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Breadth of the summer's call,
Whisper your trying tales.

May yet I sit and wail,
At this season's juxtaposed quall.

Even though, be it over,
It's leeching tendrils reach as far,
As the wind hung sail,
To only fly me closer,
To this young mind's veil.
With these unknowns
These powder bones
Slip across't each other
Just to miss their mark.

Ready for the coming seasons
In no particular order
The sun comes up at different times of day.

The moon really is my best friend anyway
Because you're the one who watches over my dreams in the corners of my mind.

Apparently the thoughtfulness that I escribe
Unto these phantom pages coule magnificence readyness.
But they're kind of just random mots that somehow convey the way I feel at the time.
It doesn't even have to make sense.
But it always does in the end.

Au revoir
It's a celebration of life
Every day

From the lady that held
The door open at Starbucks

To the guy that burnt
That department store down up North

It's a journey and a half
From where I am to where they're at

So celebrate, you beautiful idiots
You lovely monsters, celebrate

It's a match between you and
The rest of the whole **** world

I know I'll be celebrating out here
So pour me another one!
Makayla Jane Feb 18
He smelled of a bonfire;
Burnt wood and charcoal ashes
With a hint of a dewy forest musk

Why must it be him?
Where have you gone?
Feel free to share revision ideas :)
zero Feb 6
i sit and I ache
waiting for something to happen.
for anything to happen.
sometimes I wake up and the
room is spinning
and there's something in the
corner
of my
room
send someone
anyone
i just want to experience
something
warm
agai
n
What's in a word but meaning
I mean
How many promises
Have I made
To be broken
How many questions
Have children asked
For curiosity
And here I am
Putting those
Children at war
Where the bullets
Are words
And the enemy
Is ambition
It's self torture
A mutilation of
Peace of mind
Steady
And unforgiving
So I ask
What's in a word but meaning
Maybe if I relax for once
I can see clearly and find
What I really want to know
Or maybe even
That I don't need to hide

Or maybe that's optimistic
And I need to sit back
Just go with the flow
Brave the waters,
Dodge the rocks
And get swept into the undertow

But maybe I don't know and
Maybe I never will
However at this point in life
With where I've been
I need to believe that
I'll find
A greater truth if I keep digging
Sign the card, O apathy
Get well soon, I tell myself
As I hold my hand out
To grasp what's left behind
In the aftermath
In the wreckage

Light the fuse, O apathy
With time being a hidden bomb
Ticking, sparking, molded to fit
Into sentence structure
And verse form
Into handwritten letter

Save the day, O apathy
Take me to a different place
Where weather never changes
And the earth doesn't circle the sun
Never burning
Never freezing

Twist my words, O apathy
Contort them to your whimsy
Play this melody over again
Until the notes crawl to the gutter
A time to rest
A time to recover
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018


~
The sweetness of success and
the salt of regret,
I will let them ride and glide
on paper wings
~


Ink flowing...
Pagan Paul Aug 2018
.
Its 2 am and I am so wired.
Why can't I just be normally tired?
As others enjoy some restful sleep,
I am in a place far more deep.....

Reach out in time,
harvest the sublime,
wisdom of ages,
held by the sages,
whenever to turn,
a lesson to learn,
a time-line college,
of ancient knowledge.


And the abyss calls so inviting,
          a leap into the unknown and beyond.
With clarity I jump out and fly,
          an excuse for reality to quietly abscond.

Psychedelic nausea as the dimensions twist,
forcing me to a place where I do not exist,
a land in which I may be killed or kissed,
but certain my presence would not be missed.

The feelers take a hold of me,
     whispering secrets of antiquity,
revealing images of aeons gone,
     in spoken word, rhyme and song.
I have the histories of many worlds
     all in my mind strung up like pearls.
A line of lanterns alight once more,
     open and willing for me to explore.
And my pale blue eyes no longer see
     the images created by any reality.

It is secret knowledge of ancient times,
I receive in the script of cryptic rhymes.


© Pagan Paul (09/08/18)
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