Seanathon Apr 15
Have you ever had a song repeat?
And turn you a certin way?
For in passing I see
Now that Mayer maybe
When he said
"Would you say what you need to say?"

Such is a necessity
Sometimes I don't know how to say it. Or simply how to ask. Because I put on such a truly confident mask all the time. But at the end of the day, Im just like you. Very much imperfect in all things. *nod*
I stumble when my tired feet attempt to walk,
I stutter when my ancient tongue tries to talk.
I count the years and fear strikes me cold
I know now that I am afraid of being old.
A wrinkle arrives most every single day
No amount of treatment can make it go away.
Rest does little to appease my constant fear
I think about the other side and shed a quiet tear.
Will I miss my loves, my dreams and such?
Will I still long for someone’s warm loving touch?
Age always works for wine and cheese
But it is a tragic enemy of memories.
Dreams become less important and almost dry
No warmth or promise not even a gentle sigh.
Tread lightly when you wake each morn
Try to recall that special day the one when you were born.
A realilization
If I could fly,
Then I would try.
If I could try,
Then I would not fail.
And when I do not fail,
I can escape
And I will be free
Hey this is what I used to get in, plz no copying
Once I type a poem,
It's out of my hands.
It might be recited
By a poet
On top of a Pile of Garbage
In Rio De Janeiro, Brazil.
It might be used
To incite a Revolution in Moldova.
It might be combined
With a Nude Photograph
Of a Russian Chick
By a young man in Soweto
To make a multimedia presentation
To show his Grandpa.
In any case,
Whatever the Hell I'm typing
At the Byers Branch Library
In the Santa Fe Drive Arts District
Of Denver, Colorado
Is Out of My Hands
Once I post it online.
I don't have any control.
I don't know how to follow the Rules in Tumblr contests. However, my inability to follow rules inspired this poem, which I composed, here, at the Byers Branch Library, in the Santa Fe Drive Arts District of Denver
Song Filled Hour ....
*A song from the bush , a cry at the prequel to dusk ,                               Agents of change that ride mercurial winds through evenings golden hour
Sing to me* ...
WiltingMoon Mar 2017
We fall for a reason
We rise for a purpose
WiltingMoon Mar 2017
Love that is seen in the smallest of moments, is what makes life livable
stealing other poet's poems
is so rampant and rife
looters will attest to the works
being of their original life*

with a swag of online poetry sites
used by plagiarists plundering
no poet's heart and soul efforts
are dismissed from the sundering

pilfers of verse ever busy themselves
they're such industrious thieving elves

should they take a fond liking
for what you've written
they'll stow your wonderful lines
in a crook's mitten

copyright and true possession
of materials you've produced
get no attention from they who've
a penchant for something re-produced

under our radar they
do the wicked deed
could be said they are
*so unethical of creed
DET Jan 2017
"It's easy to die but it's not easy to live."
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