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Myrrdin Feb 12
You are a collector
Of beautiful things
Art and artifacts
You can dust off
To show your friends
Turn the lights off
When they leave
For beauty is only real
If it makes others
Feel ****.
I finally understand
Why you only call me
When you're with them
And stop holding me
When they leave.
Wai Phyo Win Dec 2018
Who is the suiter, what they say?
flassless and pure as you are
Even a perfect cut diamond sure has needles and clouds as its born bigger
May not worthy for the museum collector
It has some value despite having major pinpoints and feathers
Rational thinking process is the only factor and matter
Based on true story
Anna Dec 2018
The small hands of a child
Are innocent
Reaching for fake animals
Or candy bars.
But his mother
Says he shouldn’t have been here
His father
Never kisses him.
He has nothing to reach for.
A child can be born without innocence.
Small hands can do more
Than reach for fake animals
Or candy bars.
A tiny killer, he is.
lifeonLSD Nov 2018
i like to be quiet
walk between the rocks

i like to watch them

watch them grow or morph
into so many different
shapes and sizes

if you look close enough
you can find nature’s
sublimes forming in lines
sending out glistering colours

i like to be part of
the change they go through
the process with time

it can take years
to stumble upon one

but when you do
you’re instantly drawn
and already hooked

blinding beauty
capturing the heart
they are much more
than just simply rocks

i pick them up

feel their edges
get cut by the pleasure
and now wherever i go
i take them with me

by closing my eyes
looking up to the sky

one by one i take
rubbing them together

i’m collecting stars

remembering their lives
once again
of sorts
Lauren M Sep 2018
Fingers laced together, I am a basket.
Take parts to build a heart: you will need
wild things, beautiful things.

Mostly you will need
things that no one asked for,
that no one expected.
Things that have no reason to exist,
but do.

Netted spiderwebs and nettle fistfulls.
Fish scales and cotton cattails.
Dragonflies skimming across the water in the early morning
and fireflies imitating stars in the somber dusk.
The eddies behind rocks that jut brashly from the river
and the ribbons woven wreath-like through wrens’ nests.

Hauled up by handles, dump everything somewhere
you wouldn’t mind living.
Apply heat, settle in somewhere
you wouldn’t mind leaving.
Let sit two to twenty four hours, stirring occasionally.

it lives.
Greg Jones Jul 2018
Downpour of the rain and midnight thunder soothes my brain.
I can fix this.
I need a breakthrough, I need something…
I just can’t think, I can’t create.
You sound like them, nervous and ready to condemn,
But I’m closer to truth, and closer to all the sickness
In their bones.

So I scratch out their names of another soul this disease claims.
And it just spreads, it always spreads.
Their eyes hardly sober now.
If they’re alive, then I can’t tell.

Silence of the room, it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad.
Stealing from the tomb, it’s not so bad, it’s not so…
Not so bad.

So I scratch out the names of the poor ******* I can’t save
To ease the blame.
The ghosts of humanity beckons for life I can’t provide
Or recreate, or sew the seeds of my good deeds.
I see the line, I can’t stop now.
I know I’m flirting with ****.
If I’m alive, then I can’t tell.

Pills and optimism seem to fail when I need
Strength to persevere but the light is fading.
I can feel the nightmares in my bones, persuading
Me to find solutions for the sick
So we won’t die.

Patience, I see that time has failed you.
Why did the people praise you?
Why did the people warn me
To keep you close by?

Hope, how could you betray me?
You were my one foundation.
Why did you decide to leave me
To suffer alone?

Darkness, I can’t begin to tell you
How much I’ve come to crave you.
Sorry I kept you chained up,
But I need you now.
Shadowhollow Jan 2018
He appeared one day
Unannounced and unexpected
Completely out of the blue
Something drew me to him
Maybe it was his secret darkness

He once told me he was a collector
And I , being the naive child I was , asked " of what , toys , trinkets or dolls ?"
He simply said " of all ."
And I couldn't quite comprehend what he meant
So being the child I was I forgot and instead told him stories of good and evil

Looking back I realise what he meant
He collected us , underage , vunrable, wanting love
We were like toys , trinkets and broken porcelain dolls

He put us up on his shelf , to be admired
After he was done with playing with us , he moved on
To a new toy , one much more naive

And then I finally realised what drew me to him
It wasn't  his secret darkness
But rather my inevitably to see it wasn't a secret
It was plain as day
And I being naive
Thought it was a secret he only told me
It made me special
But In fact it only made me one thing
Easy , easy prey for a cruel unforgiving beast
Known as a collector
It's not particularly about my life but i thought of it wanted to write it down .
Aishah Dec 2017
she collects


life gave her;

wilted roses,

broken loves
Jami Samson Nov 2013
You do not water me daily,
You allow me to parch
And count the seasons I perennate
With only a drop of what I thought
Was especially for me.
You do not tend to me,
You let me need you needfully;
You burrow deep into my soil
And untangle my roots,
You knew exactly the right fertilizer
To get me to grow.
You do not take me in at night,
You leave me in a greenhouse
I shared with the rest of other plants
You couldn't pick from,
Shivering, waiting for another day
I happen to flush rosier petals
And get your attention again.
You do not choose me,
You do not own me,
You do not love me;
You are not the gardener,
No you are not.
You are just a confused collector,
Visiting every parterre,
Plucking all the best flowers,
Chancing for the greatest find
Without the intention of keeping it.
You are not the gardener,
No you are not.
You are just a collector,
A lonely little lad
Running out of other pastimes;
And I am just a hobby
You do not take to heart.
But I am not a flower,
No I just am not.
I am the vase
Holding the flower
You knew could use your sunshine,
So you let it hang right where
It is almost there.
But I am not a flower,
No I just am not.
I am the vase
Holding that flower;
Maybe a porcelain you can break
Into many brittle pieces,
But never a plant
You can watch dry and die and be dust,
No I just cannot be.
I am a vase,
Not a flower;
And you are not the gardener.
I do not belong in your collection.
#46, Nov.16.13
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