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A M Ryder Mar 9
Loss is
a collaborative art
Between the people
Who leave us
And those
who remain
We dance with
the shadows
Of their absence
A Dead Poet Feb 22
Solitude becomes a choir,
  An illuminating echo that turns into a horrid cacophony.
        Harsh reminder of a dreamer who could not dream,
                    A painter who could not paint . . .  
                          A singer who could not sing . . .
                                Come and calm this song, Come and save me,
                                     From this anxiety, that steals the value of my life.  
Fireworks explode, they color your eyes.
     Do not sing, do not paint, do not dream, simply write.

Artistry cannot erase desire.
   But it can fuel your fire and desire.

Let each stroke, give you sensations.
   Of my hand on yours, a state of warmth and delight.

Nonetheless when you suffer,
      And beg for โ€œHELP!โ€ know.
                I am never.
Fun Collab with the incomparable Nan โค
stone the bear Jan 2019
the unfamiliar caterpillar
woke to the day
but it was all new
nothing the same way.

why would he stay?
when his body was sore
he woke up on new years
and his fears no longer bore

with his shed of a past life
everything is strife.
but with wings,
every little thing
gleams and feels


right then left then right again.
there you are, my friend.
Happy new year.

-Jac + mac
Thank you, Jac.
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 meโ€”
Like some powerful wave meant only
To wash things that should not be, away.
Every syllable hovering, quivering
At the corners of my mouthโ€”
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 Captainโ€”
Luring those splashing wanderers not to safetyโ€”
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

Danni Oct 2014
Wondering where you've been all my life.
Take me into your loving arms.
I just started living.
Darling, I will be loving you till we're 70.
Kiss me under the light of a thousand stars.

When you say you need me,
know I need you more.
Place your head on my beating heart.

I'm scared.
Oh, so scared.
But when you're near me,
I feel like I'm standing with an army
of men armed with weapons.

Maybe we found love right where we are.

I love lying next to you.
I could do this for eternity,
you and me.

When my hair's all gone and my memories
I know you will still love me the same.

When you say you love me,
know I love you more.
This is a collaborative poem with lyrics from Miley Cyrus' song "Adore You" and Ed Sheeran's song "Thinking Out Loud"

— The End —