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Em MacKenzie Jun 20
She’s always been the apple of my eye,
once on a branch far too high.
Both the sun and moon within my sky,
I’ll love her until the day I die.

When she walks on me she walks without shoes
and when she puzzles me she still gives me clues.
She takes my blacks and makes them blues,
but does she have as much as me to lose?
And in every life will it be me she’ll still choose?

She’s my everything and more;
the only one I scribble these silly poems for.
Almost in my blood, she’s in me to my core,
the only one I could ever adore.

When she talks to me she talks without game,
each word she says is soft, I love the way she says my name,
it’s nothing noticeable but noticeably not the same.
She sets me ablaze from a simple flame,
a breath of air that I wished for came.

It’s something that no one could understand
and each day it only seems to grow.
I could cut off and sever each hand,
and still not manage to ever let go.
I wake up and cherish every single day,
and I’m thankful for each past and coming year.
My love I could never drift away;
I was always meant to be here.
Louise Jun 4
I didn't even ask him
what kind of music he digs,
for his voice alone
is my new favorite record.
I didn't bother finding out
his kind of taste in music,
for my newfound orchestra
comes from his lips.

I didn't even ask him
what kind of films he watch,
for even reality feels like a movie
when he came from the side door,
that's a film I've never seen before.
The ****** is when I was falling
and he was there, ever ready,
waiting and willing to catch me.

I didn't even find out
what kind of books he reads,
for his way with words
is already a novel of poetry.
I didn't even dare ask him
what he thinks of the bible,
for his articles and greetings
alone are my homily.

I didn't even find out
if our taste in music, cinema and literature matches and if I should go otherwise.
You only do that in shallow,
short-lived connections.
I didn't even bother finding out
if our taste in things aligns,
for he already spiced up my
underseasoned life.
irinia May 22
A drop of water fell on my hand,
drawn from the Ganges and the Nile,

from hoarfrost ascended to heaven off a seal's whiskers,
from jugs broken in the cities of Ys and Tyre.

On my index finger
the Caspian Sea isn't landlocked,

and the Pacific is the Rudawa's meek tributary,
the same stream that floated in a little cloud over Paris

in the year seven hundred and sixty-four
on the seventh of May at three a. m.

There are not enough mouths to utter
all your fleeting names, O water.

I would have to name you in every tongue,
pronouncing all the vowels at once

while also keeping silent — for the sake of the lake
that still goes unnamed

and doesn't exist on this earth, just as the star
reflected in it is not in the sky.

Someone was drowning, someone dying was
calling out for you. Long ago, yesterday.

You have saved houses from fire, you have carried off
houses and trees, forests and towns alike.

You've been in christening fonts and courtesans' baths.
In coffins and kisses.

Gnawing at stone, feeding rainbows.
In the sweat and the dew of pyramids and lilacs.

How light the raindrop's contents are.
How gently the world touches me.

Whenever wherever whatever has happened
is written on waters of Babel

By Wisława Szymborska
Nicx May 2
Like a fresh breeze
You softly glide along my skin
I breathe you in like oxygen
Filling my lungs like my heart
I love you like art
True, your body is a masterpiece
But too this connection is timeless
Surrealism conjured into existence
We are both and neither one force
While equally, distinctly ourselves
When magic met reality
Our love emerged from the collision
I can't imagine a better life
Without your soul touching mine
I never knew a love like this existed
And I am grateful for every minute
Solar Apr 29
There is a lovely green lotus

unfolding from the center of his eye,

as if the iris that looks upon my desperate body

is the darkened water from which it sprouts...
stillhuman Apr 25
It's poisonous claws
scratching up from the inside
of my chest, they open
a path of lurid squalor
festering the internal wounds
with rotting meat
that spreads from within
to the skin that crawls
and dies, cell by cell
into the empty stale air
surrounding our conversation

The words float
from one breath to another
without ever really landing
to a precise spot
of connection
They just mimic meanings
and thoughtfulness
when they are void of any feelings

There is no spark of life
no life itself
denied to us
by the putrid scent
we ignore the existence of
No knowledge of pain
or reality
just a dull sense
of immortality
as we still
like the dust suspended
motion our lips without sense
nor sense of self
Corroding second by second
by second 'til we
become dust ourselves
"Natura Morta" is the artistic genre of painting still life
It resembles us so much at times
LC Apr 24
fragile umbrellas are strewn
across the cluttered forest floor,
nourishing strong connections
from all over the world.
their gills are loaded weapons
that fire spores into the air
at the speed of light.
if we blink, we miss it -
and the umbrellas multiply.
Escapril Day 23! Prompt: blink and you'll miss it. I've been thinking about nature a lot lately, especially fungi, which are so interesting. Fun fact: fungi are more closely related to animals than plants! I never knew that, and that fact blew my mind.
Anyway, this poem was inspired by fungi. I hope you enjoy it 😊
M Salinger Apr 3
You are the
trellis
to my climbing rose,
-
together, we make
the arc.

Without you,
they would run free
& indiscriminate,
climbing the walls and
the furniture alike.

You are the
frame,
the structure needed to
hold them
in their wild beauty

to
contain,
never
control
-
to come
together,
as a
thing
of
splendor.
him, masculine, the frame
me, feminine, the flow
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