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Jme Love Apr 5
You gave me wings
We flew so high
You cut them off
That night in the sky
Fell to the earth
Shattered and bruised i
From the dirt and rubble
Without you
maria Feb 24
Like soap, your poetry cleanses my soul.
On paper, I'm filthy from your touch,
and your honey is sticky on my fingers.
But, your words and your laugh are a spring
that douses me in bubbles and gold.
I sip from your tears and sweat,
and youth revitalizes my skin and bones.
You are an oil that enriches
and cannot be rinsed away with water.
You are the dirt that gets under by fingernails
and houses the seeds of a hundred flowers.
Heidi Franke Oct 2023
To heal,
Journal they say
Like a worm in the dirt
Of my front lawn
Sliding, pushing through
Air pockets
Arduous, unending crawl
No words come
To mind
Where can I breathe

To heal,
Journal they say
Words don't come easy
They fly up like
Torn pages of a book
Riffed, stolen letters of some name
In the nameless wind
Grasping what isn't there,
A cynical continuing void

To heal,
Journal they say
My hands become deaf and blind
The pages curl and mold
Pen and paper inventing before I have begun
All I have is the deep
The deepest inside
That comes here
Traversing incredulity, while I

To heal, they say
I S A A C Mar 2022
loosely based on events that never took off
I refuse to let it die out, I can save some
of the memories, wash away the dirt on my name
play with the energies as if you were here all the same
as if I can hear you calling out my name, or whispering
my heart is whimpering looking for hot hands
to cradle my cranium and explore my wetlands
you were just my type of man, my perfect poison
I was just your type of victim, the perfect person
for you to disrespect, neglect, and gaslight
for you to pretend we were friends until that night
where you stripped me of more than my rainbow light
Yvonne Nice Oct 2021
The shovel is in the same place I always leave it
Numbly I think to myself of the caked grime that’ll require a shower
as I perform a stand up routine for the nth time
Twigs crack under my boots

How often do I come here?

The number is unclear
and dirt pile grows

A burning cold settles over me like fog

I dig a little faster

I always have to end up in these situations, don't I?

It’s shallow, barely enough to work,
but then again they all are
“Lift with your knees, not your back”
I’ll have to thank whoever told me that later
A resounding grunt echoes throughout,
and I finish the job
The surrounding ground is ridden with raised mounds

How many again?

One… two… three… four…
Too many others I don’t have the time to count

I do, I just don't want to
Not after last time

Turning on my heel, I walk away
leaving the bodies I bury to rot at the crevices of my mind
Elizabethanne Sep 2021
I have dirt between my teeth
Between my bed sheets
It falls out of my hair every time I move
It’s beneath my fingernails
no amount of scrubbing will make them clean
& I’m always knee deep
in the graves of all the people I have loved
I keep digging them up
Every time I fall asleep
since I’m sure I've made a mistake
Only to bury them a little deeper
When I don’t like what they have to say
mark soltero Jun 2021
the fool
created his own woes
sorrows laid into his red nose
dirt fills his mind
nothing pure and full of sin
sadistic miseries fill him within
the fool only knows negatives
his life called for nothing but ridicule
if only the fool knew
that he could command an audience
he rather cry in silence
die and rot away to the dirt that used to fill him
Nikita May 2021
Tight in my grip
I feel your nails slip
Digging deep
Digging hard
She says to me
He left me a card
Ayesha May 2021
For you, on whose
Oil painted skin the stars did sleep
For you again,
Who wept, wept in vain

I’d tie a butterfly to the unwavering sky
If only as a frail worm to
lure the fish
But did we not swear to leave the winged

Yet, there they are
Causing a reckless havoc
Trying to tear open the blue
And I’d shoot them down
But the ground is ours you see

Wounded and bleeding
The dying, as a fish, squirms
A broken spear pinning him in place

And I will keep on burning this dirt
To bricks
One betrothed to other
With cement,
Your own strange creation
The one you pour out your flutes
And pluck out them strings
Like fresh born weeds
dried and crushed

Songs upon songs
We set free up the yonder

But here is a bubble that will not be butchered
Like our sacrificial blooms
Ripened and fat,
This untouched pomegranate
Ravages itself

Long did our labor weave tales out ruin
To build us a shell
Within which we now reside


How do we do? It is pretty
A sight
The sky chokes on dirt and dirt
Drowns in the blue
Time, a trapped moth, flutters about
It collides around in its blind frenzy
And will not settle

I keep on
Painting our dry clouds
Birds still peck at gleaming stars
And you
You live, live in vain

I painted yesterday. After about a year.
That's something, ******.
Petrichor May 2021
         You've turned into dirt.

Twisted away in fragile positions,
You've turned into dirt.
          How does it feel to be this vulnerable?

To be plucked from your home, and bought with dirt to be sold off to the husband who forgot his wife's birthday?

To be called 'beautiful', only to be left rotting away?
To sit beside a bed of 'beautiful' red roses, who think they'll be safe forever. To know they'll turn into you, you who has moulded into dirt.

These eyes fall on you now,
   they feel guilt,
      they feel remorse,
(they feel happy?)
          they feel like a murderer.

They run to drench you with water.

                           The poor white tulips,
                                              and the poor pink roses
                     will you be fixed from this phase of dirt?
Here is to those bouquets of flowers the lucky ones received.
Perhaps, you were lucky,
perhaps the flowers were not.

PS. I've written a poem after a year so it's definitely not my best work, not even close. Perhaps as I continue, it may get better?
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