blanket of blue
wrapped around me
some time long ago

it can get hot and muggy
but i don't really mind
it's the color of blue
something new
it's mine

oh blanket of blue
how true of you
to finally let me in

i'll let you grab and tangle me
so long as you don't cave in
you wrap yourself around my neck
and linger there a few

soft and heavy breathing
as tears begin to spew

blanket of blue
how cruel of you
to leave me here like this

your soft touch
captured my sense
as i cry here for you

you wrap yourself a little tighter
dashing away my hope
you sure love turning my lips
to your shade of blue
Poetic T Mar 1
A million snowflakes submerge,
                             a blanket of life.
Now static,
      a grave of white
     hides its crime.
Until the forgotten are found, buried once again
in unmarked tombs of silence.
          Once again forgotten in a blanket of earth.
the snow's cold blanket
wrapped a biting winter  
chill around the land
Xant Feb 19
In a merely daunting hallway
I walked what felt like miles
Hands coming out of under
Pulling my legs,
my arms,
and my head
closer to the wall
trying to swallow me whole

Outside the only window
was a yellow light
dim and soft
soft as a kiss
But as I got deeper into the hall,
twas the time my eyes could see
in the dark

I found a door!
And a lady walked out of it
She cried,
she walked fast
She also shed her tear
with a white wool handkerchief
that's been red from blood

I peeked inside
And what I saw,
a beautiful figure
of a young lad
hanging five inches
above the floor

Hands kept pulling me
everywhere they want to pull me to
But now they did not seem to try
to swallow me whole into the wall
It led me a to another door at the end of the hall

I slammed
and you were awoken
from your dead-like sleep
You smiled
And you spared me
a space on the bed
for me to sleep in

You smiled
as you covered my cold flesh
with a white wool blanket

And when the sun shone behind you
I smiled
"Thank you for the blanket', I say
'It was warm'

-A poem of a dream-
I had a crazy dream last night. And I decided to write a poem about it, if you're interested to know what the words really mean, feel free to contact and ask me about it!
Umi Feb 10
The nightsky is alike a mighty mansion of the stars which then
twinkle in elegance, beauty and transience until the dawn outshines them in a graceful manner.
As the night turns away from the sun and from her light, danger
in our imagination could await, from the corners of our very mind.
Yet the stars make up a soft blanket, a cover of the calmest of light,
which could bring peace to a soul which is performing a rampage.
All the constilations, all the names and forms which reveal themselves, are but a heavenly spectra for those who are nocturnal.
Or for those, whom have meet the cruel fate to be allergic to the natural, straight forward, warming and blissful sunlight.
There is no soul with no protector, in the nightsky such would be
a bright,piercing star, standing proud,manifest its location is over you
Holding many wonders, the beauty of the night comes with shooting stars, which at times shortly sweep over the heaven before fading.
Wishes are made upon, hope fills their hearts, for a better future
or a fulfilment of their desires, tangled up within the depth of mind.
Night becomes bright once the moon shines, in its fullest posture.
Becomes dark once the rainclouds drive near, calling in thunder.
But most importantly, it is a time of rest, from all this earth beholds

~ Umi
Blankeys are only
For kids; but my swollen lungs
Calmed say otherwise

Across its smell; I
Have been comforted with a
Taste of home; colored

Pink and white; kitties
Make up my childhood; you
Can call me a kid,

--It doesn't hurt--
I'll admit it; I still have a baby blanket. I don't sleep without it. But it calms my anxiety, and helps me sleep and feel okay, so why should I feel embarrassed about still having it?
All feedback is welcome:)
Isabella Soledad Nov 2017
The night slows to a halt and I turn off my lights. My sheets are untucked from the foot of my bed, which really bothers me. I frown slightly and attempt to tuck them in until I remember you. How you sleep with your sheets untucked because you are too tall, and your feet dangle off the bed. How you never sleep with them constricting you. I stop what I’m doing and think. Maybe I can try to sleep without my sheets tucked in. It’s worth a try, because if I’m ever going to sleep in the same bed with you, I’ll have to get used to it. I lay back down with a slight smile on my face and drift to sleep, dreaming you were here, my toes peaking out from beneath my blankets.
bina perino Nov 2017
I dream of you.
I dream of your strawberry
ice cream tiles while
under a blanket stitched
by mother’s hands of
a color just the same.
I dream of your sidewalks
that lead your crowds
from halls to kitchens, breezeways
to basements, with echoes
of girls’ stolen virginity locked away.
I dream of your stream
which was my playground,
rolling between trees
that tower like your
cylindrical pale columns;
I dream of you when
I am a stretch of highway away
in a tiny town that guards me,
keeps me safe and hidden.
I dream of you when
I will never see your gates
because my closest family
have all turned into ghosts,
haunting every room and hall.
I will never visit your crowds
because they have painted my father
as a hero, among accused saints.
I dream of you when
I no longer find truth
in your books and murals,
rolling through time,
that towers like your
cylindrical pale columns.
I dream of you.
Poetic T Nov 2017
Where one could only place a thought on  rest,
but for a moment, reflections that are addressed  
on eyelids needing the collection of bedtime unrest.

My blankets are woven in comas of oppression
as when my eyes are entombed and depressed.
No one realizes that when they pass this dispossessed
huddle, lives life never given a moment as were oppressed.

For below this perceived cluster of a homeless man dressed,
is the dignity of man once upon a time blessed.
But I fell or stumbled, now my body slumbers on a headrest.
All that others see is a robin who lost his dignified vest.
Henry Koskoff Nov 2017
hiver is the french word for it
but sally calls it blanket time
even though it's cold
yes, the trees may shiver
but the snow and ice
just looks like a coat
if one thinks like that
like sally
they are not then cold
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