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Chris Neilson Jul 10
Me and Andy meandered
up Hilary's drive wasting time
adoring an odour at her door
of buried fruit so sublime
toying with words and attempting the art of playing clever-****
Simon Zec Jul 6
I could do one of those
A backwards written poem
But I can't be arsed
Seanathon Jun 13
Cloud and water
Is a way of thinking
Of presumptive of being

Which calms the minds
Of those who see shadows
In every corner

And demons in every shadow alike
Cloud and water
And perfectly shapen sky
Alan Watts was clever indeed
Balkus May 31
He knows a lot,
more than we do,
he's very clever,
he's got the highest IQ.

He knows his planets
and all the universe
like his own pocket,
he knows them best.

He knows the laws
of physics and nature,
his head is one big

But he doesn't know
one simple thing:
how salty are,
how salty are tears.

No, he doesn't know
this simple thing:
that salty are,
salty are tears.
Lillian May May 28
she walks with grace
and a deep, earned sense of place
she smiles
and as laughs tickle at her waist
others around can't help but follow in haste

she has no nickname,
no joke or snicker surrounding her frame
no clever breadcrumbs
to tell the story of how she became
she simply is, and exists as a flame

she has an air of peace,
and a soft, subtle feeling of ease
she opens her lips
and as she speaks
tears from his eyes begin their leaks.
I wonder what or who you picture.
Aaron LaLux Mar 30
Writing like it might matter,
not sure if it ever will,
but I’m liking the patterns,

emo’s composed in prose,
everything is real,
hug from a bear kiss from a rose,

forget the reference if you don’t already get it,
just don’t forget to remember to feel,
on the stage of life everyone’s a critic,

way past the line of scrimmage,
no gimmicks it’s all real in the field,
can I get a witness to this existence,

it’s ambition mixed with persistence,
if the pen is a sword then what is the shield,
could I please get some assistance,

people sticking their nose in where they have no business,
please let’s all take a moment to yield,
life is too short and time is only an instant,

a moment can’t hold it I think I’m slippin’,
trippin’ not fallin’ blessed with omens & skills,
equipped with an awesome equilibrium & instincts,

every thing’s mixing every one’s trippin’,
releasing toxins & catching feels,
publishing photos of self that come with clever captions,

producing pieces of prose as a thesis composed of our existence,
which seems to lead to an honest way to heal,
or is at least self perceived to be something that’s significant,

though in most instants it feels like nothing matters,
a fever & chills sets in as all intentions are revealed,
silly human there’s only now no before nor after,

writing like it might matter,
not sure if it ever will,
but I’m liking the patterns,

emo’s composed in prose,
everything is real,
hug from a bear kiss from a rose…

∆ LaLux ∆

badtaste Mar 13
all I want is one person to type all my thoughts into a poem
so that they can say
"It's harder than it looks..."
to any struggling poets and for clever (check her out)
Carmen Jane Mar 11
Strange little creature,
Translucent little wings,
Your body's feature,
Three little rings.
You're at my eyes level
As by design,
I remain bedeviled,
Maybe it's a sign!

On my wall, so bittie
I see you without life,
But, oh you're so pretty!
You walked on the edge of knife,
When you flew here inside,
That's why you died!

You just made your life shorter,
Brainless little bug,
When you crossed my bricks and mortar,
You pulled your life out of plug!

There's nothing here, for you to survive,
In these four walls of mine!
There's nothing here for you, to dine
Outside you should have stayed, just fine!

But then again, how did you find me?
You're final halt is at my eye’s level,
I think I finally can see!
You are a little bit of clever,
‘cause you, eternal life you've seeked!
You found this little humble poet,
And pulled on him a mighty trick
Cause now he wrote of you, a poem!
skye Feb 21
I can outsmart
your intelligent mind
by saying that
I miss you more
than you will
ever know.
a pick-up line that i thought of while writing about her mind
Curtis Owens Oct 2018
The little bird watched as His mother ate the magic berries
seen the bright in her beak, the shine in her wings and her frost colored feathers.
A force through her frame, Wild and beautifully un-tame.
“Mother may I have some berries?” Said the little bird
the mother turned alarmed, as If the little bird was harmed and hastened to say
“You may never eat the berries, not from this tree. These are for the big birds like Your dad and me”
The little bird heard and understood “This is for big birds like you”

The mother gathered up the berries and holding them in mouth the two began to fly.
The mother's wings spanned spaciously, taking in strong current, revolving in a torrent of play with her son.
These moments occurred from day to day with inconsistent frequency.  
Treasures of the sky folk.
As the son flew higher than ever before the mother begun to shout  
“Down son, down son. Not so close to the yellow ball Or you will fall”
Seeing the worries in the mothers face the son begun to descend
The son had heard and understood, they continued on in a lesser mood.

The son knew that today they seek father, high in his metal tower.
Locked behind bars.
They descended upon the tower and lay to rest on the ledge by its side.
The Son went to speak but was interrupted
The look at Father, he was a washed out grey, wore out wings and feathers.
“Do you have the berries” He said
The mother bird nodded and opened her beak placing it on his
The son knew this was a love kiss.
The wild force raced through his father but it didn’t seem like enough
the mother and father begun to slumber.
The son was resting warm in the light.

When the son awakened his parents were still asleep,
he noticed the un-natural arch of their feet? the stink of rotting meat!
the light had gone from the two.
The son was frantic and searched around looking for the magic berries
finding two he gave his parents one each and closed their mouths waiting for the light
but neither made a move.
A third berry he found and ate it himself.
He begun to fly, thoughtless, joyful, overwhelmed with love.
do you understand ?
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