Like bees to honey
are my anxieties to me
In subtle matresses
with sunken eyes
I percieve my neurotic dreams
my desperate aspirations
my misconstrued qualities
my blinded prophecies

Megh Nov 2017

all that is lost
isn't always meant
to be found,
in the first place;
like faint traces
of your cologne
on the pillow
where i rest;
like our first
awkward picture together;
like your maddening lust
to not be satiated
because it makes you
value things less,
and probably that's why
when you found out
that you could have me:
you left,
because some things, darling
aren't meant to be

I love the butterfly
It's beauty & grace are easy to see
But hidden a plain body
Hiding under vibrant wings
She wants to be loved
So she shines her beauty
Not letting anyone see
The struggle and the pain
Endured for those wings she's gained
For so long she was held down
Dreams shattered she almost drowned
But the butterfly was given wings
And now with grace, She will fly

anon Nov 2017

I don’t mean to alarm you
But I am dying
I’ve been dying for awhile
And I hope that when I go
I join the ranks of the greats

Robin Williams
Audrey Hepburn
Robert Frost
George Washington

Names everyone knows
Names I grew up admiring

Everything tries to be them
And falls flat
Probably because I’m dying
And when you’re dying
You aren’t as great
As you once thought

My jokes will never crack a smile
On the wrinkled
Cavernous face
Of Mr. Robin Williams

My beauty lies inside
Since I lack the seraphic
Beauty of Audrey Hepburn

My words are mere letters
Where they could be scars
And stars
Like Robert Frost

I lack courage
I lack leadership
Greatness finds victims aside me
Leaving me
Always one step behind
George Washington and his armies

Bet he keeps those armies in his sleevies

I’m dying up here
Just like these sucky jokes

I’m dying here
From school
From work
And all the like

And I’m dying in here
From loneliness
Failure to complete
Lack of motivation

I’m dying here
Can’t you see

Brent Kincaid Nov 2017

As I sit here in my easy chair
Watching life pass me by
There are people in the world
Who do greater things than I.
There are great minds at work
Studying the world and space.
Not me, I’m afraid, I just sit,
Watch TV, a calm look on my face.

I have not written an opera
Or an awesome symphony.
I have not written great poems
To be read by more than me.
I have not waxed political
With rhetoric that will astound.
I have not created grand products
To be taken from the ground.

I did not engineer a vehicle
That will run on just dirty air.
And, yes, I painted for a while
But found few who would care.
All I seem to be able to do
Is to survive my horrendous past,
And I thank all the gods that be
That the horror did not last.

I answered, as a young fellow,
When people asked to my face,
“What do you want out of life?”
I quickly answered, “My own place.”
Now that I am adult and that
Has finally come to be a reality,
I can’t seem be anxious to comply
When life demands more of me.

redruMAndTea Oct 2017

It started in the seventh grade.
You were young and I was young and I think
we can both completely agree that we were
pretty dumb and ignorant.
It was your voice I think,
that really brought me in.
Sweeping me up until
I was hopelessly and mindlessly
wrapped around your finger.

It wasn’t like honey.
and it most definitely wasn't like
“Sunshine on a cloudy day.”
It was dark.
Dark like midnight skies twinkling with starlight
and warm cinnamon that stings pale
It was quiet like mysterious city alleys littered with
brazen homeless people,
sleeping in fetal positions on the streets.
Like hurt and joy and youth and indifference from the rest of our peers.
But that's the catch.
You were different.

You were beautiful in all your youthful glory and wildness.
Adrenaline spilling from your presence; sweeping everyone up along the way.
Taking them with you.
Smiling and laughing and dark eyes twinkling
Like that of the stars nestled deep in your voice.

And then there was I.
The shy, extremely indifferent, and mostly awkward
middle school girl with too many freckles
and too big glasses that filled her face full.

Your name passed the coven that was my lips
like a sacred secret
too many times to be sane yet,
did mine ever pass yours?

I aspired for you.
Only you.
Yet you never did for me.
Unrequited love, my Dear.
Unrequited love.

Clive Blake Aug 2017

My poetic aspiration
Is to become:
A Jack of all styles
And a master of pun.

Lone Bone Tree Jul 2017

Used to talk softly, then yelled louder than the
Thumping blood through my veins.
You made sense and weaved tales into my
Fizzling brain, made me look up at the clouds and
That I was as bright as the Milky Way.
But now I know. I walk on solid ground, I know that chasing
Stars that are light-years away
Is so futile.
I woke up from a daydream and stumbled to a halt and looked up to you, the
Voice in my head.

Hello World.
Paul Butters Jul 2017

I was a Communist kid back in the fifties
And a seventeen-year old Socialist.
The Americans made me laugh even then:
Afraid of “Commies”
When they really meant Soviets.

For me Socialism meant
Equal Shares
And humanitarian Christianity,
With the fall-back of a Welfare State.
All Good.

But as I’ve got older I’ve come to appreciate
The other side of the coin.
Not Fascism as such,
But with Socialism
Where is Aspiration?
Where is the Incentive to do more
And better?

We don’t want a society of clones,
Sitting on their backsides
Living on the dole.

But then again, what should we aspire to?
Should I have aimed to be a mega-rich dictator
Of some parasitic world empire?

I’m all for developing talent to the full,
Encouraging people to make a positive contribution
To the wellbeing of all.

And there’s the rub.
There doesn’t seem to be a political system – yet,
That is just and fair
Whilst helping us all to blossom.

Until we invent something better,
A bubbling cauldron of Socialism and Free Enterprise
Is the best we have to work with.
Unless you know better.

Paul Butters

More political soul-searching.
Dipinti Saha Jun 2017

She was a perfect daughter well said,
And his dad was proud enough that day;
When she left her job,her dreams behind,
Just to getting married, with her dad choice...

She was really happy with her own place,
What she bought from her little money she could saved;
Only she knows how good it feels,
Being independent and doing all her needs...

After hours of discussion she actually failed,
To make his dad, understand all her traits;
It's her choice,  not to get all comforts,
With his dad money, but to earn it first...

For her dad she deserved to be treated like queen,
This job is making her restless, what he has seen;
He barely understand the identity she will loose,
To follow the decision what he actually choose...

Finally she get married with her dad choice,
And she was a perfect daughter, everyone realized...

After so many days, she came home ,
Because of grand party his dad has thrown;
Her dad was listening what her husband said,
Wen sum one asked about his wife that day...

She is doing nothing but making home,
And then their normal conversation started going on,
In just a moment he realized what her daughter said,
It's not about the money but her identity she made....

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