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Elegant roses with petals so bright.
I think about you often you left in the night.
You said I didn't care but you didn't either.
I'm tired of being sick.
Am I running a fever?
I was once a strong beliver in someone above.
Now I can't see past the stars.
I think about love.
I'll drink in the night; sing in the morning.
I have a lot of problems, but cant start the mourning.
Warning signs keep me awake all the time.
Because I don't wanna be alone when I die.
So I have made a goal.
I think about it often.
It's already been done.
Believe me it's important.
The key to my sadness is what drives my life.
Metaphors and smiles are what I show outside.
I cant sleep alive, and I dont dream about death.
Maybe one day I can see you again.
It could be the first time, but its probably the last.
I won't know until the time has past.
So I'll sit around with my pack of Turkish Royals.
Thinking of you.
Thinking I'm Royal.
Erik Whalen Nov 2018
As usual, the last juice in my phone battery petered out as the bluetooth speaker positioned on the picnic table started beeping and repeating the word "pairing" over and over.

That was the last bit of company that I would be able to fool myself with that night.

The rustle of the mighty firs and the deafening quiescence of the oak trees proved to be a captious audience, with the only essence choking back the seeping darkness a fire pit, searing brilliantly at nightfall.

The flames crackled and burst in the sap-filled wood, giving me an opportunity to drown the eve in the fire's sporadic, propulsive popping.

With no more music to accompany me in the night, I tuned my old guitar, which was resting in the backseat of my car, and I slowly worked out the notes to several melancholy acoustics that I treasured in earnest and frequented as I did eating and breathing.

My world should be quiet, but my brain never sleeps.

As if possessed by a sudden desire to purge old memories, I threw that old album that we so cherished in along with the next few logs.

In a panicked frenzy, I pulled the book as quickly as I set it down, hands searing from the heat, and I stamped out the flames with an old coat I had brought with me.

Throwing another log onto the campfire, I took a dried rag I had soaked in some copper chloride and watched as the flame that came out shined almost a sea-foam green, different from the azure I was expecting.

For once, the aforementioned seeping darkness had crept to the corners of the campsite as the brilliant display lit up the whole area, proving to both be a fantastic show of color as well as the first truly chromatic moment that had happened in ages.

No one had come, of course. It was as expected. It's cold as a glacier and there's hardly any beer, so I wouldn't really blame them.

That's it, maybe we're thinking glass half full.

Slumber met me with its sweet embrace, the only silence I would permit to befall me and the only silence I had been grateful to.

Pale sunshine pierced through a single cloud in the morning late.

A crisp chill and the light drip-pat-pat of the falling rain outlined my mood better than my words were able to.

I'm not sure what I need to feel satisfied, but a glass half empty is not a glass half full.

I checked my phone, which had been on a power bank all night, hoping to have companionship other than a text from my parents or a message from my girlfriend telling me to cheer up again.

Of course, the phone was only at 25%, and I had better get moving if I wanted to be home and enjoy the constant rattling of every day life that drowned these natural sounds out.

If I'm only half-here, then I might as well leave.

I must have been the last one to have been ground to rubble.

I had remained oblivious for many years, before I knew what it was to be without my trademark foolish optimism.

That pale sunshine would have served me a fiery orange, scorching the awoken sky in a torrid, infectious sprightliness.

What was once a glorious, chromatic panorama had become a single, stilted picture frame long discarded, the glass broken from frequented moments of reminiscing.

If I had left months ago, would any of you have remembered me?

As I prepared to leave, I picked up that old photo album, now singed at the edges, and picked up my slippers from the side of the fire pit, which were left to dry and instead showered in the early morning.

I threw the photo album in the trunk and packed the rest of my belongings, heading back home to Camillus where I could pretend that all of this noise was good for me.
Hey guys! Just a little string of free-form lines that I came up with during a choral observation last night, hope you enjoy them!
yosemite Oct 2018
dirt and horse ****
these hiking boots are filthy

huckleberries and dehydrated beans
his tongue is stained

**** and sweat
that sleeping bag is ruined

serenity and harmony
my mind is whole
reflection after two-week section hike of the Oregon section of the PCT
Merwin Nikad Oct 2018
To live another day
In remembrance of my past
There is pain in these words
I miss the moments
Of nervous limbs
And questioning thoughts

I wish to relive
That nostalgia
Fire mear by
And you were just a little high
With that moment
I felt happy

Now I am far away
The south of the north
And you are where I was
Before we met
I could only ask
To relive that moment

Curious eyes
Starry skies
Nervous limbs
Fire nearby
And questioning thoughts
For a friend i havent seen in a while and that i miss dearly
Jesse stillwater Aug 2018
.
I’m just a lonely traveler
   on this earth
Sometimes it feels as if I'm
waiting for the sky to fall
with each passing breathe
       of wind

   Standing alone,
   a windswept tree
   leans downwind;
conspicuously wrought,
   ***** and bowed
   by the grinding
      silent forces
  at nature's whim

Rootless tumbleweeds
roll by randomly:
    broken off,
spinning clockwise,
never looking back,
timeworn and tired
of resisting the prevailing
    high desert wind
and its unheld temper

Rattling the tinder
   dry sagebrush
like songless wind-chimes;
    voiceless fugitives
wreathing a bellowing silence


    Jesse Stillwater
Thank you for reading
Danielle L Cook Jul 2018
I want to go camping
no I want to live in the woods
That's also my cats name
Debbie Brindley May 2018
Thank you mum
for our precious times
that were filled with so much fun 
Our wonderful family holidays 
Starting when we were very young
Waipatiki beach such a beautiful place 
With the sun and the sea breeze on our face
Mum and Aunty in a caravan 
us kids would pitch our tents
Chuck on our togs, grab a towel
off to the beach we went 
Campsite was in a paddock 
Adjacent to the beach 
We had camp beds 
so mattresses were off the ground
So for us the evening chill did not reach
Sometimes a friend was able to come 
this would really add to the fun  
Such a special place this was
where the river meets the ocean
Late at night as we lay in our tents
we'd listen to the waves motion
Time spent at the beach  
searching for sea crustaceans
with mum and aunty
on our seaside family vacations
We'd swim in the River 
swim in the Sea
Such wonderful memories these are for me
Had to rewrite.
Wonderful holidays with mum, Aunty Rose
our cousins my siblings and sometimes a friend. Fabulous memories x
effie ebbtide May 2018
in the cabin green my legs were resting within the
sleepingbag on the floor (parents had the bed) i drifted
then drifted back when the door knocked i saw
the night and the night said "let's go" and we went
to wherever the night went when they woke.
down the steps white-painted wood to
the pit where a fiery group coalesced into flames
the amalgamation was chanting stories of disembodied hands
that grab the ankles of unsuspecting campers (i flinched) then
the night lead me, with their starry hand, to bales of hay
which i stacked into a staircase forgoing the horseticks to climb
upon a truck parked overnight -- i wanted to touch
the night but the night, their ethereal moon pointed my way
had to say goodnight and gave way to dawn.
We can go camping
Make love in the leaves
Under the cinematic night sky
There's nothing that would please
More then that
Shooting star
Blessings from afar
I hope I'm on par
With your beautiful soul
Pick a place you want us to share
And I wouldn't dare
To argue you on it
Anything it takes to put that gorgeous smile in that face
I will do
You say please
I put your legs on my shoulders
Ready to please
Let me play your favorite song
While I put in my dedication
My only healthy medication
Levi Bradford Apr 2018
The massive plastic rafts get passed on and
loads of new patrons climb aboard,
looking to face a hundred million gallons of white water,
and perhaps find something out there.

Our love has come and gone,
the trip down the Pigeon River behind us,
and we multitudes sorely pack the busses again.
We flop into out shared experience--
a brown leather seat with absolutely no buckles
in case of the end.
We are headed home.

The highway is constant and clear,
and the bus bucks and ebbs and soon
we are convinced it is the mother of us all.

The boy next to me begins to bob his head like a boat at sea
and soon, he capsizes onto my right shoulder.

I don't move, cherishing my place in his
momentary grace;
the calm part of his tumultuous river,
the cigarette to his stooping weathered old man.

Not after a long time,
he shakes awake,
lifts his head and is clearly embarassed.
He doesn't grin or apologize,
just makes small talk, moves slowly forward
down this relational river.

The kids on this bus see a tunnel coming towards us,
and it is subsequently announced.
"Tunnel ahead--everyone hold your breath!"

Everyone gasps as we enter the ground.
It is dark, and I am grateful for this moment,
and I breathe deeply for the first time
a breath not shared.
I was a camp counselor one summer. One boy acted out a lot in order to stand out, garner some attention. That same summer, I had a crisis of identity in myself, while I AND a crisis of relationship to person who would become my spouse. How could I figure out who I was in relation to this person without knowing who I was in relation to myself? This is a poem about a small respite from those feelings.
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