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Toxic yeti Dec 2018
In New York
In the Bronx
There was a street fighting
Punk rocker of a young men
Who was attracted
And eyed
An female martial artist
No older
Nor younger than him
When she was walking home she
Noticed him
Not afraid
She approached him
And took his hand
And the two went into an
Alley where they make out
When they kissed
The street punk
Soon realized
That he was in something he never
Knew existed
In love
Her as well.
Toxic yeti Dec 2018
Love is strange
One in the  remote mountains
Lived an a evil Tibetan Lama
Who was exiled from
The monastery
For practicing
Tantric necromancy
So he can bring
His lover
A younger woman
Still a girl
Who died a year ago
The he practiced Buddhism
And his evil ways
Until he started
Vision being back
With his lover
She came back
Body mind and spirit
When the Lama
Saw her at the door way
He heart rejoiced
And he was both
Enlightened and fall
Back in love.
She was as beautiful
As the day he met her
After hearing her sweet voice
They kissed
Their tounges meet and dance
The Lama god between his
Undead lover’s legs
They coupled
Tenderly and passionately
So he wouldn’t hurt her.
For he did not want to hurt her
Or break
His heart again.
Hadiy Syakir Dec 2018
to:
edward,
you
are
in our
breath.

r[ain

dro

ps

on

ev

ery

fa

ll

en

le

aves]

­ec
l
usive.
Ari Oct 2018
These are my people
And these mats are our home.
We connected through the passion
Embedded in our bones.

Everyday we’re here
We’re renewed on our mats.
Theres sweat, tears, and blood on our Gis,
On our rash guards and spats.

We strive to train hard
And always remember
This family we’ve created
We’ll never surrender.

-ARI
Sanny Oct 2018
So much work and determination for that moment.

Weeks of training, to predict all the opponent's moves.

Tears of frustration, blisters and bruises all over your body.

Looking at others enjoying food you're not allowed to touch.

Running, with a burning feeling in your chest.

All for that moment, those 4 minutes that can change everything.

Judges lined up, blue and red flags in their hands.

The fear of them not raising your color in the end.

The surrounding sounds go away.

Fighting gear on, nodding to you coach's distant words.

The sweat starts running under your helmet, heart's racing fast, the adrenaline kicks in.

The sign is given, it's time.

The mat feels bigger than it looks.

With shaky legs you walk out, to bow for your opponent.

Facing each other, you'll never forget the eyes of your enemy.

The whistle blows, the moment has arrived. It's time to put the weeks of training into action.

One final deep breath.

Fight. Fight for the time you've sacrificed.

Fight with all your might, to earn that medal around your neck.

Cause in that moment it's worth everything.
Vexren4000 Jul 2018
A garden planted at the height of spring,
Growing aching for sunlight,
The sun blesses the crops,
The farmer harvests,
The world goes round,
And society sits,
Forgetting the arts that fed them so well,
Now being reduced to babes being bottle fed.

©BAS
Nickolas Niles Jul 2018
Poems:

What a dream of writers,
Upon its grand galore?
Lifting hands upon Poe,
To ask forever more?
An Ernest near his sea,
Of Dante’s own heaven.
Fun to see Angelou,
With The loved Whitman be.  
My dear Plath of saving,
Nestled on her pillows.
So pleased to see the Frost,
Odd this time of willows.
Pleased my own time of miles,
A spirit dream of Niles.
For all Times...
The artist knows how to play a poor hand well. In utter style, causing envy.
On rainbow edge. Knowing truth beyond illusion. The surface mingles along
painting colours, wishing it would drop and fall over this earth's surface. Moan
and sigh. Existing art, modern magic.
(knowledge Variable)
Amanda Apr 2018
Writers are perpetually emotional
At least we have big hearts
Unaffected disconnected people
Are not meant for the deeper arts
What more is there to say?
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