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Omar Jan 23
I write to you

pages of my lost years


between the absent present

and the distant past

I write to you

my thoughts burn out

in my mind

and the smoke comes out

from my ears and mouth

the cloud weeps over my head

and the flower blooms inside my heart

I write to you

my words turn into chaos

into fictional stories

turns into a trifling joke

without meaning

without taste

I write to you

like an adult

would do

but your love taught me

not to grow up

to remain a child

and just let it go

I write your name

this time on the wall

with a yellow chalk

and sit there

watching the drops of rain

dissolving your four letters name.
Aa Harvey May 2018

She is a rainbow of colours inside a black and white TV.
She is dancing in the streets of Paris with gaiety.
She is eloquence unnecessary, for she is perfect for me.
She is grace beyond call;
She is sympathy to misery.

She is what you would never expect her to be.
She is here; she is with me.
She is the One who would make Cleopatra suffer from envy.
She is beauty, she is tragedy, she is my remedy.
She is all things to me.

She is lost in a wish that may never be.
She is hoped for more than you could ever imagine.
She is an artist, she is relevant and she is necessary.
She is beauty personified…

Paint a chalk outline of me.

(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
vanda czene Mar 2018
Chalk sliding down the blackboard, a painful screech
That screams at you to cover your ears
To shield your tympanic membrane
from the date Brutus got Caesar killed
Et tu mi fili Brute?

The prof looks up to survey the landscape:
The usual gaping sheep and sleeping (g)apes
Shakes his head, then lifts the chalk to trace
-Insert white chalk on the black board screech-
Et tu mi fili Brute?

Meanwhile, white flowers fall from a tree
Somewhere near, you lock eyes with a bee
Then turn back to the history T
In time to see the chalk cease to be.
Et tu mi fili Brute?

Wiped eternally, you missed the date
How could you miss such a vital piece
Of world history. You never dared
Imagine you’ll see four times still:
Et tu mi fili Brute?

Fast forward to present here I am,
And though I know the date and deed,
I failed to see the greatest deeds
Gave it a name and made it wear black
Et tu mi fili Brute,

Do you know what you really missed?
It would never fit a couplet.
Poetic T Mar 2018
I found chalk on the holding
of sky shimmers, then I composed  
on the blank spaces that where
echoes of what was drawn in
memories of yesterdays dreams.

Barren slate needed the imagination,
woven between fingers streaming
across an arborealis of creativity.
I am the drawer of dreams that
were colourless and now fill a void.

I outlined the slumbering's  of what were
just blank smudges. Now revitalized,
I'm within this moment, a collage of
colourful wishes that I created before I
look smiling, tomorrows imaginings drawn again.
Dreams are drawn before there seen
Poetic T Oct 2017
When I wept before you
watching my emotions fall like
                               crayon colours

Painting the floor with immature
did you read the colours I spelt..

Or did you just see irregular patterns
                spelling out my pleas...
that were like chalk drawings
                                       to your understandings
Paul Jones Jan 2016
The storm has passed. Its     surrender was swift
as chalk wiped away     from a wet, slate board.
Erika Castaldo Nov 2016
Right in the middle of the busiest area of the Poconos, the group of condos sit in a large circle. The sky is dark, for it has been hidden from all possible sunlight by the many awnings and porches that join the different housing units. On one side of the condos the neon lights from the bar next door shine through the children’s windows, but the more occupied side the parking lot is lined with fast food restaurants- clumped together and riotous with large families that frequent them, juggling their small children and many diaper bags; and noisy cars speeding past with loud engines, pungent, murky exhaust spewing out of the back and police sirens constantly blaring down the street. In the parking lot encircled by the condos the tenant kids run around full of light yet somehow full of darkness at the same time. The older kids come out of the small houses to sit on the sidewalk in the evening, and the cracked sidewalks are covered with the faded chalk drawings left there by the youngsters earlier in the day, and with the sheets of crumbled up paper containing poetry no one would ever read, and with the old needles and discarded blunts of their parents who had left them there over the course of the day.

There is one unit in particular, a unit with a broken door from the many men who had tried to force their way in, a unit with holes in every wall that were put there by flying fists and thrown objects that had missed their true target- the oldest daughter. In front of the many holes in the their smiles are fake and their hugs are forced.
Liam C Calhoun Nov 2016
She signs in the
So that I may see –
Drizzled words, despots and
Defiance, never defeat.


She cries in the
So that I may never see –
What could never be cured, be
Culled; our calamity.


I walk on in the
So that I may never learn how to –
Fix, never learn to forgive,
Most certainly, to forget.


It’s just that simple in the
Sign, cry or walk –
We become disposable,
And like chalk on sidewalks,

          We all wash away.
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