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Z Sep 2019
Her gaze got the best of me
Burning bright and mahogany
I framed my fervor in filigree

hollow gestures, a pantomime
She just wanted to pass the time
Nearly twenty, too juvenile
To be anything more than tactile

A crowded room, a compact tableau
I still look for her where I go
A stubborn habit, it’s hard to quell
Maybe too callous, but I meant well

A little less than fortuitous
Resolution eluded us
Two strings, discordant synchronies
My pride, my wounded dignity
I've been listening to Hippo Campus a lot and I love the way they write so this is a *very* basic attempt at the style! Thanks for stoppin by
Khoi-San Feb 2019
Cloaked wings fuel feeds

Tongue loaded flint locked bullets

Eve stuck to her leaf
Stick to your instincts you probably right
Rachel Nov 2018
I'm acquainted with your suffering.
She's a friend of mine too.
Always on the verge of paralyzing primal fear.
The fear of never truly being seen your entire life.
The pain of feeling safe
Allowing your soul to be naked
Only to be coldly rejected.
I sink.
It felt like being slowly sliced open
Neck to belly button
Split open
Wild animals digging through my insides
Rooting around for my sweet meats.
All while being observed by an unfeeling audience
He's curious but he would never save me.
He loves a good tragedy.
I can't make a tremendous poem
It's too hard to portray
and construct words become pretty nice
I'm quite callous
for you, I just want to say
that I extremely like you
Kind hands learn to be calloused hands
under the thumb of others,
and around the fingers
of heathens mistaken for lovers.
Robin Goodfellow Aug 2016
Of sleepless meadows,
and cold, seething blades,
the last rose blossoms,
in the desert's cruel shade.

Lachrymose falls
to shadow's black crimson,
while its thorns cry out,
"Why won't they listen?"

The rose screams and shouts,
crying sweetly for its heart,
but vines choke it gleefully,
dooming it from the start.

Gun barrels and swords,
with dirt spewing everywhere,
and sadistic corpses fall
without a single care.

The sounds of their loved ones
still beckon them home.
But that love means nothing,
when you know you'll die alone.
Peter Watkins Sep 2015
I'm the sin, the very thing
that you refuse to believe in.
The solution to your problem,
the final step to cold, red redemption.

My hands act under your command,
my mind yours to dictate and bend.
All I ask, is you pay well, and I'll act
as is required to finalise our pact.

If you require death directed upon someone,
I can supply death, to whomever: the old and young.
I will leave no trace whilst efficiently killing them
however difficult it might be, I can solve your problem.

You might not like me, you may hate the act,
all I ask, is that you pay me for my tact.
If you summon me, need me, you're as bad as me,
but you can blame me; I only want the money.

I am both a solution and a murderer,
the dark part of man's mind that most fear.
I do that which other's can't handle, I am the weapon,
the people whom pay me, are the users of my lethal orientation.

Who's the most evil, I or my users,
I care little as long as I have pounds, euros, dollars...
A poem about a cold hard assassin whom cares for nothing more than money.
MsAmendable Aug 2015
I've run my fingers over the faces
of many men
Touching, yes, but trying so hard to feel
With my own numb heart
It is calloused from use, yes,
but no less tender
So I reach out my hands
And run my fingers over countless faces
As I try to feel again
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