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Natalia 5d
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.
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.
Jennifer Apr 26
hi. this past week went by like
a half forgotten dream: the time
passed too quickly,
i did very little and
i seem to remember the time i slept
and dreamt better than my
waking moments.
my mind has been scarce of
creativity and
even thought - though
i am healthy i feel
quite lifeless.

today is white and
dull, days like this
sometimes feel like static, like
the world is buffering,
like
the time has come to a halt.
i don’t usually miss the sun, but
these days are dull to
begin with.
i sit all day staring at screens and do
not much else - i’m growing quite
tired of it. but
on days such as these i feel
i barely have a
choice, so here i sit writing to you
and i am not all displeased.

at least i can say i wrote
today.
but what will all of this writing
come to? maybe
a poem, or a love
note, or a memory. or maybe
it will be something i can
look back on,
and giggle at how
silly
and sentimental i am.
just a journal entry of mine that i thought sounded particularly poetic.
chitragupta Mar 23
To judge, to write
to scribble in the daylight
and crumple at midnight
To account for placid instincts
with the strength of an eagle's sight
The blue ink, the golden pen,
and the satchel white
That is all my birth-right

✒️
Belated world poetry day. Mash up chitragupta and a poet. I wanted to put this out sooner but just got caught up in a lot of work from home. Stay safe, everyone.
We stopped at your boyfriend's house,
What a beautiful house - painted tan and brown
A garage that could fit four cars, the driveway fits two more
Only one car was there, the red one with family stickers on the back.

The other vehicle, the black truck, pulled up later in the day.

A dark brown door leading to the living room, light brown wood floors
Past the doorway, a tan couch to the left, a tan chair straight ahead.
Glass windows covered by dark red curtains draping to the floor
A sliding glass door leading to the large backyard.

Everything about the downstairs floor was perfect.

His backyard was full of pure green grass,
Bright red mulch bordering the inside of the fence surrounding the yard
Such a nice house, nice people, nicely dressed
I kind of wished we'd dressed up in better clothes.

We weren't dressed nice, just blue jeans and a t-shirt.

His mother had on a red cocktail dress
His father had a black suit with a white tie and black dress shoes,
His sister had a red dress much like her mother's, but hers had lace
He was dressed in a white suit, just like his father's black one.

They were the definition of "The American Dream"

We went out back to play with his white labradoodle puppy
The dirt and grass stuck to his white cotton pants.
His mother didn't want us to get *****, he stood up and brushed off a bit
We spent the day there, in the yard, on the trampoline, in their house.

Everything about that day was perfect.
What a fun day that was.
Noah Smith Jan 28
Feel it slither
down the steps of your spine,
like a dark poison
gliding.

Fingers twitch
all that slowed, the click of time,
with each second
sliding.

Vision dims
Turn a blind eye burning,
forked tongue heaving
slander.

Asmodeus grins.
From the deep: crimson churning.
A familiar presence,
anger.


.ᴮ.ᵘ.ᵗ. .ᵃ.ᶰ.ᵍ.ᵉ.ʳ. .ⁱ.ˢ. .ʷ.ᵉ.ᵃ.ᵏ.

Day by day it sits,                                                     
fermenting in the dark.                                             
power and control it knits                                       
waiting for a spark.                                                  

                           Anger it was when it was a babe,
                                          Fury its unfortunate kin.
                              In the recess of the mind it laid,
                              never forgetting the original sin.

As cool and calculated as a fiend.
Its tendrils 'round your heart now bind.
Older now, it has been weaned,
from the driveling of your mind.

Icy whispers... guiding your fists.
A power older... than the age.
His bitterness... raw feelings... persists.
An old friend... frozen anger: Rage.

Your heart the field of war,
the blood of other emotions shed.
The mind Rage's *****,
.ᴺ.ᵒ.ʷ. .ᵃ.ˡ.ˡ. .ᴵ. .ˢ.ᵉ.ᵉ. .ⁱ.ˢ. .ᴿ.ᴱ.ᴰ.
©Dysphoria, 2020
Blue Carrisole Aug 2019
If fate told tales to her sister time
of young lover's words that do not decay
but only rhyme,
these feeble beckoning seconds would not fray.
Thus every mistake, would be worth youth lover's pay

And if all my world sang songs of
anything but dismay.
Then the role of a young lover would I play,
My most sturdy moments would hold no dull pain,
My heart, a place of anything but disdain.

Had hope pleaded with destiny,
affections could hath still breed
spawns of faith, desire and need.
Then these feeble beckoning seconds would be not of greed,
thus every mistake, would be worth youth lover's please.
One of my very early pieces, let me know how it makes you feel
Rianna Aug 2019
It is moments like this
I am reminded
Just how normal,
It all is.
The ways of the world
And all its fragments,
Drawn from the magic,
Mysteries.

And isn't it beautiful
To be just that?   
Utterly,
Perfectly,
Infallibly,
'normal.'

How beautiful are the leaves
That fly off slender arms,
Of twinkling trees.
How peaceful does the snow lie,
On benign rooftops,
Tranquil nights.
Carnations host the butterflies,
Who scurry around with fragrant zest
A porcelain sea,
licks at the beach.
Where every sparkly clump
Of shingle homes,
The dying sunset
And its saffron roar.

And under the cracks of golden rests,
My haggard,
lonely,
crumpled,
Self.
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