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Apporva Arya Jun 24
It's easy to write,
Difficult to edit.
Especially When the tale is mine.
I want to say a lot, but have some boundaries. It's not easy to express such emotions and live them again while writing. #DilemmaOfPoet
Karen M Jun 10
Down to the end of a wooden dock
That sticks out a good way into the water,
She sat legs crisscrossed in a knot, hunched over
With her elbows to her knees, head resting
In her palms. She tries controlling her breathing,
But holding her breath makes her throat expand
Like it is croaking. Saliva pools in the lower corners
Of her mouth under her tongue, and she barely has time

To adjust herself as the bile climbs out of her throat
And down the front of her yellow crop top, dripping
Onto her stomach and crossed legs. Tears are forced
From her ducts as her stomach convulses. Capillaries
Around her eyes are popping from strain. Feeling weak,
She falls to the left on her side and curls into a trembling ball

But she wants to get the ***** off her
As soon as possible. Her shaking palms
Press against the splintering deck, pushing
To her knees to feel what was once in her stomach squish
Between her fingers making her stomach spasm;
She scrambles to her feet as fast as she can
When her only source of lighting is dying
From the wind. Before righting her balance, she slips

Backwards in the bile and tumbles into the blackened lake. Her head
Plunges first and water came rushing into her nose. It burns
Her nasal cavities as her eyes tear open in fear. She’s disoriented
From the alcohol in her system and the water is too strong
Against her weakened limbs. She tries to position herself
Up right, but the more she moves, the deeper she sinks.
She holds her breath and tries

To ignore the burning sensation up her nose and on
The surface of her eyes in her head and she can’t
Hold on. Oxygen isn’t going where it needs to and the edges
Of her vision darken. As a last attempt to fight, she reaches
Forward to grasp at anything she can get ahold of. Her fingertips
Stretch and curl only to move through the murky prison. Her vision

Is almost completely blackened out as she surrenders
Her losing fight. There’s a burn in her chest that grows
As the rhythm behind it slows. Her body,
Like the water, is still, cold, and tinted blue.
Not very fond of this poem. It's a take on a short story I wrote about a girl getting wasted at a lake house party and drowning. Posted for editing purposes, so comment what you think needs correcting.
Greetings, it is merely I,
   He who breathes despite the lack of air,
   Gasping at a tenuous breeze.

I'd call this breath of redundant utterings,
   A practice of utter futility.

The breadth of my wonderment at the crushing silence graced upon my deafened ears,
   I stand fast as the verbal stone is cast upon my fragile being,
   Your callousness resounds within my vacancy,
   Occupied by none other,
   Confined within my ceaseless selflessness,
   Even if it is imperfect.

I am merely a soul.
   Cast 'pon the mercifully unforgiving earth.
   Borne brazenly to those who are willing to listen,
   At the risk of those who won't.

******'d herein I lye,
   Gazing 'pon the relentless monochrome.
   Searching for any guiding light.

I am merely a man,
   Searching for a home.
   I am merely the mind within which I reside,
   I am,
   Merely,
   Who I am.

~Robert van Lingen
annh Mar 17
We are all dictionaries;
Collections of words,
Defined by our commonality,
Refined by our uniqueness.

We edit and omit,
Abbreviate and compound,
Expanding our vocabulary,
In the hope of rewriting our yesterdays
Into a best-selling tomorrow.
‘The greatest masterpiece in literature is only a dictionary out of order.’
- Jean Cocteau
And so I drank her.
A high ball glass of seduction
Shaken with whiskey lips
Wide hips
Sugar rim
Sin and forgiveness.
I drank her blind
And ordered another.
WA West Nov 2018
There is no grander way my spirit of dissolution is lined with angel's teeth hands exploring,
indulging themselves bulwark of a new day's dream rigid of eye,
Colliding with mutinies as in the mechanical cavorting of creatures marching,
Past albatrosses appearing and hindering caffeine messengers from the ether,
Somewhere if not here aborted holding hands with disdain there are many ways to be anything.
words exchanged with impossibility are untied threads piling up until there is time spare to sketch them with morning breath,
preoccupation grandstanding efforts minds broken **** coloured dawn of convenience rigid and timebound,
all must inhale the earth smoothly
Maria Etre Oct 2018
Don't impose
your editorial skills
on my story
unless you
want to add
yourself
to my
chapters
Kore Sep 2018
redskin, cheekbones, upturned eyes
you call me names, pick apart my features
there's much for you to analyze

none of it good enough
even as you slit my belly and take my skin
you think me rough

wearing me like a hood you become
Pocahontas, Matoaka, Indian Princess
you think the thrum of your blood is the sound of a drum

you consume me, trick yourself
Redskin Princess
it's almost halloween and i'm already tired of pocahontas cosplayers
Bryan Aug 2018
Photographs enable us to forget but force us to remember.
Que
Que mañana lluevan rosas,
que te bese un ángel en el pecho
y no se me pase el tiempo,
que me alimente tu recuerdo,
y que sepas
que aún te pienso....
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