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i know well the fear as it manifests
in the dampness come night
dollar bills burn hot in pocket
the reddened skin of my inner thighs
fights to fray the cloth, but i
i'm better off sleeping in my pants
and my shoes, as to evade
then this thing clicks and the misfit
cuts come to fall into plan
by design, without fail, buy and sell
then there's me, this thing replete
with confidence in its destruction
by its hand, or on demand, its a
matter of course                  lightbulb!
Nikos Kyriazis Dec 2018
The sheathing of this bulb
has broken, filled with scratches
Although it still shines bright

Hub of its joy: serving me

It has seen all of my doodles
but gave away nothing

My infant poems often think
that its light is their mother

My sweat, my tears, my nightmares
are its insignia, its tatoo

It imputes its capability
of breathing to me
but I am the apprentice here
influenced by wabi-sabi philosophy
Brittany Hall Nov 2018
I'm just a lamp.
You're just a bulb.
I give you power.
You give me light.
I stand tall and strong, waiting to be used.
You roll around, fragile, easily breakable.
Together we ignite something beautiful, that makes the world a little brighter.
It's nothing magic, just how we were wired.
One day I will fall, my intricate shade will crack.
My solid base absorbs the shock, so you remain intact.
Turned loose from me, you're ******* back into the old lamp from the closet.
Amazing, it still lights up, covered in dust and cobwebs.
A little warmer, yet a little more dim.
The only problem now, is that lingering scent, of burning dust and cobwebs.
You used me, but I understand.
Özcan Sh Jul 2018
She was like a maze
I tried many ways
Sometimes the gates
Locked my way
I still wanted  to solve the maze
Because her love
Brought my broken bulb
To shine again.
Gray Jun 2018
Empty white room only a light bulb remains.
“Stay here, and think.”

About what? Nothing to do, but look.
Looking at the light bulb.

Blank room.
Empty mind, empty mind.

They slam the door behind them.
Left alone for the first time.

Empty room.
Blank mind, blank mind.

What am i supposed to think about?
I plop myself onto the white floor.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Light bulb hangs.

I stand up.
Walk towards.

Light bulb.
Pull switch.

Click!
Light!

But the room already was lit,
Despite the lightbulb being out.

Please, remove me from this place.
Blank mind. Empty room.

I have no light bulb inside my head.
They are disappointed.
Özcan Sh May 2018
The love she gave me
Made a broken light bulb
Shine in my dark world.
lei Dec 2016
Ideas
that I have yet to form
are already at the tip of my tongue.

So, so close
am I to finding out what my next imaginary tale will be.

There it is,
I see it.

I'm reaching out,
the tips of my shaky fingers graze the warm glass.

I stretch,
and stretch,
and stretch.

I fall,
it falls and shatters, too.

So, so close
was I to finally knowing what my next dream would be.
sometimes,writing is something you want to, but are incapable of doing.
Simon Obirek Apr 2016
Hanging in space,
suspended in nothingness,
tiny little cubes
with rounded edges
glistening brightly
like bulbs;
they're moments.

Some moments are nice
and some worth writing about.
The best moments **** time;
Earth spins slowly,
your bones tilt
your guts twist
and then it's over
like blown-out candles
just like that.

The tiny little cubes are snapshots,
they capture the moments
and they won't shake them after they come out.
The cubes are collages
of your entire life
of the feelings you've felt
the experiences you've had
and your love wrote a cute note at the bottom of the picture.

The tiny little cubes go unnoticed
by most people
but you.
However,
the moments still exist
as long as there are someone
to remember them.
Caitlin Fox Dec 2015
Perhaps Grief’s stiff grip around my neck,
the one that robbed my throat of air and asphyxiated me,
is still coercing Mother Nature to make my walk a constant downpour.
This is always a possibility.
But what if said hold is one by one loosening its fingers, the blood gradually circulating back into its whitened knuckles?
I, too, feel recirculated, renewed, revolved,
like the sun’s final leg on her ellipsoidal path.
The colour has returned to flush my cheeks,
the radiance to frolic in my eyes
instead of being veiled by dark shadows,
because my heart has found a new light.
And it is that light, that candle’s bitty flame, that will not be extinguished
by the winds of confusion,
of muddled and undefined feelings,
of heartache.
No; this lantern follows closely behind me,
lighting the forest trail and inviting the sun to pierce through the treetops,
to illuminate the world with it.
It will not yield in guarding me,
overseeing my journey from rear attacks
and keeping my spirit warm.
Furthermore, I feel as though this light should maneuver alongside me rather than behind,
for we are equal,
we are one.
It is this light I find myself slowly clinging to
instead of the falsely beautiful mask Grief teased my heart with.
Yes; it is this new glow that I prepare to capture in a jar,
much like a firefly whose glow never fizzles out;
like a light-bulb with no expiration,
as I let it guide every direction I follow,
every footstep, one after the other.
Every breath I inhale.
Every breath I exhale,
without blowing out the flame.
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