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Paul Oct 2018
In the great districts of my hometown,
Where large apartment buildings are our skyscrapers,
That touch the clouds and pierce into the heavens,
There stood an old grey building out of pebbles.
A relic of a terrible time, when bricks were a luxury,
And locks where made to keep us in and not the baddies out.
Outside of this building, stood a willow a tree.
It lived past centuries, saw the pebble fortresses built,
The cold pavement placed, the greyness setting in.
I remember swinging on its branches when I was little,
I saw it age right before my eyes, change its colors,
In the bleak districts of my hometown.
Below this world tree, I was safe.
Swinging on its branches as if Tarzan,
Putting spells into place as Merlin,
Slaying dragons like Prince Charming…
The branches of the willow became like pages of a book,
Each representing different fantasies and stories,
Building a world of its own…
Here I truly saw the sunlight in between the leaves,
Felt the cold morning breeze,
Saw the exchange of the seasons…
And with every single season passing by,
I grew older with the willow tree,
Just like my ancestors did,
How my mother and brother once did,
Swinging on the same branches and glaring at the same leaves,
Yet soon Tarzan was replaced with chemistry lines,
Merlin became a mathematician, getting involved in trigonometry,
While Prince Charming gave lessons in history.
Soon as the seasons passed,
I left the bleak districts of my hometown,
Setting foot into new apartment buildings,
Seeing new willow trees that just started to place their roots…
When I came back – the willow was no more.
Only a bit of its stump left in the ground,
Its old roots sticking out like momentous of history…
Ages worth of memories and fantasies,
The father and mother to many children,
The guardian and protector of the innocent…
Yet when I leaned down and ran my hands on the freshly cut stump,
Tracing the lines and reliving history itself – I smiled.
As for even in death, this willow tree, my willow tree,
Has taught me lessons, I don’t remember learning.
A poem about an old willow tree outside my home and the weird sentimental value it held.
Jenny Gordon Feb 2018
Or what?  



(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXXXIV)


White answers on all sides as twere, til hence
My purple kilt and pink checked skirt's detail
Look just as wont for Winter:  what'd avail
This bleaker lack of colour we feel thence
Within our very bones, or as fr'intents
The Boden slogan was in sheer betrayl,
An ex'llent motto "squeeze the day!"  Light pale
With more snow in the wings, shall we ask whence?
Come, how soup's warming on the stove as fer
All that the grinder's voice means flour anew
For biscuits.  Where did darker colours' tour
Become too deep of late?  Why does that hue
Seem dismal is't?  Do I want Spring to stir
More than I realize that soft shades 'non woo?

08Feb18c
Boden's 2011 excellent parody was defined by them as adding more variety to the mundane, which is what I forever use them to do.
Ellison Dec 2017
During a storm, the colors of life wash away
The waters leave what it touches as a cold dull grey
Similarly, this is what is described inside of me today
With which black tar instead of rain flows within my roads of clay

The venom begins its warpath with the first drop of its essence
And spreads throughout my body without any sense of control
It covers my bones and all across my arms
Then my legs, my feet, my head, and my face
Any emotions from yesterday are devoured without a trace
As the venom steadily increases in its path of *******
And turns my happy day into that of dark desolation
The venom churns deeper inside of my body
My smile disappears, I am quiet, this is happening right now
As the venom wraps its tendrils around the outside of my body
No one can see it, but I show it with my temper
Letting no one talk to me as I loathe to myself in silence
The venom speaks into my ears; it tells me,

“Forget about your friends, they only hold you down
Can’t you tell they only see you as some stupid naive clown?
Now, I’ll tell you one last time to abandon all of who you know
Because I’m always a part of you, and you’ll see me again tomorrow.”

It slithers off of my skin
The nightmare creeps away into its abyss
The venom is forever encased inside of my soul
But to collapse to its will shall never be my goal.
Pauline Russell Apr 2016
Standing in a harvested field, the sky touching the ground
Not a raise, a tree, or a hill to be found
A coal black cloud is coming down
Standing there head back, hoping in it's rain I drown
My heart is bleeding black
Everything from a young age went so off track
I am just the black sheep
I am just the freak
Watch me as my eyes leak
This lonely watch I keep
On my knees now I just weep
It's only sorrow that I reap
For a life lived amongst the ruins
Living under a storm constantly brewing
Daylight seeped through once or twice
Made the formless bleakness more than thrice
So I beg for no more light
It just makes it harder to fight
If blackness is where I'm ment to stay
Just keep the sun away
Nico Reznick Mar 2016
Suddenly aged and prickling inside drab suit
(that fits in every way besides the one that matters),
sip stewed tea, UHT milk, and
be gracious about it.
Faces requisitioned from Head Office
ask questions like the answers you give
could possibly mean anything.
Try not to act bored or high, even though
you're both.  Pretend like
you could belong here.
Don't let on you think thoughts that are in breach of the House Style.
Don't, under any circumstances, let them
find out you write
poetry.  
Don't give yourself away.

Afterwards, brittle and weary outside,
notice how it feels like
your feet inside your good pair of shoes
are nailed to the asphalt reality
of this bleakly nowhere estate; you're
crucified against the
indifference of the afternoon,
bled out by another day of attempting to
sell yourself cheap and still
not closing.
You learned to walk upright for this.
Even the sun looks old and done with trying.
If a stranger offered you a cigarette right now,
would you break your two-year streak?  


The phlegmy rattle of builders' vans;
soft pale smell of saw dust on damp air;
that sense of inevitable mutual rejection.
Pauline Russell Feb 2016
Standing in a harvested field, the sky touching the ground
Not a raise, a tree, or a hill to be found
A coal black cloud is coming down
Standing there head back, hoping in it's rain I drown
My heart is bleeding black
Everything from a young age went so off track
I am just the black sheep
I am just the freak
Watch me as my eyes leak
This lonely watch I keep
On my knees now I just weep
It's only sorrow that I reap
For a life lived amongst the ruins
Living under a storm constantly brewing
Daylight seeped through once or twice
Made the formless bleakness more than thrice
So I beg for no more light
It just makes it harder to fight
If blackness is where I'm ment to stay
Just keep the sun far away
Astral Jul 2015
The eroded frames of this abandoned home, speak of a time that was once better

The pain in its voice, is sorrowfully apparent, the pain it feels creaks among the window panes

I asked why it seemed to feel this way, it spoke to me and said it was alone in its ways

The trees had begun to strangle their roots among its edges, the wildflowers set their camps on its staircases

The finches set their nests on its faded yellow window stills, the fox making a den from the basment

I sat with the rain pouring down, under the porch roof did I listen to its somber tales

In its decay I saw a dark beauty, a damaged purity that was tranquil in the erosion
Ceryn Mar 2015
There's so much a heart can hold,
but there's only so much it can take.

— The End —