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For, Silence she chose, to let time reveal the truth,
Clandestine promises she kept, not to get misconstrued,
When fear in believing people, strangled her to death,
For, silence she chose, to let time reveal the truth,
Blind love and compassion she had bestowed with strewth,
On the one, who gave back false hopes with betrayal, all to feud,
For, Silence she chose, to let time reveal the truth,
Clandestine promises she kept, not to get misconstrued.
The triolet is perfect for this kind of repetition, because the first line of the poem is used 3 times and the second line is used twice. If you do the math on this 8-line poem, you'll realize there are only 3 other lines to write: 2 of those lines rhyme with the first line, the other rhymes with the second line.
Words' Worth Jul 4
The average worker can work for 15 hours
A man can provide for his children a meal a day
Children lose the ability to educate themselves
Once they start work, a stated routine, a stated marriage
They are someone else's property
Man is the only creature, that let's their fathers die in the jungle
And their mother die in someone's arms
Man is the only creature, that can tan-hide his brother
But, there is a stated routine for the brothers
For the brothers need to be bred for work
Like milked cattle on milch barns
All standing in long lines waiting for the next mile of grass
Man can **** man over some grass and coke
By grass I mean land
By coke I mean a limey drink for 20 cents
I guess men could be better without their possessions
Imagine it without the drugs or bummed smokes
Imagine life without the movie stars and all the signs
There is a stated routine in how we keep buying
Putting our mattress kings to sleep on cushioned beds
While our workers eat the pavement and dirt every fine day
Like I said man can **** man, over money and love
How ironic that money buys love.
r Jun 3
Cuando pienso en tí,
mis dedos se enfrían
me sumerjo en los nudos.

Te enfrento con mi mente
mi cuerpo pica
pero no puedo hablar.
My first attempt at a Spanish poem (I like to say I am loosely fluent!)
there may be some mistakes but please point them out to me because I just want to learn !!

anyone want the translation?
Daa Rajab Aug 2019
It might be said:

It seems like I haven’t written in some time,
And for the most part, I feel like the culprit of an unconscionable crime,
Since I have concealed the truth;
The resonating echoes of suffering endurance
As tears relentlessly rolled from my eyes.

I don’t mean to superficially endorse my emotional inconsistencies.
You see, I’m not one to drag my legs after the crowd of glaring faces,
Who tend to blindly follow the patches of dirt so deeply treaded upon,
Holes of inescapable traces become no more than hazes... shadows
Embedded within their hearts… for they will not, and cannot turn back.

Yes, I do see the monotonal wisps embedded within the pits of my world every once in a while.
Blacks and whites come in more than the empty, obscured skies,
Of brightly-scattered stars every twelve hours.
This place is not an epitome of intricated shades
Painted on an innocent, blank spread of canvas.

They can never turn back, though they decide so blindly,
Alongside their extravagant loops of wonder, interwoven within the flutters of unprecedented laughter,
Curling lips, rosy cheeks,
As they glance up to the blinding streams of light…
The one they thought was theirs.

But they weren’t theirs; they were nothing more than clandestine deceit,
Clearer than the fullest moon in the pitch blotches of a long, lonely night,
Stretching into the depths of their deep-rooted perceptions,
The strands of monotone they so greatly ignored.

I choose to see the blacks of night,
And the whites of light in my world;
It clears my vision,
Despite being psychologically-driven.
Sometimes, the one you love
Is the underlying monotone you blindly overlooked.
I think with my mind,
And not with my heart.
You see... I'm a bit complicated.
Mystkue Writings Oct 2018
We say our exes are our exes for a reason.
Let it be lessons you learned helped you grow
Why let history repeat itself in a new season?
Don’t be the ex,
Trying to ***** over the next-
‘Cause you emotionally attached.
For this clandestine will bring you to an all time low.
You see.
Your ex, might just hurt the next-
With the revelations of y’all meetings
Whether it’s the secrecy or even the frequency
You must know they more inclined to make up before they break up
You see you the ex
And when it was y’all time,
Did you both put forth the effort to try your best
It’s apparent that you had break up,
‘Cause there was no more for either party to gain, if you made up.
That’s why-
We say our exes are our exes for a reason
You’re not their scapegoat or justification for treason.
a man
was spying
she went
into his
eyes and
there appeared
to shine
with a
lank shimmer
their Byzantine
glimmer the
rings in
silhouette save
iris fell
optic to
opine psychedelia
gone mad
a note  on sychedelics gone mad or young in espionage
Eleanor Sinclair Mar 2018
Meet me in the deepest reaches of my heart
Past the hushed voices in my mind
North of what others whisper
Just a few miles from sanity and sense
Meet me in the deepest reaches of my heart
Enter through the gate of No Return
And kiss my lips like it will be the last time
Drink my body in like I'm part of you
Look into my vacuous eyes and tell me how you love me
Compliment me the magnificent way you do
And give me something to adore about myself
Meet me in the deepest reaches of this heart of mine
Continue into the void that will be our existence
I whimper goodbye
Painfully clandestine
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2017
Shh...
You can taste it, can't you?
The nectar of the forbidden fruit,
the music that dances in your ear.
Crashing on bed,
the sheets ripple as you're lost to the
beat.
Your heart's aflame.
Tendrils of adrenaline begin to spark
and spread through you, from the
fingertips to your bedroom eyes.

Naked,
the silk sheets caresses massage your body.
Strokes like gossamer wings
flutter in you,
around you.
The golden sax becomes a sensual purr,
as you are kissed by the smooth
sounds of sweet murmurs.

Tongues are chisels
that leave you some sheen.
Fingers are brushstrokes,
that combs your chest and
forgets no details
as it traces shapes over
your goose-prickled flesh.
Writhing in the pleasure of
golden smoothness, with
lucid silhouettes of heated
summer layers during wintered nights.

The sax growls through your ears,
and all that is seen are its glittering lips,
the promise of the sweet doom and amour fou...

For
nothing is more
liberating,
nothing is more
enthralling than
the
carnals
thrill of the illicit.

A candied fingers to your lips...
This is kind of a first for me. I never usually write these sorts of poems, but hey! First time for everything. I was listening to some jazz music and man,
there is nothing more **** than the sound of the sax to me! I just let it flow while writing.
ryn Apr 2016
There isn't a place for us
to exist in the day.
The magnanimous sun reveals too much
for common eyes to see.

But come night,
dimmed lamps be our aide.

We sink into each other
with little reservation.
We overlap, intertwine
and merge.

Inadvertently blending
into darkened backdrops,
we get absorbed in our very own
shadowplay.
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