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ciannie Nov 2015
Feel my breath adorn your stiffened shoulders
Now your cloak, as thick as heavy satin
Beneath ruby black sleeves your skin smoulders
From tattoos inked in my red-lipped Latin
Our songs are pressurized into jewels
I place the lovely earrings on your lobes
That stern gaze I taught you won't suffer fools
Nor entertain hissing genophobes
My precious mineral complexion acts
As the speckled fur underneath your crown
Tenuous heart strings of mine set their traps
And from my throat queue the trumpeting sound
Hold still, stand up proud, bare that throat fresh blue
Take the steps - and thus I coronate you
attempt at a sonnet
(a poor one)
Scythia Eve Oct 2015
Malleable, fragile, inconsistent. My name is the drunken mother of all modern names. One person one day, a stranger the next. When I was nine, I was Harmony and Nobility and Prettiness. At eleven I fleetingly became Generous, Gorgeous, and Popular. I turned thirteen and was the "Defender of Mankind" despite the fact that I couldn’t defend my own ego. I was fifteen when I became a princess. I hated being a princess, I was no Alexandra of Denmark. Talk about shoes to fill, forget that. I turned sixteen and became stubborn, materialistic. But no one takes a tall skinny black girl named ‘Drae’ very seriously. I was back to being Alexander the Great, the defender. Maybe not of mankind, but at least of my own kaleidoscope identity.
A prose poem about my name.
Annie Oct 2015
i want to play a piano
i want to feel my fingers slide down the keys
i want to swirl myself in melodies no one’s ever heard
i want to engulf myself in harmonies
angels sing their children to sleep
i want my fingers to dance on black keys
like ballet dancers twirling their tiptoes
i want to feel like satin unwinding
like champagne bubbling
i want to dance in the moonlight
with nothing but a grand piano
and my fingers
nimbly picking each key
ever so softly
IsReaL E Summers Jul 2015
My cat is gone
Stormshadow-san.
I've waited long enough,
Its time to search.
The giant hill covered in mis-matched patches of overly-healthy and near-dead grass, was no longer  a ****** opsticle,
But an enormous accelerator to my race to find my buddy
I run fast into the wooded clearing
Panning far and wide
Ntt nttntt nttntt! Ntt nttntt nttntt! I exhort to him in his native tongue.
STORMYYY! NTTT NTT NTT!NTT!NTT!
(I sound like a dying chipmunk)
Gazing high into the swaying treetops,
A white-spot catches my not-so-great eyesight
My heart follows me down the hill
Faster than legs can move it raptures me to a scar in the little mountain before me
Its not him, but I keep looking
The trees, not yet fully budded, and green from the waters touch.
I see early flowers of purple and white springing from the dead and withered leaves.
I can't believe.
But I do, believe, in Love, and life.
My wandering eyes now fixated upon these little ironcly painted flowers fill with salt water and fog my heart.
I can tell that my heart is letting go, but the stubborn child in me says
"NOO OHOHO OHohoh *snort!"
I feel myself being held, by a father who understands and cares of his sons tears
And the tears suddenly disappear.
Like a flood, calm washes over me.
I turn back to the house of " exceptance"
Mine eyes look up for one second.
And there is snake eyes-san, jet black with girly features. She meows hello and slides below
My terribly worn out sneakers.
I knew she knew, and she knew I knew.
"He's gone, but im here with you"
Ok so I tried to step outside-the-box on this one and its terrible. But hey, consider it a failing grade in poetry class. Just trying to hone my skillz.
My life is a pinprick rhythm
Of did he or didn'ts
A tumbling fimble you're unable to fathom
A fumbling fiddle unable to riddle
A monstrous predicament you can never straddle
A boy in a boat that thinks himself a man with no paddle
Razor sharp teeth with cavities in deep
A petite pair of feet carrying overweight meat
My story is backwards confusing and daft
I say this not to undermine your own
Merely to promote the melancholy undertones
To describe the bright light as darkness and woe
To share with you my heavy weightless raging hormones
A girl with beautiful long brown hair that pulls her eyelashes out when the world is not fair
I see sense when there isn't any there
You might see me and I might not care
Enjoy my despair
Understanding me is like understanding wind with no air
Understanding you is like understanding
peaches or pears
Probably better served with cream
Single not thick a dairy self esteem
Single not thick...

*what does this poem mean?
It's been a while but I'm back.
Thanks brandon corey nagley  
for helping me with the title.
Curlan Eiruc Jul 2015
Scrape,scrape,scrape.
Sounds of sad desperate melody as one would agree,
Tok-scrape-pause }x3

The happy anthem is ending,***.
Might as well give up,
corners are mere torture,
twisting,turning,
every angle you turn that butter knife,
It doesn't reach where you want it to.

The happy anthem is ending,
the desperate background and torturous beat
comes to an end,
leaving an imprint of sadness in your mind.

no more nutella for you.
Curlan Eiruc Jun 2015
Round it is,
her hair,
pink,
baby pink.

Round like the three clumped vegetables in your mother's basket by the stove,
Supposedly,
white,
but on her head turned pink.

These garlic hang down at the side of her face.
These are not garlic but hair shaped like garlic,
defining the shape of her face,
highlighting her high cheekbones
highlighting her innocent glazed prideful eyes

.. .. ._.
witchy woman Apr 2015
Everyday, that much closer
the light draws me nearer for
I am her dutiful moth. I stare
through caliescope eyes
into her many shifting patterns of
her wondrous majesty.
My queen, my saviour from
the bitter cold atemosphere
the night casts over these desert
hills and valleys.

I will be your single, doting insect
slaughtering any other winged
visitors who feel they should take
a wee peak.
If anyone, is to burn
at their free will and
your given mercy
I can assure you, my darling
it's going to be me.
Mmm fire
rosemary Mar 2015
in the clay *** by the window
the arthritic orchid
unsticks its tongue
and with fat-knuckled roots
pokes the dust for water

the crayon sun emerges from the clouds
and draws the water from the garden
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