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Erian Sep 26
the space between
a sea of stars
dancing high
gliding far

the space between
a world
full of scars
stitched together in my heart

a space between
the unknown and true
leaving me restless
leading me straight to you

but a space between spaces
wasn't that far
for us to cross borders
on runaway stars

the space between spaces
isn't that far
She is the the reason that my sun comes up in the morning, the cause of many sunsets with colors abound, only seen in my minds eye. I know with everyday we are closer and she is dearer to my heart. no matter the space no matter the age she is my love, my life, my everything.
Some people touch your life your heart, they may not stay.. but they are unique in all the world to you
Seanathon Sep 20
You strengthen me
Stretch me tall in fond pursuit
And call my waking trees to move with subtle hints

Familiar as the folding sound
Between quiet rustling parchment leaves
Becoming new our newest sounds as an inkwell drawn

Like a sunlit jewel your dulcet glow
Is stumbling down a penciled path of painted memory
Colored by every season anew with the hues of you

Don’t cry when I am no more seen, my felicity
It was always and with you in mind
That you made me want to try
Painted Words Between Distant Mailboxes is built around a song, a sketch, a classic story. Separated by time and space no more. These lovers turn now, to face a new fate, having not been left alone in an empty word. "Through the long and lonely night." We persevere until the dawning bright. Shines back at us with joy.

GreenTrees Sep 15
You have a contract with God and you signed on the dotted line.
The fine print was written by the devil in Hellvetica font size nine.
clever Aug 29
you're not the only one trying to be the only one
even though i'm lonely, i've never got to be alone.
Pyrrha Aug 25
A random phone call in the middle of the week
My heart flutters and my knees get weak
Half a dozen years and you still think of me

I didn't expect it
I couldn't have predicted it
How you made me fall for you

Why do you have to make me so weak?
Telling me how proud you are of me
Making me want these things with you
That I can never have

So I'll love you at a distance
Not because I think I can't have you
I'm just too scared to lose you
And I'll love you in between
Every line of my poetry
Every single word
Just a little too far from you

So don't tell me that you love me
I'm too scared that you might lose me
Pyrrha Aug 25
My love for him is at a distance

Not because I can't have him

I'm just too afraid to lose him

My love for him

Is between every line

Every word, just a little too far

So don't tell me that you love me

I'm too scared that you might lose me
This is a smaller version of another poem
As I lay
And I think
Of all the wonderful possibilities
That could be coming my way

My talents and ambitions
But do I have what it takes?

The feeling of dissatisfaction
And dissapointment
In who I am
Creeps my way

My thought is always split in two
Love and hate
Mistakes or was it fate

But as they say,
It's the contrast
That makes life great

Without feeling bad,
You wouldn't know what it is
To feel glad.
To embody that warmth,
The feeling all of us adore.

So when I get those bad feelings
Just let them pass
The scarcity of the wound won't last

If you can hold onto something
Let it be this

There is always
A greater day
Soon on its way.

And remember,

You have what it takes.

You must believe this.

Somewhere between
learning to love you and
watching myself lose you

My black heart realized it had traces of red too.
The definition of love from a loner will always be a question that questions the existence of love unless he finds a love.

The worst part is the aftermath he could never accept the thought of being a loner again.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 7
for you, of you: you’ve been between my ears

close enough to being on my mind,
almost the same thing,
though that’s unfairly inequitable, we both agree,
for when in an ear one opines, too oft it escapes
out the other side, only a tree ring mark left,
someone was here, present

as for the Confucius confusion in

ok, who’s writing this poem to whom,

cause it’s never clear between us
who is
asking the questions,
since the answers come
demanded and undemanding,
fomenting newer questions and follow through,
before, as well as,
‘please sir, may I have some more?’

the mutualizing game tasking begin-began-begun,
for this, our lovely crazy teasing of our-thing, ago began,
don’t recall who or how intimated-initiated
this oil drilling exploration,
who is the annointer and who is the annointed,
who seeds the plants, picks the fruit, and who
gets paid with cloves of poems, by the bushel

you say I’ve been on your mind,
which we now have both pointed out
is somewhat extraordinary since,
the sight lines are drawn through
long distance cloudscapes that travel
through underground cables,
making everything said,
fallow and rich-ending, deeply frustrating,
impossible to see the outcome

clouds usually imaginary, (not like now),
making visibility normative poor,
unlike the real ones I’m flying at the moment through,
ensconced in front row seat 1F, heading northwest passage,
passing by so ridiculously close to where
you are minding the soil,
as I am
mining your soul’s soil, tilling it between the ears,
of you, by me, for us, and the excited sadness
makes me happy and yes, inequitably, again,

because your breadcrumbs and dark Swiss chocolate bars are
scattered and defaced, bitten and chewed, lovingly licked melting,
we who cover our tracks too well;
but what I do have, makes me ravenous,
having read all your poems,
in random order and then one more time,

I see your history, near escapes and resurrections,
in fine grained moody minutiae punctuated by huge gaps in between,
that we must cream fill with clouds of wondrous loving curiosity,
a torture so exquisite, only the gods could have invented it like
Sunday Night Football,
and crazy sayings,
like I love you too...

been on my mind and I imagine you
hot and sweaty,
bent over, aching tired, from
picking weeds (gotcha),
when sudden one of us stands up straight, back aching,
screaming out loud
this is crazy, and follows up with
a *** Darius type proclamation,
who’s writing this poem to whom
issued to the upwards-skywards,
but addressed to ourselves,
the poets

as we search clouds by the thousands,
is that you in that cloud, in that poem,
I look down thinking that, that must be,
the plot of green and dusted light brown ground
where she has gone into hidey-hole hiding,
disappearing for months at a time,
before arising for the sticking of me
in the sticking place,
wounding me fresh with brand new poems
scandalous and imaginous,
and our imaginations are both
too skilled

so here I close, overwritten, overridden, too long,
overshot my imaginary bounds, so one
pulls down the shade over the oval window
through which too many great stories have commenced,
and ended

the thick cumulus shouting
as we look up
as we look down,
saying “enough, you crazy people,
your poems tell too much,”

perhaps, find me in that
next bite of herbs buttered,
and then ask (of course)

who’s writing this poem to whom?

then breathe out, exhaling me a
breath-poem up above, to where I’m hiding
just as I, am sending one to you,
earth falling from thirty thousand feet,
coming to rest on your mind,
in between your ears,


somewhere in the sky, clueless, heading north by northwest
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