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jia Apr 2020
known to all that he had lost,
all that is valuable within him.
kneeling down in pure exhaust.
and now, cutting emotions in his world so dim.

shush the wind for its noise,
hear his heart wince in pain.
imagining their voice,
hear the cry of the rain.

at last, he showed the emotions.
turning his back on the facade he shows.
arguably the man showed no motions,
keeping the tears that continually flows.

etched in his heart is the still of mourning and grieving.
random poem for the sixth hokage, kakashi hatake. one of my favorite characters!!
Moe Nov 2019
your hands are etched
with tiny dry lines
that cut
each one-way road to nowhere.
Niki Gray Jul 2019
My favorite gift
is tied tightly around my wrist.
A simple word etched that reminds me
of how my daughter perceives me to be.
This word will forever be my battle-cry.
My 'strength' I can't deny.
Thank you to my beautiful daughter Sydney you inspire me to be the best mother I can be.
Salmabanu Hatim Oct 2018
Come closer honey,
Listen to my heartbeats
yearning for you,
Like the sound of the ocean in a conch shell.
Come closer sweetheart,
Read our love story,
Etched in lines and shading,
Along the seashore of my body skin.
Come closer baby,
Feel how my breaths gasp and fall,
As ocean waves,
I, a windsurfer trying my best to hold on.
As much as you have made me burn in the raging fire of  my love for you,
I wish you to roast with me in the inferno.
If it had been a stranger I would have desired the same,
But, you are my love,
How can I?
Gary Brocks Aug 2018
My work day woke to Monk,
the click of typing keys,
clock watched, Spotify playing,
random thoughts rose like bees
to freeze in these jagged lines,
then swarm in threatening flight.

Hours of data entry later,
on a stool, in a bar, a clock's
hands tock, I flick a wrist,
and slur my words concluding  
an anguished monologue,
“They call it work, you know.”

Awash at home, in the strobe of
pixelated panel light,
visions surge and dissipate
with the pulse of the night. Osip,
were you tempered to embrace
attention’s fugitive caress?

You etched memory’s texture
with candle soot for ink,
and the gulag’s blackened gaze -
I type lines by hunt and peck
humming Monk’s WELL YOU NEEDN’T,
hoping for an adequate phrase.

Copyright © 2004 Gary Brocks

Osip Mandelstam was a Russian poet and essayist. He a leading member of the Acmeist school of poets. He was arrested by Joseph Stalin's government in 1934, and sent into internal exile.  After a reprieve, he was rearrested and sent to a camp in Siberia in 1938, where he died that year.
— From Wikipedia: "Acmeist poetry"
The Acmeists strove for compactness of form and clarity of expression; they preferred "direct expression through images", in contrast to the Russian symbolist poets who strove for "intimations through symbols"
Osip Mandelstam defined the movement as "a yearning for world culture", and as a "neo-classical form of modernism", which essentialized "poetic craft and cultural continuity".
Each major acmeist poet, interpreted acmeism in a different stylistic light, for example from intimate poems on topics of love and relationships to narrative verse.
— From Wikipedia: "Osip Mandelstam"
Tatiana Aug 2017
There are words etched into my skin
but they weren't placed there by others.
If I am in control of my thoughts,
then I am in control of my words
and only I can place words upon myself.
So call me names,
I already have my loquacious armor
and I'm not afraid to speak.
Chances are you won't tell me something about myself
that I don't already know.
Only I can truly define myself
and my skin is home to words such as:
honest, liar, loyal, manipulator, friend, and monster.

Try to make me feel bad.
I dare you.
This is my 78th draft but I decided to publish it because I have too many,
© Tatiana
Nayana Nair Apr 2017
I feel two lines etched on my face.

One longer than the other.

Feeling a little more colder

each time I step out.

They will lie there,

and dry there,

but never erased.
b e mccomb Jul 2016
Give me approximately
Seven seconds
To sit on
The universe.

It may take
A lifetime of walks
In green gardens.

Or perhaps ten years
Of white front

But I will stand
Upon the red
Roof of this

Against the blue sky
And yellow tulips
These primary colors
Will be etched.

Not upon
But purely upon
The defeated
Twilight sky.
Copyright 5/7/15 by B. E. McComb
ashley Mar 2016
He looks like messy eyebrows and endless lashes and his smile stops my heart every time. He looks disheveled, like his hands never stop running through his hair. His eyes are sweet and muddy and his hands are rough. He feels like work and strength. His arms are hard and his chest is solid and it's the only place I feel at peace. His breath on the back of my neck. He always smells like Copenhagen and swagger, it lingers on me after he's gone. Sometimes he smells like he's had a few cigarettes, and sometimes he smells like he's been laying in the grass, like dirt and raw nature. Or sweat and lust and he feels so hot. He's never cold and he melts the ice on my skin. His laughter is loud and infecting and his voice is deep and rough and forever etched in my mind. He is everything.
Poetic T Jan 2016
Time aged in millenniums breath, eternities
Upon it did the juncture's of a breach offer
A glimpse in others minds of reality's thoughts.
Whirlpools of confused visons, then calm.

To walk on the moments of each surge that
Washed upon realties exhalation. I talked to
Younger versions and like a paradox, repeated
Reflections I saw ourselves in memory and word.

There is an etched pathway of conscious thought
With each decision does a new pool open its
Moment creating fresh essence now as the other
But diverged time is a ripple that always falls.
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