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Alana Jones Mar 2019
It all sounds good.
Riding with the windows down and your music loud all throughout the hood.
Neglecting your homework,
putting hours in at work,
because you think that you should.
Emulating a sound that you know is
not yours,
because it sounds good.
You think it’s because you should.
You should follow your own voice,
rhythm, and beat.
Be free in spirit, and feel
the beat from ground
through your feet.
You can’t be her.
You can’t be him.
You can only be you.
Just, be you.
nightdew Mar 2019
can you hear my heartbeat,
casually exploding in my chest,
when your eyes sets on mine.

can you listen to the musical throbs,
and dance along to the rhythm,
when you decide i'm worth it.

can you settle your soft hands,
slightly above my chest,
and just freeze time.

listen, listen, listen.
my heartbeat goes,
***, ***, ***, ***.
can't take my eyes off of you,
can't take my heartache from you,
can't freeze time and look at you,
make yourself mine,
sweet darlin.
John Stephenson Mar 2019
It's a rhythm,
Pounding in my brain,
For words to match.
That's the aim.

This poem has rules,
For which I make
The words to follow
Or the rhythm breaks.

Four lines a verse entails.
The rules are clear to me.
Lines second and last
Must have synchrony.

Some call this rhythm poetry,
To most a simple rhyme,
The words are much more to me.
They help improve my mind.

With every verse I write
New words come to me.
The rhythm and good luck
enhance my vocabulary.

Like the pulsing of a drum.
The rhythm has a beat.
The words, they march to that.
With measure and repeat.

Now the poundings stopped.
The words all written down.
I can rest a while
Listening for that sound.
Özcan Sh Mar 2019
You in my arms
The beats in our hearts
Played our song
And made us one.
A Simillacrum Feb 2019
Best movements made are subtle.
Years, been record needle down.
Embrace the rubber ring
king of the loop.
Stuck in spin, too.

Spent, cored, spun,
inside the toilet.
Spent, cored, spun,
inside the toilet bowl.

A format, everlasting --
   good!
A poet, ******* banality,
   out of steam.

Cored, spun, and bored,
skimming porcelain.
Cored, spun, and bored,
kissing porcelain.
A Simillacrum Feb 2019
What's there left to say?
Rest the head on knee.
Finger weaving hair,
our eyes on T V.

What's there left to burn?
Cool the heart from heat.
Inhale deep dismay,
then exhale slowly.

Twilight, half lit dark.
Bare to share the beat.
Taste, taking turns,
highest high,
lowest low   ly.

Freckle you with light
brown skin fingertips.
Depart the anxious
rush to ***,
savor sole   ly

to put lip to skin,
to prolong the sin,
to enjoy to no end,
calm, and then
rising action,

****** and
the unwinding.
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