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Bhill 16h
laying in bed waiting, just waiting for 5:55
dawn has arrived
5:55 AM is a reminder that a fresh new day is here
arrived with a gentle call to stretch and welcome its newness
listen to the sound of coffee grinding and brewing into your cup
gaze at the morning stars that have been above for eons
smell the chilled dawn air as you just breath
take a moment, throw your arms up and out into a large welcoming stretch
and then
noise from morning traffic on Center Street shakes your mood
you're awake....

Brian Hill - 2020 # 290
Whilst I took a siesta in green pastures,
I beheld countless stairs, leading to distinct windows
Hammered within our skydome like stars;
Containing divergent dreams,
Tasted by seas of men since the buds of
Adam,
Until our present time.

Where might i sojourn to seek
Refuge through thy veils, away
From the muddy hooves that tread my mind?

Drag me back to where i am most content,
To an endless stream brimming with glad tidings;
Living myths wed with
Thy finest pleasures as
I venture through this familiar paradox,
Manifesting the lust of my heart.

Aye,
But alas, a request this is which cannot be,
For my place is earth;
A world so cold
Too harsh for me.
Noa Adler Sep 18
Bed
I smile to myself
As sleep caresses your spine.
You fall under, covered in blankets,
Sheltered by thunderous peace.
I want to touch you,
To run my hands through your ebony locks,
To put my palm against your cheek,
And have your warmth
Melt my cold, cold soul,
Until all that's left of me
Is a puddle of liquid light.

You rest soundly,
With the confidence of a thousand lying politicians,
Your subtle grin defying the darkness outside our shelter.
I yearn to crawl between your arms,
To make your very being a haven,
To rest my head on your chest,
And listen to your heart beat,
Loud enough to drown out my troubled mind.

Oh, the effortlessness of it all.
How easily we tangle between the sheets.
How cozy, and breezy, and light we feel
On this cloud of a mattress.

And as minutes pass,
And months,
And years and decades,
Millennia upon Millennia,
Until we are covered by dust, and rust, and ivy,
We will stay here, alone together, in this bed.
Daniel Sep 17
My bed is just a place I hide, roses lined, and trapped in vines.

Thorns dig deep and pierce my sides, this is no escape from an arsenic mind.


My bed is just a place I hide, crimson petals cover swollen eyes.

Black stems encase me like haunted mines, a prison keep of my design.


My bed is just a place I hide as I drift away to a world inside.

Collecting antique memories of an older life I recount all I loved and left behind.


My bed is just a place I hide, it brings no relief but it's out of sight.

I rest my feet and close my eyes, and in peace ignore my strife.
A poem I wrote about escapism.
Denise Uy Sep 8
when thunder strikes,
i hear you in my head.
scared, childlike
while you're lying in bed.

tell me what you need.
warmth, a hug from me?
it was what you let me believe
and i was too blind to see.

you tossed me the next day,
from your bed to the streets.
you said we'd be okay

but i guess you really were lying in bed.
oops
ShadowSpy Sep 6
Some days
I lie in bed
Over come by
A sense of dread
Lips trembling
But nothings to be said
Mind tries to get up
But my feet are bricks of lead
Breaking point is near
My hearts already dead
Is it about you or God,
Does your religion teach hate,
A bed of roses may not be your life,
But is was Jesus who wore the thorns of strife,
Don't judge but show love everyday,
God will sort us out on judgment day,
Live your life so when you die,
Nice things people say won't be a lie,
If you're going to be religious,
Instead of a nut be a fruit spiritually delicious,
It's good to talk the talk,
More pleasing to walk the walk,
If you keep your eyes on God above,
Then how can you not know love.
I fall short every day and God knows it. We often complain and we judge others but we have no right. It was Jesus who suffered and wore the thorns so that we might be saved and love one another without condemnation.
https://m.facebook.com/venjenciecliftonarnold
Amtul Hajra Sep 3
I was desolate.
The sky was never purple or pink
I was inside, and my heart ached.
I ran out of things to do
I lay in my bed staring at the fan taking rounds.
There were tons of manuscripts, waited to be complete,
On the brown wood table on which paint has dried upon.
The canvases have fallen down; the nails are still deep into the walls.
I still tie curtains into a knot so that the sun will shed some tears on my bed too.
The lights I don't need anymore hang on the walls.
Mails are all left on read, I remember there used to be 506 unread.
I'm exhausted of doing everything in my head, the bedsheet is falling off my bed.
Thoughts that make no sense are crowding in my head.
I have no place to keep all the clothes I never wear.    
My hands feel manly sometimes, but feminine at others.
Like when I hold a knife or want to color.
I pull the hair-tie off and my hair fall onto my shoulders, bounce; they feel soft on unpleasant days. Cliché
I live not far from the ground, though if I fall I could possibly die.
There's a light I intend to use for reading at night, but i never do.
I never read.
I write, I bleed
I write, I bleed
I write.
I bleed.
And to reading,
I don't pay heed.
Safana Sep 1
I was...
Like a sick,
when I heard
you gone, not
very far but
a Hospital
And
Now, I am
fully of pride
and energetic,
Cuz, you are
rehabbed
may you be
able-bodied than
ever.
I wish you well recovery, Hauwa
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