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Evie G Sep 2022
But what becomes of those who make haste, who waste their given time to waste?
Who scorn at lovers walking by,
Who battle Eros, refuse to fly
Well within their guardians reach
Whos flesh-giving boundaries are impeached?

A tale that’s told a thousand times
But falls on Harpocates ears.
Like he who flies into the sun
each time his tale is told,
As greener leaves they turn to brown
As soon the nights grow cold
It’s written now, the Moirai are set.
All we ask,
Do not forget.
Thought it would be fun to vent in the form of a Greek tradgedy prologue, though it sounds a little more morality play style if im being honest. THOUGHTS!!! GIVE ME ANY AND ALL THOUGHTS
Rea Sep 2021
if one day, i get a love
half as bold and sweet
as the classics,
i will think i have won.
i would lose every loss again (and again)
just to keep this.
Miriam Mar 2021
Softly softly
I breathe thee in
Gently gently
I let love in
Slowly slowly
The healings doth begin
I wrote this short poem after reading and being inspired by the amazing poems of Emily Bronte noticing she often repeats the same word twice I liked the style :)
BrookandherBook Jan 2021
When people say "lost in a book"
few can know what it means
few are given the gift
to walk within the scenes.
To "get into a book" only takes a few pages
to step inside
and leave your body behind
and wish to never find your way back again.
To read is different to readers
those who have the gift
they do not remember concepts or words
they remember where they have been.
casper Nov 2020
My writing will never be nice.
It will never have rhyme or reason or hold iambic pentameter.
It is not typewritten on aged paper bought from a small bookstore, carried home hurriedly under a black coat in a downpour.
My experiences are not universal,
on the contrary,
they are painfully singular stories.
My writing will never be featured in a book,
or on the front page of a trusted source,
it will be buried away in a desk,
dormant with the other scraps of musings once cherished.
I am not one like Keats, Byron, Frost, Dickinson, or Poe,
I, for all intents and purposes, am a fawn lost in the forest,
admiring the sights and sounds around me,
listening to those wise ones who can describe them in such perfect tone.
It would be fair to say that I am not even a poet,
I am simply a brain that thinks,
A body that moves,
And a soul that feels that very special something.
Dated for the day it was written.
Norman Crane Aug 2020
Two posts emerged on my Facebook,
And sorry I could not peruse both
And be one user, long I stood
And scrolled down one as far as I could
To where it went into a long blockquote;

Then read the other, as just as shared,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was classy and about footwear;
Though as for that the likes there
Had rated them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
I believe with no comments written back.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever tap back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two posts emerged on my Facebook, and I—
I read the one less thumbed-up by,
And that has made all the difference.
michael Jun 2020
Around time scarred columns,
Sun bleached waves swell.
No songs or poems
Can say
What these weathered walls tell.
susanna demelas May 2020
First, Mother Nature met Diana.

Mother nature, autonomous woman
Place the elixir of life onto my tongue,
Three drops, put your mouth above mine
Let your saliva drip in
Touching the roof of my mouth.

I’ll now tilt my head back,
Choking as it runs down my throat,
A beautiful agony, as always
Into my body,
Down to my stomach,
The tonic of life,
Our life.
Now we shall create.

Second of all, with fountains of love, they created a child. They went on to call her Rosina.

let your bees come in,
pollinating, creating life
but only under my terms,
only when i choose
to let them feast upon me

let a small peach form
on the branches of my womb
but let her core be poisonous
hydrogen cyanide,
to keep thieves at bay

if my body is a garden,
let it be ripe,
ever growing, ever flowering
a stretch of soft grass,
for us to lay our heads

mother, mother, daughter
the heavens will sing.
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