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preston 4d
You are beautiful forever--

the core of who you are..
still  wholly uncorrupted,
is made in the very image of God--

It is intertwined with your flesh
so that your flesh may become healed.

But your flesh is immersed in
the stupidity, placed there by others,  not you.
But you are the one that still  chooses
to believe its ******-up message--

The one that says   it will not work
or that   it's all too much
or that   no one cares, anyways

or that  you are not worthy
             of the magic that is in you.

The relational part of your own  healing
that already exists  within you
will come to you from those
who love you enough
to want to tell you the truth--

That the message your traumatized flesh, carries
is nowhere near the truth,  but instead
is immersed inside of the lie.
I tell you the truth, in response to your
acknowledgement of my faith in you
and you respond by treating me as if
you have no value for me whatsoever.

What tells you inside of yourself
to respond that way?

So, I make a play for you again,
not to make you mine..

  but to remind you of who you truly are.

All of the healing you will ever need
is already inside of you..  through the
Image-bearing nature  of the very core
of who you are.  Its deep ache  to permeate
your broken flesh  is held at bay
by Love's beautiful choice to  yield
to your own freedom of autonomy

Because love, without freedom
is not love at all--

but only control.. with a smile.

I weather your storms
because not even your own  lack of
believing in yourself  will ever
stop  me from believing in you.

--And yes.. you are at times difficult--
sometimes to such a degree,  that the dream
you actually are to me..  at those times

can feel to me as if instead,
like a bad nightmare..

But that is only the stupidity, of your flesh
and your own temporary stupidity  of actually
believing  that,  in itself..   as if  to be life..

 and as if  to be you.

You are my beautiful,  forever
that will never, ever  change.
One day  you will see, beautiful girl.

I know that one day,  you will see

“I said, ‘You are gods;
you are all sons of the Most High..’"
~The Kingdom of Dave
Spadille Apr 1
Have I ever told you that the moon is pretty
And you glowed under its light,
Trust my words, you have bewitched me

Stare at you, I will forever
And might I take sa photo
For it to last an enternity

But I tell you i don't swear by the moon
Because it is evolving
And my promises would only be shattered

Though this moon will attest our love
And be the proof of gaiety
Of me whenever when I am with you

You are my moon
That shines through the darkest nights
Along with your pretty stars

With this, I have reasons to look up
And appreciate the beauty of the sky,
Loving it because it reminded me of you
New at writing prose poetry
Farah Hizoune Nov 2020
In your eyes I saw the power to sow my own destruction
So I looked away trying not to memorize the exact placements of your tattoos
Or all the freckles that you’re made of
But I wasn’t quick enough and now your entire body is etched permanently into my mind
In that space that doesn’t allow love
To be held
And as I remind myself that great *** does not equal great love,
But that great love always equals great pain,
I know that great wars were started under the guise that it does
i did it again like the dumb ***** we all are
Palpebra Oct 2020
Writers are illusionists,
For they create imagery;
Imprisoned in their minds,
While setting the whole world free.

Writers are heros,
For they have superpowers;
Walking for miles before they sleep,
Only to shine like insomniac stars.

Writers are clowns,
For they can make you laugh;
Humouring you through their ironies,
Unveiling only their happy half.

Writers are divine,
For they can give life;
To the sun & the sea & the shore,
Calming and soothing all your strife!

Writers are deranged,
For they find poetry in all shapes;
From needles to knives,
They talk to these inani'mates'

Writers are intense,
For they feel too much;
Like mimosa of the plant kingdom,
Writing away about the slightest of touch.

Writers are deceptive,
For they are the best liars,
Exaggerating these simple sentences,
Helping you escape your monotonous quagmires.

Writers are humble-beings,
For they always are connected to their roots;
Building wonders from mere words,
To which the whole world ends up paying tributes!
This poem is for all the people who helped me learn so so much in such less time.

Thank you all!
Ariana Solo Oct 2020
Roses are Red
Violets are Blue

I'm Cinderella
You're my missing Shoe

Jake Griffith Oct 2020
I met him in the night.
    A Gayborhood local
     told me he was from Venezuela, but didn’t have to,
           his accent, so beautiful with its deep grit and softness,
                               twang and lisp.
                               I already knew,           he didn’t have to tell me.

             He bought me drinks, and watched
                             me             and only me,
                as I bit from the fruit of his garden.
             He invited me to an afterparty,   I didn’t know
   him, but we went     through alleys,
         dampened by the heat of bodies
      melding to the brick walls, glistening
                            in the streetlights and nightlife. Unknown lips
                          pressed and held, to stay,            not to
                         part. It was
             Within the alley was
        our destination: underground. It was
                a luscious venue, crowded, exuberant and whimsy.
    Velvet covered the walls, and he brought me more drinks.
                                      I finished them all.

                                                               I remember
locking lips with a stranger, and how
         it hurt.

                                       He was warm and sweaty, and
         smelled of Burberry and whiskey,
                                    his stubble left
               my face burning.

                            He grabbed my hand, and led me to
                         the bathroom, then I woke up
                             in his bed.
             I remembered
                            his husband’s name, and that
                                            he lived in Caracas, that
                  we had ***, and took
                           a shower together, that
                            his mother, dying from leukemia,
                                               slept upstairs, unknowing.

                                            ­               I wept
in a stranger’s arms,
   cradled by their tiny physique.
         I wept
              for our beloveds.
**** In no way am I trying to romanticize adultery ****
This is something that broke my relationship for a little while, everything is back together now.
Bongani G-kay Sep 2020
They say....
Man are trash...
They say...
We broke their hearts
They say...
We do not give them attention....

They say...
But never see their wrongs...
They say....
But they never loved us back as we did
They say...
But we are the one sacrificed alot broken hearts we carry...

They say...
But they never understand...
What damaged they did...
Silent we remained....
Label us with names...
When you didn't give me a chance to love you and you choosed him...

Silent i remained...
As they say
Man are all trash...

Man are trash
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2020
~for teach~

tell me, are you ok?

yeah, more or less;
like everybody else,
wires get crossed,
static builds up,
the speakers bleat
when they should blat,
and you try to stop thinking,
cause why hurt yourself
too much?

what’s wrong?

nothing to specific,
that seems to be the problem,
like aches and sharp pains
that come without reason,
on a schedule all their own,
no prior consultation,
permission slip sig forged,
so badly, it’s insulting

it’s 3:14 am, woke up with
headphones on, every tune,
reandomly selected, saying,
only the lonely, solitary man,
miles to go, it’s probably me,
long monday coming,
gonna spend it
looking for the summer

now look at this, me done wrote
another impoverished poem,
just by stringing together
song titles that were selected
just for me by an artificial intelligence,
it’s closing time, in the fields of gold,
prine singing a blues lullaby, just for me,
so I won’t have to think so hard for an answer to

tell me, are you ok?

got no complaints that
ain’t my own fault,
my guilt is plugged in
always charging,
sleep comes in dreams of many colors,
eclectic eclipses, electrifying and elicited,
words come spilling so easy, pre-selected,
elocuted and executed, with madding ease.
two more lines, then calling it quits, but at least
got an answer, why for me it’s so easy,
the being hard


3:32am and the moonlight so bright,
it’s making shadows on earth, left behind
like good graffiti announcing I was here,
maybe I’ll find these words, when I wake up,
wonder who wright these, twasn’t me,
I’m a sound sleeper, can never remember,
dreams, or nightmares, even those in technicolor,
wake up a blank slate, to see,
gotta answer somebody’s question,
if I’m ok?
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