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Pearl Ra1n Apr 2017
We were flowers, twisted ‘round each other in red thread
speaking soft words under soft rains – hard park benches
pretending we didn’t love what was in the other’s head.
We were flowers, one flower, ‘round and ‘round in red
lipstick that stained and teethmarks from words left unsaid
We were pacing old trodden paths digging old sodden trenches
We were flowers, cut at the stem bleeding love bleeding red
Speaking cold words in floods, sitting on lonely park benches.
Liam C Calhoun Jul 2015
My flights come and go,
But the bench records my slouch
As I’ve already grown wings.
Flying for free, flying stand-by - But flying nonetheless.
MJ L Nov 2014
My bones became the
benches for the feeble.

A sparrow’s flight could
Take me off my numbness.

At least my bones are not
That brittle.
Maddy Byrne Aug 2014
Start out on benches
old,
Brown,
wooden.


then like sausages, we file
squish ourselves into metal skin
and sit in air-conditioned solace


Time pass slower
Moods get sharper
And sleep gets further away
the view from city streets
to run down houses,
homemade fences,
shipping yards,
more factories, of unholy God knows what
and finally mountains
bathed in sunlight and green trees.
Its a little boring but I was on on a long ride and I wrote this after writing three other poems so not as personal.

— The End —