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Love is wild

Maybe too wild for me.

And I used to believe that it was a mistake for these poor boys to love me.

To try and catch me, but now it’s clear to see.

They are the wild things and I am desperately trying to catch them. running, running and scraping my knees.

When I realize that I cannot love, that I could not tame such wild beasts?
Back in 2018, I wrote a poem called wild thing. It’s still on profile if you want to read it, but the other day I realized that roles are now reversed. Instead of trying to catch me, I am trying to catch them. I guess it’s all part of being single. Enjoy and leave a comment ❤️❤️
Long after your gone my head spins
Your calculating web of doubts
Is it me or you the spider
Of this misery sightless yet stout
The glimpse into a victim of emotional abuse
Richie May 9
A prodigal as myself
A man whose beliefs are solely his
Filtering as much as I can
till I sence clarity.

Clearity is my obsession
Nothing beats that smell and  the satisfaction they bring
Exclusively I poke all the theoriticals as they have side lines of  too many holes.
question of substandard hypotheses

I'm a prodigal cuz I question alot, forgive me as till I drown in your mind I might never be satisfied.
But yet
Only One  will I follow blindly.
Writing this Poem gave me an insight to the clarity I been seeking and I had to end it different than I intently thought. Made me realize sometimes the answer u need is withing , hidden in a clouds of poetry yet to be manifested
nance Apr 30
she begged to shine
as a diamond does;  
but she begged for death
when the pressure comes;
as the volcanic eruption
lets her go;
she got through it
and brightly shone.

don't ask to be a diamond
and not expect pressure.
Nolan Willett Apr 27
Because we thought inebriation
Aided an understanding
Of metaphysical creation,
And dulled our wistful longings
That could never be fulfilled:

We turned to tablets and things distilled.

But we are poets
We see things clearly;
The only essential is artistic focus-
To distort reality;
If my body is a temple,
Then my brain is a deity.
Just not excessively
Pity Clarity
by Michael R. Burch

Pity Clarity,
and, if you should find her,
release her from the tangled webs
of dusty verse that bind her.

And as for Brevity,
once the soul of wit—
she feels the gravity
of ironic chains and massive rhetoric.

And Poetry,
before you may adore her,
must first be freed
from those who for her loveliness would ***** her.

Published by Contemporary Rhyme (January 2005) and The Columbus Dispatch (Sunday, April 3, 2005). Keywords/Tags: Poetry, pity, clarity, obscure, webs, dusty, verse, brevity, gravity, irony, chains, manacles, massive, rhetoric, imprisoned, prisoner, jailed, *****, ******, *******
An Obscenity Trial
by Michael R. Burch

The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints
against whom several critics cited numerous complaints.
They accused him of trying to reach the "common crowd,"
and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud.

The prosecutor alleged himself most artful (and best-dressed);
it seems he’d never lost a case, nor really once been pressed.
He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity;
twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality.

The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind,
though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind.
Clerics called him the "Hanging Judge" and the critics were his kin.
Bystanders said, "They'll crucify him!" The public was not let in.

The prosecutor began his case by spitting in the poet's face,
knowing the trial would be a farce.
"It is obscene," he screamed, "to expose the naked heart!"
The recorder (bewildered Society), well aware of his notoriety,
greeted this statement with applause.
"This man is no poet. Just look—his Hallmark shows it.
Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar! He speaks without a stammer!
His sense of rhythm is too fine!
He does not use recondite words or conjure ancient Latin verbs.
This man is an imposter!
I ask that his sentence be . . . the almost perceptible indignity
of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster!"
The jury left, in tears of joy, literally sequestered.
The defendant sighed in mild despair, "Might I not answer to my peers?"
But how His Honor giggled then,
seeing no poets were let in.

Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad
and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad.

Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea and Poetry Life & Times
i haven’t written in two years
this one goes out to music
and the stars
because who needs a person when you’ve got all your favorite songs to sing you to sleep

this time last month i’d be waiting
sitting and waiting
and waiting and waiting
waiting to feel something
and i’d get in my car and i’d drive
seal myself up in my own little world where i couldn’t feel anything but the bass rattling my lungs
and the stars

all of the stars are out
although it doesn’t seem like it here
not like at home
but i imagine them
just me and the stars
and our favorite songs
and we drive
and we sing
and it’s perfect

Lisa Conway Feb 21
I sit and wonder why?
I'm sat here and wondering.
Why am I wondering why
I'm sat here at all?
I'm looking for clarity
To define it all
To give me an answer to
A question
I never knew I asked

So where is the answer
To my question
At the bottom
Of my coffee cup?
Or At the end
of my garden?
I'll never find an answer
As I never knew the question

Then my mind becomes
Clear and finally
finds the clarity
It needed
To sit and wonder
Why I was wondering why
I was sat here wondering
At all

© L Conway 2020
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