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Ryan Clark Apr 1
Fatherhood is like carpentry,
Crafted with patience and care,
Each piece measured and cut with precision,
To build a home that's strong and fair.

The foundation, a steady base,
A father's love unwavering,
Like sturdy beams that hold up walls,
Through storms and winds unrelenting.

A father's guidance, like a level,
Ensuring every step is straight,
Teaching lessons, shaping character,
Like a master craftsman with every trait.

As children grow and set leave,
Fortified wings are left empty,
He never left until the job was done,
His masterpiece finally won.

So here's to all the fathers out there,
Your dedication, like carpentry,
Is a labor of love that never fades,
And builds a legacy for eternity.
Been a bit y'all. Got laid off the other day, I was stressing worrying about my little one. I was playing with open AI and got inspired.
i can
conjurer up words
mix delicate
intricacies of verse
with poetic license
i might defecate
upon scripted genius
   of the past
a scourge
on the eloquence
   of perfected prose
a pariah
with semantics
that hang in the air
like a frequented noose
the rhetoric of
this rhetoric
both dumbfounds
   and delights
the agenda of the learned;
to supress
the syntax spat forth
the phlegm and catarrh
of a gut
of derivatives

i could compose
a verse
for young lovers
   to cherish
if i could
only stop
the rot;
      or ignorance
i couldn't
tell you
JAM Mar 2022
one cliché here
one cliché there
one sober mess
and soberness
seems clear

the skies weep
and the sun is yellow
and poets dream
lovers quarrel

can't tell when it's time
to end a sentence
or verse

versus the mind
             ­                                        of
by a thousand erections
of towers to the weeping sky
under that yellow sun
and the green grass
and the tides
that ebb and flow

listening to the sighs of wind
in and out
breathe and pout
you'll never be
that is to see
the reflection of your soul
on mine

or some nonsense about loss
of time.
My Dear Poet Dec 2021
‘In her eye
is a butterfly’
I know…
sounds like you’ve heard this poem before
…may sound crass
But alas…allow me, a word or more

You may find
in the next few lines
what may sound a familiar tune
like butterflies and stars
heartaches and scars
or another poem about the moon

this one’s eyes are rare
like caterpillars they’re
brought alive without a womb
and she breathes new life
with the flutter of  her eyes
yet she needs no cocoon
AE Aug 2021
You carry with you pick-pocketed fairytales
In hopes to find something close enough to home
That can fill your glass half-full
You sew yourself into white noise
Soak your hands in spring waters
That rush down memory lanes
Putting together a mosaic
of the greener grass you saw
On the other side
Stitching together fragments of light
From the end of the tunnel
Even bought yourself some rose coloured glasses
To see the silver lining of every cloud
But it all falls short
When the tree stops bearing lemons
So, what does life give now?
Besides some shade and something to laugh about...
mark soltero Aug 2021
infatuated with me
you became my biggest enemy
something insincere about how you wanted me
i was there to take the edge off
coke binges at the bar every other night
and you wonder why your hairline is moving backwards
you caused my mood to lose all stability then
crying for your attention
you were starving for us to look past your lack of personality
you didn't need a reality show
you needed a reality check
at the time you were 23
way too old for me
you were grasping at straws to be pretty
we can see the crow's feet setting in and your liver failing
no amount of jogging can bring back your peak
you're the biggest cliché
you go to emo night unironically
you said you saw yourself in me
we are not the same
remember you were a prom king
Bipolar Poet Jul 2021
When the song of love plays,
I won't have it on repeat.
When love is in the air,
I'll wear a mask. Don't need to get love sick.
When love tries to brush,
I'll stand my ground, not to get swept off my feet.
When love holds a knife,
it won't steal my heart. I won't entertain a thief.
And when love goes lost,
it won't make me cry or give me grief.

But isn't that what we all say?
Till love does all of those things,
and we fall in love one day.

Yes! Love is definitely strange.
noura Apr 2021
You must have known.
That day I held your hand and you held my gaze
And the air was thick with smoke and unspoken words and tiresome clichés.
Your eyes crinkled softly like they always do.
Always, always in the pretentious books I would pour over for hours as I try to envision myself right there,
Comforting myself with the idea that someone, one day, will dance with me to the sound of nothing but two hearts beating in unison.
There is something desperately intimate about oxygenation.
Always in these silly, profound books, they describe their darling’s eyes with every hue known to man.
Deep, aquamarine, sparkling crystal orbs that you would be so happy to drown in.
Entrancing and stormy forests.
Pools of warm honey with gold flecks in them, sweet as dandelion wine.

I will not condescend to compare your eyes to saccharine.
Or bodies of water, for that matter, or trees.
I will not waste time equalizing them to shades of the rainbow.
What are eyes, really,
Other than a means to see?
All that is beautiful and all that is clean.
I hold my own eyes in higher esteem than yours, dear,
Because they allow me to revel in the way yours light up when you smile.
How the skin underneath creases and wrinkles in all the most endearing ways
Like the infinite pages of a book in some foreign language
That only I can understand.
The ability to do so is a prerogative of the infatuated.

I wonder if you’ll let me read this book more often now that we’re here, two forgotten souls grinning stupidly at each other in the dark.
You must have known, then, that I would spend every day of the rest of my life reading this book if you only allowed me to do so.
Embedded in my mind was the way the corners of your mouth shot up towards the heavens.
I did not have to trace it to know that it was there.
You must have known.
There was not a crumb of my being you did not hold in the callused palm of your hand.
All of the streetlights were doused by the blanket of the night and it was truly not a movie-worthy moment because there were no stars and the moon was out of sight and there were stray cats padding around in the neglected garbage dumpster and I could not even remember why we were laughing so hard and I loved you.
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