The poet wrote the moon, the stars and the sky honestly,
For every drop of spark and shimmer, he spoke words of only beauty.
He made his masterpiece on a settling edge amidst of nowhere,
Words guttered out of his mind in creativity, high flair.
Bliss eroded from his heart on papers fine line,
With rhythms meeting like relatives at the very end of their spine.
His eyes peeled curiosity among the old oaks and shadows,
The weary eyes of old folks and their age that follows.
The dimming streetlights and hitchhikers that never rest,
Drifting sights in mist and Creach Owls in their nest.
The howling of wear wolves on rugged mountain tops,
And the sound of their hoofs through bushes that never stops.
The streams with silent wishes and crystal on their lining,
The poet slumbered home as the moon says off and smilingツ
Category: People
We are not maps
leading to defects
or voices made of silence

Our color is not period
Our emotions are not a pinwheel

We have the womb
that creates generations

We are your creators
We are human
We are WOMAN
Paint in acid
scream into static
through perceptions pallid
with desires archaic and elastic.
It doesn’t really matter
who lies at the other end of the ampersand
smoke and mirror shatter
grinding from glass into sand
yet here we stand
malleable and plastic
underhand
and egocentric
hallowed by introspection.
Our shadows long lost in the tide
with the whispers of deviation
I guess, I shouldn’t have lied
but you were my only means of abstraction.
Now,
we’re just timelessly out of fashion
now,
we’re recoiling from the passion
that was once instilled
visceral
riled
so sweetly sacramental.
Black dog, black dog
Why do you follow me
What do you want
Why do you rob me of experiencing joy
I try to flee ... It's no good
Wherever I go
There you are too
I fled to a foreign country in aid to escape you
But low and behold there you were
Waiting to welcome me at the airport
Black dog, black dog
Aren't you embarrassed
You ought to be ashamed of yourself
I wish I could kill you
I would if I could
But then I'll have to die too
And I refuse to give you any form of satisfaction
I intend to stick around just to spite you
What do I have that you want so badly
You feed off me
You're nothing but a parasite ... Fucking leech
Black dog, black dog
I can't stand the feel of you
You're a brain drain
Keep me chained at home
Yet you grant me creativity
But at a price of course
I love to hate you
And worst of all ... You know this
A paradox of gross contrast
Black dog, black dog
I have a plan up my sleeve
I'm going to buy a brand new pair of pliers
Then, slowly ... One by one
I'm gonna pull those teeth of gleaming white
I will destroy your deadly bite
Written by Sean Achilleos
17 May 2018©
www.facebook.com/SeanAchilleosOfficial/
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Orange Rose May 14
I wrote a poem when I died...
Another at my birth.
A brand-new sonnet when I cried.
And again when there was mirth.

A song for my confession...
A story for my pain...
A painting for depression...
And nursery rhymes for rain.

My creations live inside my heart.
I keep them there in shame.
Yet you looked around and saw my art,
And smiled all the same.
There is a box you cannot see
But you can imagine it open
If you pretend there’s a key

Whatever you imagine, you’ll find it there
Imagine it empty,
the box will be bare

Only imagination will reveal inside
what seeing with eyes
will often hide

Oh the gifts and riches, you’ll surprisingly find
When you close your eyes
and see with your mind
Poetic Surgery, Copyright © 2018; All rights reserved
I saw myself
in the making of a tree
and pleaded
not to become its fruits
So the maker made me
the part that i’d be
And there I was made
part of the tree
at the roots
Poetic Surgery, Copyright © 2018,  All rights reserved.
David May 13
To rest, a lumbering Whale
slumbers within a dissmal
green foggy depth of the
shadowiest waters.

Sleeping now, an
unawareness
but also cause for
That from which to awaken. ...

The task to rise for a
breath still,
Magnificent size,
its shape imploring -

Where life grants itself
from the essence
of which to it
also plays.
Nylee May 12
Digging out the history
he created a new story
which suited his creativity
used all the evidence
to his benefit
to get the required popularity
praises for his credibility
and no rings and bones
are opposing it.
Creativity flows through me
It bleeds from my words
Oozes from my actions
The way I walk
The way I move
The way every random thought I have comes together
To form a masterpiece like this one
Where writing a poem takes just a minute of my time
I write what I think and it doesn't have to rhyme
Thanks for reading
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