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Kevin Eli Aug 2014
It starts in other countries, in other states, in other cities. We see it on the news. It doesn't affect us. When it happens to somebody we know, we grieve for them, but we won't look them in the eye.

Only when the pain and surging, suffering tide of the escaping masses comes to break down your door, will you then say, "There is no shelter here. This is MY home, stay here no more!"

And they will all cry,
"No, it is YOU that has no shelter here! Why did you look away when they went for your neighborhood?"

Yelling back as you remind,
"Did you not turn them away the same as I, to deny them brotherhood?"

By then it's too late.
Misunderstood, we run but can't hide.
There will be no shelter here.
Kalia Eden May 2014
IT WAS THE WAY YOU USED WORDS
YOUR BRILLIANCE LIT UP THE HOLES IN ME
AND BROUGHT ME TO NEW COUNTRIES
EVERYTHING BLUE IS A SHADE OF YOU
EVERYTHING ACOUSTIC IS AN ECHO OF YOU
YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN WHAT ITS LIKE TO HAVE A HOME AND IM SORRY
BUT ALL I WANTED
WAS TO REMIND YOU
Excuse me sir, but
My life's been turned upside down
I've moved twice this year
You just stab me in the heart
And expect me to function?
Katie Biesiada Apr 2014
Poetry is beauty because of its ambiguity
It's not black or white
Or even gray
It's indigo skies
Golden rays of warm light.
It's bitter morning frost on the hood of your car,
Sweet squishy sand in St. Tropez.
It's the thud of a heartbeat,
The silence of a blink.
It's the emptiness of the mind
And the ingenuity that fills it.
Poetry is nothing...
But boy is it everything.

— The End —