uv 2d
The window that I can see,
Has no good view
But the glass in its paneled frame
Gives a look thats quite new.
The window has two bifolding shutters
Giving it a charming look
And the white European grill outside it
Makes it as interesting as written in a book.
Though minimum light filters through this window,
It certainly has a charm.
The artificial plants hanging outside them,
Gives it colour and a refreshing sort of calm.
Writing a rhyme for just about anything in your sight gives  you the power to make anything beautiful, to make the simplest of things sound magical and give depth to things that are otherwise taken for granted!
Aihara 3d
The imminent river,
inevitable ride;
unwilling passenger,
whether the strap snapped, disconnected;
Or stuck till final destination, rock bottom.

Was all this necessary
Im great, Im happy
Stop misdiagnosed me
Im no other than me

neuroses and religion
who i am to wish for oblivion
one opinion define none
On seeking whats the norm and what is wrong.

Im trying to live, to fit in
Just normally like everybody
Normal to me but it isnt
what am I, Who I am without

I am, was, I will be okay
Why it felt like a replay
No choice but to compelled
Who said its mine to choose
Cause it wil be forever replayed

For now the strap hold on
on repeat, hitting rock bottom
Its true the only way left is up
no in between, stuck in a time wrap.
I hate it when I couldn't accept myself for who I am. My scars, my illness.
Its not my fault I was born with it.
sara 6d
Hair long and dark like a silken night,
her eyes glazed over, lips pastel silent.
Every so often sips a cold long island,
no jazz musician but her feet tap in time and
she's skin like China, won't crack even for a smile.
While people try to please her she will only check the time and
she's not a people pleaser for she'll bore within a while.
Perfume carried by the breeze,
she's freezing, smoking outside.
Her cheeks are apple red but her eyes, quitely tired.
She claims your jokes are dead and then she'll laugh like bitter cider-
a bittersweet pink lady brought to life beneath the night's limelight
the apple of the eye of every single man in sight

He'll ask her if she knows this song
and she replies 'no, not tonight.'
He'll ask if she enjoys herself.
Blankly, she says 'yes, quite.'

The room a-brim with deep jazz sounds:
she sings sweet melodies aloud,
she sways as if no one's around,
she sighs, it doesn't make a sound.
Pourquoi pas?
.

Metre based on the new arctic monkeys album
Kevin Castro Apr 30
rested, sealed in a cloud.
through the panes of my reflection,
she lay still. preserved,
at a point in time.

carefully, it was made
a heaven for her,
black, against the snow,
a delicate frame.

freedom, hers was sought
in a vain attempt,
too easily, given up,
it left a desperate mark.

made to cut her loose

unnoticed, beneath her.
her eyes looked forward,
unrelenting, yet absent.
my gift remains pristine.

faded, her elytra
are pale and sickening.
yellowed, they conceal
many writhing guests.

unmoving, she remains,
but a stranger to life.
a gift, she is,
rotting from the inside.
here, i'm trying to project an effect or emotion through the use of imagery. if it's too hard to get what the thing im describing is, i'm not sure who's at fault .

bump pls critque me. also!! a hundred virtual (worthless) points to whoever can guess the exact thing im describing
comfortable
slides so easily
breathes
cosy

cool, bright
wearing
your smell, as close as i
can find it.
Written summer 2017
zeebee Apr 18
gentle
is a word that could
describe me.
maybe if you knew me.

but do not take
my quiet voice
my soft eyes
my drifting hair
my light fingertips

for weakness.
Kim Essary Mar 21
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)
You were made of words;
A description brought to life
A creation of my imagination
Someone who can be mine.

your wordy essence clinged to my skin
and aura spread through my nerves
making ever cell fall in love.

It was the type of love that ran deeper than skin
and deeper than for the people I knew that exist.
The colors of your hair
burnt and tarnished brown
wrapped up in curls and tendrils
like oak branches twisted in a crown

My gaze I could not hinder
the vitality in your stare
heavy durable and textured
I'm irrevocably hooked and snared

The shades of your skin
flush rustic patterns dance
smooth but rugged finish
the mere possibility of a chance

If only once to touch and finger
through your oak branch hair
to brush against the oaken leather
exposed skin left out and bare

Across an expanse I can admire
in a small fleeting instance
As the light shifts your colors
worshiping forever from a distance
Sometimes it makes me want to choke. When I see girls in yellow sweaters and boys with aviator glasses feeling love under a fluorescent gas station light. When I see hangnails on holding hands, and when I see chipped-tooth smiles. It makes me wonder if I’ll ever feel something for anyone around me. I feel a connection with all these people who float around, yet I can never get attached. I can never make myself feel anything more than mediocre delight in knowing a person.

I see these couples who are revolving around one another like the cosmos and I am left buzzing around their romance like gnats around a bug-zapper. All I hear are electric vibrations that get louder the closer I get, and I wonder how far I can go without killing myself.
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