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Love-evans Nov 2016
Bring your own juice.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
How is someone supposed to put into
words that they feel/ have been made (self)-aware(somehow) there personality adapts (naturally)?
to the people they are around and even beginning
to mimic the interacting persons emotions and personality traits
to create a, sociable personality.
because depression has taken a dramatic toll on their personality and they know longer know how to
Be there own person:
I often forget about the things i actually enjoy doing
because I'm not surrounded by people that enjoy doing the same things.
I love to write
I love to read
I like to play the guitar
I like to create art
and
I love making people happy!
So what could possibly be wrong?
Why do I loose my sense of self when I'm with others?
I don't know what this is supposed to be about but my hands had a lot to say.
Lunar Oct 2016
how can she, an artist,
make him, her own artwork
when the art itself
is an artist himself

she could only stand back and watch
as he sculpted his past
and sketched his present

until he reached out to her
with a paint-stained hand,
gestured to the blank canvas
of the future and said,
"would you like to create
a masterpiece with me?"
to wjh-- a fellow artist whom i love.

6/13 of the Pocketry Series
Debra Lea Ryan Oct 2016
It amuses me how I often thought of the Colour Green
As simply Hue stained leaves that dressed the Trees
Or Carpeted parts of the Earth
Like Seas of Turf
Also taking Flight
In the Sky
Certain Birds
Distinctly Green
And a number of Reptiles
With such a Glow
However now I know
In our World
When Human Beings Create
They may tap into the Stream
That Flows Green....

DLR
08/10/2016

Mosaïque de vert

Cela m’amuse comment j’ai pensé souvent à la couleur verte
Simplement comme teinte coloré des feuilles qui habille les arbres
Ou des parties de la moquette des mers comme terre de gazon
En prenant le vol dans le ciel
Certains oiseaux
Distinctement vert
Et un certain nombre de Reptiles
Avec un tel éclat
Mais maintenant je sais
Dans notre monde
Quand créer des êtres humains
Ils peuvent puiser dans le flux
Les coulées vertes....

DLR
08/10/2016
Diána Bósa Sep 2016
Your genesis I
need: the very first words of
the story of me,

I yearn for you to
put me down into words and
say: "Shall we begin?"
Burning rays of sunshine floating through the windows,
seemingly flawless gleams of light come into view as vivid luminosity, elegantly shimmering throughout a newly defined Disco.

Lustrous eyes willingly glare at sparkling streaks, rays, happy as the illumination spreads fully and evenly throughout,  steadily engulfing a tired mind.

A time of peace, or is this all intertwined?

Suddenly hopeful of a new design that is perfectly undefined.

The streaks of light were never assigned,
which is the solid evidence needed to believe we are all aligned.
****, I really enjoyed and liked this write. Hope you enjoy it also, as it is a rare "happy" poem from me, about the little things in life, and how they can create inspiration no matter how common or small it is.
-df Jul 2016
I
Never
Thought
You Could
Create
Your
Own
Pain.

Now
I Know
I'm
The
Cause
Of
My
Own
Suffering.
(-DF-07/16/16-)
s u r r e a l Jul 2016
one--two--covered streams,
staining palms of the undiscovered,
they have holes in ears--for you--their mouths are wide--wide--open--!
yet they hide 'neath tender shield.

peekaboo, I don't see you.
for the flowers cry not for the see-ers,
but for the cut and tears.

bite into your wrist,
and watch the ache and finished work flow,
into ******* and tired vocab,
as it is merely zilch you're destined to grow.

wide--wide open,
yet you bawl not,
how will you get your food now, O dear?
simply let the ocean run hot.

they will not bother with whiners,
whose lips that starve,
the words now old timers,
and the blood that was carved.

dig deep--dig deep, my love,
and find nothing but ash.
die penniless--die penniless, O dove,
and thrive on the sunken ****.

they drink eulogies,
from soft gray tongues,
and murmur carelessly,
for the young-uns.

the world won't wait--
forever moves it--
**** the weak--the hard workers,
and take up the one shot-ers.

simply how the horse drinks it's water,
and how the earth soaks in rain.
nothing--nothing--nothin' but minor,
and disappointing.

simplicity rings the loudest bell,
and thought sings drooping tunes.
for the world hides not and tells.

and blossoms melt in places anew,
merely brainless--brainless--!
and the shield slips from blue.

for now the world is clear,
and doesn't care for the sanguine ruin in those eyes,
let your work fade--let your work fade, my babe,

play peekaboo a little longer, and drag the sword between the lies.
Even if you feel undiscovered, drag the sword between the lies and bloom them anew.
Anne Jul 2016
I am free
and joyous
and grateful
and kind
but I am not creating.
I cannot.

My eyes glued shut.
My lips sewed together.
My hands chopped off.
My body closed by the same monsters that slit my wrists and changed my name.

The storm has passed but the damage has not.
The demons won't release their claws around my throat nor the teeth that sink into my chest.

Ideas and images run at uncharted speeds,
racing and buzzing past every corner of my mind.
Where do I put them?
Where do they go?

I'm trying to find her again:
the girl who painted fairies & danced without socks & wrote stories about ghosts and mermaids.

Those pixies, bare feet and adventures are still floating.
Waiting to be spilled out onto a page, a canvas, a body; any surface worth noticing.  

The thoughts have been patient and kind for too long.
I fear they won't wait any longer.
They urge and itch to be set free, but without any luck, they melt.

They boil and drip into what can only be described as gone.  
I fear that once gone; they will forever be lost.

I am not inventing, I am not expressing.
I am simply wasting, hoping someone else might construct things for me.
I am not creating.
timeless Jul 2016
I can create the
      New world
I'm capable of it
          and
Must do it even the
Whole world is not
With me.
This  is  the
  Confidence.
Confidence, world, create ,capable
Apparicious Jun 2016
wow my darkest hour
how long my friend

so long forever in time

tick-tock tick-tock
thy darkest night

rise, find me a doctor with a house of old
where everyone listens and aboard thy thrown

where cows lay and horse's nay
thy thrown is only 24 hours away

tick-tock tick-tock

did you hear that?

darkness rises
my dearest it's to late to come back
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