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CA Smith May 2018
It's not about the amount
It's not about the colors
It's not about the embellishments

It's about the meaning
It's about the utility
It's about having something, with nothing done in futility
PoserPersona Apr 2018
A palindrome isn't a palindrome, intriguingly  
How can that be?
That something isn't itself by definition, literally
...Am I really me?
S K Anderson Apr 2018
I've listened to the same song
For weeks

I cut my hair short cause I was feeling edgy

I wrote a screen play about abuse ****** and insanity

You want to know why I stay anonymous?

Because if you don't know my name, age, religion or position,

You can't believe my name is the definition of innocence.
This was my first piece ever published!
Yay for that milestone.
***
hannah Apr 2018
Nobody showed me how to love in school
I never learned the definition
I never had vocab test on it
Never read a chapter in those stupid textbooks on it
Never watched a bill nye video on it
So how was I supposed to know when you said I love you You were lying
Kim Essary Mar 2018
How does one know if they are a true poet or merely a lost soul with pen and paper unscrambling their emotions.  Flying high in a cloud of words with definition,  picking and choosing the ripest  like a grape from the vine, reaching into the depths of my heart with the blood of my conviction dripping words on my tablet describing my visions of  life. Yet still the question rains like thunder crashing and lightning striking, be it a fool destined to become a true poet or a poet with eyes that are blind. Knowing the words to be written because they embrace me like a mother does a new born child , but searching for description as to what  makes a poet in a true poets eyes.?
What truly makes a true poet to be acknowledged from a true poets eyes. (real question)
Brenda Mukisa Mar 2018
I guess I have been tired for a very long time....
maybe it was the first time  I decided....
that I did not want to live anymore.....
or the next....
or the other few times i thought about it
but didn't do anything about it.

I am practically a big ball walking
with all these things weighing me down
and dragging me to accept and go underneath
it kills me yet still....
I am still here, stuck...
caught in the middle and not going anywhere

I would give anything to wake up,
break free.... start over..
clean slate and all..
all these memories and feelings
only remind me of who I am
why I should not be here anymore....
no where feels like home enough for me to want to stay....
isn't it weird that at this age?
I do not crave anywhere and no one I know?

Yet that is it...
I'm a blank canvas
empty....yet too full of white.
it tears me apart every day
not knowing which person I will be when....
I'm scared of being....
I am tired....
Caroline Roche Dec 2017
Strong.
Perhaps a knot of muscle or
a face to wear.
Or the bartender's hand slipped.

Fragile.
Maybe a shattered glass orb or
a note about to break.
Or our egos.

Dark.
Like Edgar Allen Poe or
the center of a black hole.
Or 5:00 in winter.

Light.
"Let there be" or
something that perforates the night.
Or just the pillows,
shedding feathers through
tiny linen holes
that float down near the heating vent
then explode upward in the gust.
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