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little lion Feb 5
My life has become a bit like a fishbowl:
the glass is thick and durable, it's supposed to
be smudge-proof, but you never fail to leave your finger-
prints behind. There are rocks at the bottom, a blend of neons:
blue and orange and pink and green and yellow, painted with the
cheap kind of paint that eventually chips away and gathers at the tip-top of the water...always mixing in with the the flimsy food flakes you toss in at mealtimes before watching with disinterested fascination as I swim to the top and sort through what's edible and what's not, as if the food is much better than the chips of paint and the dust bites that gather after a few days of sitting on the counter. My bowl stays in the sun as though the pink and purple fake plants you've given me require time spent in
the light to grow and prosper, although it is fun to check every
now and then to see how much you really care when I let
myself drift to the top of the water to bask in the glow
of either the sun or the artificial lamp that's been
placed next to my bowl. Some nights you
forget to turn it off, but I don't mind
so much because at least then I
can watch over you at night
the way you watch over
her, instead of me.
Andrea Dec 2020
Take me under the waters and deep into the mountains
Leave me to wander this life I could’ve never imagined
The night sky glittering with stars and campfires lit so bright
Fresh cold air mixed with relief like the 4th of July.

Unshackled souls let free into the night
Walking farther away, the moon our only source of light.
With tingling lips and shaking hands that explore
the warmth of that you desperately adore

Safe and guarded in your arms I lay
But the sinister smile is something i could not face
As I lay in the pool of my own omission
realization dawn. My own poor decisions

Never to trust and never to follow
I lay in white walls and beds so shallow
I am but an epiphany of your dreams
Someone unspoken someone unseen
Iyallo Nov 2020
I sit on my back with my legs high in the sky,
I sit to find, I am on a wet and musky
rock , I sat once and found pale grass,
while now the rain like storm sprouts life like annual grass.

A storm that strikes thunders on the ground,
each space is submerged into a dark and deep sound,
while water aggregates in rivers,
the worlds of people enter bedcovers.
Ash Johnson Oct 2020
To me, you are the stars.
Built with the budding light
From the moon hanging on a string,
And painted with the swirling darkness
That is the night sky.

To me, you are the sun.
The wind breathed the storm that is your soul.
Your body formed through paper clouds
And eyes as beautiful as a bright and
Playful summer's day.

To me, you are the earth.
Your smile as soft as the sand
And will as strong as a boulder.
You've been sculpted from the streams,
The world pouring it's love into your heart.

To me, you are space.
Oh, what mysteries lurk in your corners
That draw me in and scare me.
I want to look away but I cannot,
For the view is just too perfect to miss.

To me, you are everything.
You are my very heart and soul,
The core of my existence.
You are the being on which I place
My hopes, my dreams, my love.

To me, you are perfect.
Anna Magill Jul 2020
The color of Queens
The light shining through temples
Carpets so extravagant, it’s like walking on sunlight
Fires, filling the rooms with splendor
Glints of radiance, shining off of girls’ dresses
Power, money, wealth
Old Roman princesses
Jewelry, hidden in golden hair
The smell of metals, dusted from the earth
A fairy forest, shimmering with magic
Untold stories of riches once great
Crowns so refined they could melt
A raw yearning of elegance
A color so deep, it is invaluable
In a class we had to pick a color to write a poem about, I chose gold.
Anna Magill Jul 2020
Silver and still, dull and bright, soft and light.
Reflecting all the lights of the world;
Rocks dug from the crust of Earth.
A metallic taste of veins filled with wine-colored blood,
And the smell of household cleaning supplies.
Crinkles and pops of popcorn and cereal stacked in cabinets. T
he creaking of a door and raindrops on a tin roof;
The chill of a brisk wind,
Taking away the heat of a summer day.
Letting planes fly, as light as a feather,
Taking us high above the clouds to distant cities.
When it was found, how could we know;
The treasures it gives us now.
I wrote this poem in a class where we had to describe and visualize the different senses of Aluminum foil.
Ravanna Dee Jun 2020
My heart was ready. Finally. After so many years of being uncertain and gradually pulling down the pieces of me struggling to break the surface; I can breath. I see the blue sky and the shore. I feel the gentle wind, assisting me across the waves. I hear the seagulls cries of joy and I bask in the warm suns rays. I taste the drying salt on my lips and allow them for the first time in so many years a chance to peel back in a gradual, enlightening smile. And as I float closer to a safe shore, I smell flowers and the fresh buds of leaves growing on the trees. I am ready. Beyond ready, to float to safety and peace. My heart has yearned for so long to break free of the waters dark expanse, and all I had to do was let go. To let go of the girl who was always waiting so heartbreakingly for a life raft. And instead become the woman who learned to float and breath and love the simplest pleasures of my senses guiding me to safety. Just let go. Let go, and be.
Peace is a mindset.
Natalia May 2020
I look at you and wonder,
How soft those tendrils feel,
Always pulling me asunder,
Pulling my mind to heel.

The looks you gave,
The depth of your eyes
Made my heart cave
As I reached new highs.

As if like pools of wisdom,
I'd willingly drown in them,
Feel my desires through a prism,
And allow fate to condemn

My hidden desires.
As they come and go
I seek not to douse the fires,
I'll leave the embers to glow.

Watch them light the night sky,
With a childish curiosity.
Against the damp ground, I lie
Carried by my precocity.

To share this
Would be wonderous,
This unadulterated bliss.
I'm left feeling ponderous.

Until such time,
I will lie here
Listening to the wind chime
As the embers disappear.
Falling in love is a beautiful process in the right circumstances. It seems like in society now, that the goal is that you 'must' have someone beside you to share in these experiences. Until such time I find someone like that, I'll be loving myself.
Noura Abdelrazec May 2020
sallow sunken hollow caves caked in mud
and a crackled mouth
streaked with white and a sort of quiet mortification
never
                               open                                                  it
                please                                              
                                                  they mustn't
                                                          could not bear
               to                                                                            hear
                           you
grotesque
oil painting
made of skin and sinew and chipped memories
framed
limp and greasy drapes
it is reflected on all four sides
it moves along with you
it blocks your view
look closely beyond the canvas and you might glimpse the perfect paper people
with their stapler smiles
and buzzing hums
against their ceramic tiles
how’s the weather over there, friend?
it is
                                          far
                  too
                                                                  humid
in
            here.
A clear Sunday in early May, hitching on the back of your old bike, the sun blinking sluggishly through verdant, street-side trees.  

You locked up against some railings, pushed the door with a jangling bell. Our fingers found each other across the aisles.

The shop smelt of must and lost decades. Dusty sheets threw spectres over looted treasures from long-gone homes.

And the gems we found: two candlesticks winking from the corner at the couple – the final touch to make this thing whole.  

Ten months of us. Too soon to be playing house, playing adults. Bold and brassy, those brave turrets gleamed on our mantle with:

my wooden elephants,  
and your expensive speakers,  
and our broken radio,  
and my loathed incense,  
and your tacky books,  
and our pointless arguments,  
and my guilty frustration,  
and your resentful adoration,  
and our ******* mess.  

Eight months too long, staring at the bold brass and hating them, making them home in boxes labelled Yours and Mine and What a Waste.
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