite sure about it at first.. but adding it now. Feel free to tell me what you think.
Copyright @ Johanna Magdalena
Tom McCubbin Jul 2015
Some lost flower part
sparks into my vision
field today. The abrupt
edge of a prepared land
welcomes the color
and new shy stock.

Neighboring higher
life forms succumb
to delicate nibbling,
after the moon 's squinting
dance partner settles into
the vicious dust.

My long tube of
garden fluid
appears each effervescent
morning to envelope
the rooty darkness
with a fill of
such precious sipping.

In shorter daily periods
what is left dwindling
below is yanked from
an unfruitful oblivion
and added
into the content of a
pleasant April uprising.
Esfoni Jun 2015
She finds something to cavil at in everything I say
Winter, summer; spring, autumn; night or day
I will love her, more than life; no matter what
Every April; June, July, August; even May

Saturday, June 20, 2015
Gabrielle Jun 2015
A passage, one of right.
Clumsy heels raise to pointe and force me ever on.

The lights, bulbs of promise
And blades, sharp reminders.
It's just another thing hanging over my head, I remind myself
The house sighs and my throat catches fire
There's something in the air here.

The flowers are dying and I worry that I might be too.
I trade their water for well wishes and wash the smoke down with it.  
After all, black veins can't get any blacker,
I am what I am and I am tired of wagging tongues.
A stab is righteous, a slit is sin.
You bleed red,
But every colour flows in me at once

So tell me I know nothing,
I know not of truth.
State my transgressions and give me your transfusion.
April 2014
mokitovice May 2015
She was light and thunder
And he, … a fresh breeze on a Sunday morning

She was caught up in her own mind
Living a dream with made up people in a ghost city

Reckless dreams and undefeated attitude..  
lonely roads sentencing her future
never letting anyone in, but the monsters in her head
Love was an old memory of a distant friend...  
but what's love without pain, and pain without living?

He... He took her breath away
So cold and distant,  
but there was something In his eyes,  
something in the way he talked,  
Like a forbidden fruit
and there's always something sensual about danger

He thought she was magic,
She was eager for love, he, …  ready to ****

Her breath, his touch, her hands, his clothes …
She confused passion for love
Game over, He's gone
Eleanor Rigby May 2015
We met in mid April
And I think
That it was our love
That taught flowers
To bloom.


F.Z.**N
AM May 2015
I am in love
With April
With its warm rain
And cold sun-ray
I am in love
Until I doubt that
I've ever loved
Anything else
Before April
Ottar Apr 2015
How do you do?
I am here for you.

Simple for me to say,
I am a container of dismay

After Thursday.

What is good poetry,
what is a good poet,
(s)he is a teller of stories in verse,
s(he) makes music out of sounds,
(s)he explores tension and boundaries,
s(he) undresses your sensibilities,
(s)he has a heart tapped into broken vessels,
s(he) can cry while in the midst of a write,
(s)he writes poetry for others, almost always from the self
s(he) can write love with a thousand different metaphors,
           but chooses not so to do.
(s)he loves language, maybe more than self, has as many
      books as dust on the shelf.
s(he) is a quiet observer, with no remorse for putting into
          words what the sky says to the child, what the man
          hears from the Earth, what a woman knows about
           birth and the pains of life as well, that no man would
          survive and too the wisdom found as one walks along
          the garden path.
(s)he knows that poetry is readily available, simply by being
     vulnerable and sometimes obtuse.
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