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Antonia Oct 2021
Summer nights spent locked in my room
Was it suddenly fate that came and brought me to you?
A message; so simple, yet so damning
I had no idea what one little word could do
Back and forth we went
All that time spent questioning
If may I should get with you
When it came down to it
All I could think was
"****, you're pretty cute"
Seeing your face was the one thing that brought me relief
Oh how your voice made me weak
I'd give anything if I could start over
And return to those nights
That left me destroyed beyond belief
Another silly little poem, about the same silly little love for a silly little boy back in the year of 2017. Seems like I could only ever write or get struck to write when I was sad. He's a quite nice guy now, well-rounded and all. I'm glad he's doing well, we are all grown now.
Antonia Oct 2021
Thinking back on all those nights spent with you
Barely exchanging words
Mostly swapping tongues between us two
I still wonder why it was so easy
For me to fall for someone
Who plays for a living
Not caring about who they could lose
Making me feel special was step one
Attention was two
Saying you missed me
So easy for you to do
Now I see
How easy
It all was for you
Even if you never really cared
I can't say that I really regret those nights
I wish we could be together
I wish we could fight
I wish that you would come back into my life
This was an old poem about a boy I used to love, back in 2017.
Very one-sided, I wrote it at the height of my obsession.
So long ago, but I thought it wasn't that bad, so why not publish it here?
Andrea Lee Bolt Apr 2021
"I'll be right here"
my dear friend said to me
a tap of his finger
set my mangled heart free

He never came back
Because he never left

-The boy in the red sweater
I'm a super nerd and it comes out in my poetry a lot! Like to think as characters who I loved and helped shaped the person we are.
Sandman Mar 2020
Seldom are the streets quiet
The children age by the window light
Outside it is spring

March brings the turning of the cold
The adults fester and rot, feeding themselves to their resting places

Wicked things brew far and wide
Sizzling and spewing like acid dissolving bone and flesh

The morning moon glimmering
Time has burned itself to the wax
Everyone is meandering their minds
Searching for a smooth door handle to grasp

There are doors but none to open
There are windows but none to peer out of
There are cars but no one to steer them
This is the apocalypse
Tim Jordan Jul 2019
Mistah Gates. He dead"

Time is an ouroboros and
the Earth a flat circle

Measure out your life
in insta pics

Let us go then, you and I,
through empty diamonds
and deserted play grounds.
Let us visit, if you will,
the battlefields ,
streets full of bodies
that decay in minutes.

In waiting rooms people come and go
and speak of tanks and Bushido
Eyes I dare not meet
Can see me with their headpiece
made of straw

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Forgotten, as we stare at our new ones.
This poem is intentionally jagged and imperfect, much like me.
JP Goss Dec 2018
The last of the angels’
Castaway nametags
Hung from the plush red edges
Of the art deco interior.
A breeze from the open door
Cast the doctor’s pamphlets to the floor
Advertising his services
For the special remediation program
Since he could not sleep
What with all the voices
From below chanting his name—
How he envied the people he killed:
For they were spoken so little of.
That is, except for on his intake sheet:
After passing over the names,
Seven in all,
Whose lives were, shameless,
Shed over ***,
The latch clicked
And out came the doctor’s hand
Beckoning through the door
A “come hither” gesture.
On the couch he sat,
Neck conforming perfectly to the couch
As he swam a cascade of Rorschachs
Apart the mirror-faced, owl-like man.
Speaking with a heavy Eastern-European accent
He knew exactly why Elliot had come:
Perhaps the intentions were dubious,
Perhaps he was looking
For quick solutions;
Regardless, Mirror-Face was there to help:
Too easily, these days, was it
To determine dysfunction in the masculine—
And this case was rare,
Awash in chatter from below.
So, there must be something deeper
Rooted in fear of perpetual
Romance fetishism
And absence of its referent.
Yes! The penetrative is missing—
The limerant object
Is without form, shapely, and feminine
And would forever escape him,
In part by suicide,
In part by isolation.
The reason you are here
Is the absent-present offspring
Of such missing ***,
A veritable porcupine-dilemma
In the flesh, a show of insufficient ****** capital—
See now in this face of mine.
Yes, now that I’ve diagnosed
What ails
Let us explore what solutions
Could have been:
The living world does offer suitable surrogates
For those lacking—
Recognizing this is the first step
To being forgotten,
To allow you to sleep.
Yes, you recognized then
The gun as the extension of the phallus
And it levels the playing field
Raised up, aroused by power
One feels when operating heavy machinery—
Yes, all flesh which is the metaphorical egg,
The bullet is the *****,
Which penetrates the flesh of the paramour
Impregnating her with life inverted
And creates, in death,
The child of ****** frustration.
While this child is one of children lost,
It is child nonetheless.
Yes, and this gun, the metal *****,
***** not one
But many—in fact, incestuously,
It ***** entire families,
Entire communities,
And leaves their lives gravid
With your legacy.
Yes, it is the only way to create
The ultimate matron, the universal feminine,
The supreme m-Other
For the Supreme Gentleman.
And you, as you see me,
Are the absent-present of this child of death
This union of bullet-***** and the whole-body womb,
With which you, sadly, impregnated yourself.
But, here’s the secret,
Because of this, you can only do damage control:
Your child will prevail.
Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails.
Name may be gone, but child prevails.
Name gone, child here.
So, have the voices stopped?
Has the child matured in you?
You are on your way to being forgotten,
But the child lives on:
Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails.
Name may be gone, but child prevails.
Name gone, child here.
Guns are bad--but why are we attracted to them? Why do men **** women?
Jayantee Khare Apr 2018
A way to release
The moments I freeze
A chatter I couldn't cease
When nothing to appease
I wandered like an idiot
Came across HP by Elliot

On HP we socilise
The might of pen we realise
What if my poems don't trend?
My passion doesn't end....
No sunshine not given light
Yet HP has taken me to a new height

"Daily" never selected
Yet people appreciated
Made friends across the globe
Found a new ray of hope
A plateform for poetry
Love you dear HP!
Wrote few lines    Just to express my gratitude.....
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