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iamtheavatar Mar 2021
How do I feel about this?
I'm just too tired,

I guess.

I can't really blame myself,

Can I?

But I can't blame you too.
You're perfect.

My life—

I'm having trouble
Organizing my—

Thoughts.

Thousands of drafts have been rewritten,
Over and over inside my head;
But I can't let myself put it on paper,
Simply because—

It's not perfect.
You're perfect.

I guess in the end, I'm ruined.

iamthe_avatar ©2021
My first poem after four years.
I'm just tired.
Leo Feb 2021
When many aeons turning stones
Did find you muddied silt

The rivers coursing from your veins
On highway sides
Of Grecian ilk

What coils must I shuffle from
To find the fatted milk

And taste the salt which binds to you
In hiding places built

Before the turning of the spheres were
locked inside your gaze

Here, so many ages past
And still to seek a name
Påłpëbŕå Apr 2021
I see, I see
those cold cold girls
who hide behind hoodies
and bun their curls
who line their eyes
smoky with darkness
that circles their mind
resulting from their cries
who's lips are red
due to a temper
that's so **** short
-on thin ice they tread,
who glare at every guy
just so they back off
waiting for the one who'll
dare answer their why
why? would someone
like them and love them
why? would someone
want them and need them
but everyone
keeps their distance
but everyone
stays away
and that's the reason
these cold cold girls
never let anyone in.
Josephine Wilea Feb 2020
Eli S.                                  10/3/17
To: Eli S.

NO SUBJECT

Are you here yet?

Sincerely, Eli S.
KNS Sep 2020
I am not tethered
Not yet
Not ever
I exist exclusively outside your gaze
I belong to myself now
You will not keep me here,
In fear and in folly
And I, I will not stay
Though I am weary of what awaits me
No!
Let me rise, now
The strength of my atonement and courage
Will protect me
As I wonder into a page without your expectations of failure.
Yes!
I choose to be free.
I have chosen sobriety for nearly six weeks. This is an ode to myself and everything I am becoming.
Where Shelter Jan 2015
are you seventeen yet?

have the berries and the shells
stained impossibly
your youthful heart permanent,
have you matured and learned
to end sentences
in question marks?

surely certainty and
alack, its absence,
haunts
all your waking poems,
wonder does your mother know
what you’ve purloined,
stored in you
from her withins?

so young, so much love
oil spilling,
do you wonder about
the depth of the field
you are drilling, extracting -
is the soft supple supply,
so, close to the surface,
endless?

life so far is but a draft.

take copious notes
for the best is yet
and I await patiently
the novella of your
adventures!
Zack Apr 2020
Me: What's so hard about the first line?
Also Me: There's nothing difficult at all! It's just like baking a cake.
M: In what way, would you say, this is at all like baking a cake?
A M: Cakes, in a way, are a composition. They can come in a variety of flavors, from mundane munchies to extravagant favors.
M: You comic, that's pretty much everything in life; are you hoping to seem as if somehow you're wise?
A M: Before the first pour, a whisk or a spoon or something more, one must consider intention, constitution, and culinary inspiration.
M: it's a cake, that you bake, where the flour is the base, sugar the taste, and colors meant to decorate.
A M: No need to simplify, I ask that you rectify your pompous pontification.
Myself: writing, baking, what does it matter. We write, we bake, that's all that matters.
a writing exercise
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