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Angle Angel Oct 2021
I hate who I was & I hate how you made me feel for it.

Punch me in the nose;
I’ll cry at the end of the era.

I’ll mourn the years.

Flooded streets;
Cement stairs.

I wrote this song about you.

It sounds like how you make me feel.

Layered voices filter the room.

You touched too many memories;
So my brain chose to have no thought at all.

I felt,

I felt,
Like something was wrong with me.

I felt,
Really ******* sad.

Watermelon chopsticks in summer;
Warped social perception.

Walking the streets pretending to have a purpose.

In my head;
Trying to figure out
what the **** is going on.

& Why won’t they answer my questions?
I’m frustrated.

Im confused..
Why was I always confused?

Am I loud enough?
Carlo C Gomez Aug 2021
abruptly waking to discover
the sempiternal daylight of herself
in a small silent village in Brussels

the sky's a cloudless blue
and she needs the sun
like children need two parents

sunglasses conceal bedroom eyes
smiles hide like inverted *******
clothed in peekaboo milieu

a highly individual creature
in an era of the exaggerated curve
she's an amnesiac

doodle-dawdling in the altogether
wrapping herself around

it's breakfast with Mr. Svengali
then unacquainted foothills
and undergrowth
in the flaring of conjugal
light and shadow

'n strum
she's got the whole wide world
in her hands

her simple slantwise silhouette
declivitous neck
inclining embonpoint
summoning him

no clock, no watch
the keeping of time
is served by rapping
her crown upon the headboard
at regular intervals

her open-tempered sighs
closing with the heaviness
of a sleepy hush

until the echoing of church bells
announce the footfalls
of tomorrow-come-looking

****** words paint the flowers a crimson red.
A dove recites the end of all mankind.
Rounding out his edges and sharpening his knives.
Amorous lovers ride the wave of life.
Heart worms my body still tries to burn away.

Kindly, I delude god and myself into a dream.
Every mindless prayer, my secrets scream.
And only my love remains.
To this day, he accepts the woman he lost.
Opals eyes that cry remorse.
No reply.

I can live without the friends I knew.

And each and every missing piece.
Morose taxidermist lives her dreams.

Sullen chords play the lonely song.
And I tell myself that I am strong.
Do the roses in your garden look pretty?
To the one who's happy. Even if I'm not.
reyftamayo Aug 2020
sentinel of forever
keeper of time
lie with me
in the forest sometime
let the droplets
of memory
**** the nerves
of my consciousness
along with the many
summer songs and
midnight rains therein
lover of infinity
timeless and prime
sigh with me
in a melodic mime
dampen my senses
denude my mind
free me from
the utopian paradise
of realistic sham
master of moments
endless and divine
E Jul 2020
The end of an era
The start of
Something new
Hopefully something better
No more curled up in bed
Watching I Love Lucy reruns
Going to the gym
Watching leaves swirl down around whoosh
Winter comes quietly
Ends fierce, like a lion
Fire burns in my chest
As I step into the classroom
Yet another era
Era, alas, the end has come
Ileana Amara Jun 2020
in the vast majority of galaxies,
and written down histories
I think it's beautiful we exist in the same era;
weaving tales of friendship, love and ephemera.

IA ☕
Sharon Talbot May 2020
Stick my phone into the wall--
hoping no one trips on the cord.
No mobile phones in this dark age
and computers haven't come of age.
My TV has cable but the picture's curved.
Static makes it look so old
and my frozen dinner's gotten cold!
I shut it off and think: at least
I've got a huge stereo
with a dual tape deck.
Listening to New Wave
is much better than televised dreck.
Maybe someday they'll make it digital
but it won't be quite the same.
I'm as happy as a person can reasonably be
in the year 1983.
A kind of fond, snarky memory of times past...
PS Apr 2020
In a world of rap
Where most music is just bass
She listens to jazz
Jazz that's dressed in sparkly crap.

In a world of texts
She chooses a pen with feathers
And writes letters
To the birdies that live in their nests.

In a world of Instagram
Where reside plastic filled humanoids
She chooses to hang up Polaroids
With a genuine act captured, not a sham!

In a world of internet
Where facts and fiction have rivalry
She sits herself in a library
Loving the silence and smell of wood she'd get.

The world of today
She despises a bit
People call her weird for she throws a fit
When she sees no romance in the holidays.

Unusual she is
She was born in the wrong era
Even the name, she scoffs, sad little Klera
For gay she isn't because

In the year of 2020
She's looking for the 1960s
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