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SMS Jul 23
walking around the isles of the corner store,
watermarks visible everywhere my feet take root,
lost, i start to find puddles i left behind,
the cashier glances three times over, concerned.

i trip, as i try to find the exit sign
sweat pooling, joining the puddles in an effort to drown me,
i pull out, crawling through sliding doors that have the decency to open for me, asphalt burning my palms as i get out, rocks scraping my knees.

the florist outside picks me up
with smiles and a bouquet of flowers,
unsure of what to say i duck my nose into their wiry stems,
just to find out, that the flowers are fake,
the smiles abundant of insincerity,

her kindness as meaningless
as the cashiers concern,
And once again,
I'm drowning.
Collabs give me so much stress. But as my man says, it’s the writing with him that I loved, not just the result. Thank you <3
Check out his poems!!
It is such a vivid mystery
a flowing constant change
It would be somewhat scary
but for your perceptive soul

Soured smooth vivid mystery
A flowing eternity
A stranger who is somewhat scary
Smooth-sailing journey.

Why is this dream still so vivid
And displaying in my night brain
Over and again over decades.
In a surreal setting that melds Times Square and The Grand Concourse.
With buildings mostly dark
Street lights reflecting off shiny pavement
and sidewalks
I walk in the empty streets
I'm alone on the night streets
'Glad of that, 'don't want a dangerous stranger lurking

My legs are strong yet tired, but I have plenty left
My legs are my greatest physical asset, for better or worse.
I don't know where I'm headed
But I want to be there, 'keep walking at a good pace.

Dusty aired steep shadow
Shoes heavy reigned
The empty place in
Time to search my night brain again
Ponder the walks behind my shoulder

Vivid with gushing candour.
I came home just when it started to pour
Timely shaken feet
Shifting close by the livid door.

Waking with the dream fresh and clear
As is the air, (it rained so hard last night)
Out with me goes my dog, to be
Among the clear crystal voiced Thrushes
In their Woods, which is theirs for this half of the year
I wonder what they say
I know they've never sung in Times Square
They're not singing of those smallest white violets
That grow in the wet
With their tiny purple lines on their bottom inner petals
Or about me
Or Sam
But probably about each other
About how lovely their songs are
How good they'd be together
Not about the crescent moon
Or about where I didn't know where I was going

I don't need to know their mystery
Or how the violets grow in the same place every Spring
After being under feet of snow and inches of ice
For the other half a year

Is this the other side of the dream?
The dream?
How do you know to say it differently?
Better? Vividly?
This poem is written by Jim Musics and Teri D. B. Yeo.

It was inspiring to co-write with a writer of teeming experience and life which really spill onto the page. Such an honour and delight!
Ashly Kocher May 2
When sweet morning dawns
giving dreamcatcher sight,
the bad dreams flee
unable to survive in light

Dream catchers are the magic trick to capturing your nightmares or so they say
Caught like flies in a spindly web, guiding you to the morning when you've lost your way
Hope it's gone for good
Not to return in the coming nights
Setting them free, never to return to that fight

They never say how to empty them or release the dreams, so I make a mosaic or poem out of it to set them free

Dream catchers attempt to make you feel better to sleep
Don’t hesitate to worry if you try and peek
No matter how long
No matter how short
Your beautiful nightmare
Will get trapped and restored
Waking up slightly confused
But yet wanting more

Let the cobwebs do its job
For when you fall asleep at night
Your dreams will be caught, and not lost
Wrote most of this myself, but some sections are from others who commented on my let’s collaborate post. Shoutout to those who commented. Add onto this if you would like, let’s see this write take off and take flight!
Sehar Jan 13
If love were a flower, would she bloom wild from the recesses of my soul?
If love were a jigsaw, would she craft the shards to heal me whole?

If love were a sapling, would she root, in soil and rain to be a mighty tree?
If love were a cloud, would her invigorating elixir breathe new life into me?
If love were fire, would she char my insides and from the ashes birth a phoenix?
If love were a tsunami, would plunging headfirst be worth the risk?

If love were a Volcano, would it erupt violently, then subside into dormancy?
If love were a Desert, would it’s heat drive away travelers, but staying reward sanctuary?

If love were a River, would it harbor my life towards another direction?
If love were the sun, would it pull me closer just to watch me burn?
My second collab with Austin Draper
It was a wonderful experience and im looking forward to more in the future!
Jonathan Surname Aug 2018
If it smells dead, it probably is
Rot makes no mistakes
I sit and spin my wheels and it takes
Everything inside of me

To rid myself of her stink
Seventeen years of parental nurture
Two weeks of preying in search for;
Only six minutes of squeezing to be

Left only to be filth again
Passed over and forgotten
Are my words too heavy for your song?
Sing loudly so I can hear you

Again, my pale skinned love
As I hover above and sweat into your mouth
Quiet swan song sung, splash of **** all too loud
Calm I grow as from you, I take my cue

Does my breath not fog glass as much as yours?
If I crawl away now, I won't appear to move.
Silently shaking and praying in search for
Something less living, something less grand

Bedside stories told to you once at night
A lone little light plugged in low by your closet
You feared the wrong monsters, and I felt that fright
It clung to the air; you were my first as by my hand.

But my hand pulls away now--
My fingers hardwired, pulling, reaching
For something warm to touch
And you were warm once, too
"Many Conversations at Once" series
collaborative poem, stanza trading

Jonathan Surname Aug 2018
If you speak of me in such oily vinegar,
then reply to me with joy subsequent,
I shall think of you as polar Cressida,
as she slalomed between bi-encampment.

To see your mouth forming my name-
Blisters peeled back so I may openly lament-
Of every rolling hill your fingers grazed carefully,
And every forged wanderlust you splashed upon my chest

Hellbent on spent days and evenings anew,
Lipped old promises freshly feigned undue.
Take me for bitter, and taste me all too sweet,
Storm whorled to ebb, still flow we accrete.
collaborative, unfinished but still i liked it a lot

Jonathan Surname Aug 2018
My home is a wasteland of cigarette butts and coffee cups
Help in repose for better mornings
Where a bitter taste in my throat lays dormant
And I think alone, in regret of nothing

As fresh *** brews and *** ignite, thumbing my finger ring.
Tracing back words in search for other purpose,
realizing secrets as regrettable burden.
Clear throat for first sip, and light a second cigarette.

It is not insomnia but rather being too bored to sleep.
It is not knowing what to do with your hands
When someone says they love you.
It is wanting to discuss film, art--
Hell, anything, with anyone--
Only to talk yourself down
Before the words escape your throat.
And yes, All the words come from there.
Some guttural utterance only heard for those that care.
That pesters you too.

All the nerves in all the world with all the words,
and there's nothing wrong with them in my head.
Passions intermix and weaken,
with every passing moment of thinking,
So I speak of Russian filmography,
mingle as hands press to small of your back.
In an instant, a stutter, a wide expression.
But my hands were always in my pockets anyway.

"Sometimes the curtains are just blue,"
An old professor told me once
From behind his olive green desk--
In front of a whiteboard that made him look small.
Curled over, I respected him more
For the fact that he knew
Nothing everything has a purpose.

Purpose is as purpose does, "I know I know nothing."
Pretentious is as we may be, sentences full of stuffing.
Like our shirts and puffing chests, teach me like you went to university.
Analyze in caffeinated anxiety every word ever said to me.
collaborative poem #2
"Many Conversations at Once" series, trading stanzas

Jonathan Surname Aug 2018
There is no more room to wander,
within the wild, blue yonder.
All the skies and seas are dead to explore.
No new ports, forgotten resorts; a lack
of ****** shores for rich men to ravish,
in search of riches much more.
Sea-faring clime possessed on the backs of child,
rode as destiny manifest,
wrote during storm, through mild.
More words than shores coalesced.

But the words explode from me—
Like some powerful wave meant only
To wash things that should not be, away.
Every syllable hovering, quivering
At the corners of my mouth—
As they carry me to beaches where feet
walk less timid, walk with less freedom
than I could ever hope to possess.

If we must be in hope and wish for probity,
in the minds and hearts and waters at sea.
Lift from masthead our daughters and brides,
so they last instead until martrimony decree.
And when vows written in logs of Captain
are all we accomplish lead by sextant see.
All things are permissible deep in our dreams,
yet chapel bell is rung not by sexton, but me.

I am my own Captain—
Luring those splashing wanderers not to safety—
I lead them to drown with me.
The extra weight needed, begged for
So that we may appear as a sixteenth century painting
Brushes stroked in the last sip of black tea
to mimic some reality
Ive only touched myself to in sleep.

We are agasp toward bottoms, and fall from heights.
Whereas one of us sinks,
the other heaves into dives.
We are without fathom,
as water stings our eyes blind.
Struggle, you cannot lack fight, it will happen
whether you wish.
We are both rats, a Captain between us,
forgoing a sinking ship.
You abhor tradition in lieu to survive.

Set it afire,
So we can watch from underneath
As through some television screen
The world we knew, we know
rise up in smoke to signal no one.
collaborative poem i did with a friend for a poetry event
"Many Conversations At Once" -- We traded stanzas back and forth

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