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Carlo C Gomez Sep 2020
I held the moon

And knew immortality

I traded all my unforsaken days

To move within the eternal orbit of her night

To eclipse death

Yet here then the gap narrowed
Myrrdin Oct 2018
And with out question,
My heart of glass in my palms,
I dropped it and watched it shatter,
So I could hold your beer.
Gabriel burnS May 2018
Everything is so slow when I have no bridge to you… everything is the pace and longevity of the kiss I dream your lips in… but time is a reverse-caress…
Gabriel burnS Jun 2017
The curse of eternal life
Would be, watching
Every one you love, die

...and she felt like
Her bones were buried
In her body

She had eaten eons,
Watched the ends
Of millions of clocks’ lifetimes
Snorted the rust of their
Idle hands, dead still
In the blank stare
Of their concentric silence

She wanted to cease
This void existence,
For boredom was
Her ultimate torture
Agas Waluya Jan 2017
Many! The ones are straggling out
Stand by their ground to shout
As they are frozen by doubt
The silence speaks aloud

Many! The ones are seeking for a lore
Guidance to propel them to a shore
A quest for a hidden door
A quest for a long-lost oar

The dazzle of the sun, yet warming
The shadowy stars, yet mesmerizing
The crescent moon, it's moaning
The ones fall asleep, humbled and dreaming

Why are we here?
**Conjoined and broken.
This piece of mine's dedicated for my 3 best friends, whom I've known for such quite of time. Now the time has come, each of us will have to face our own path. The big question came to all of our heads when we just separated, why are we here?
Andrea May 2016
if i sit on the fourth step of our staircase, i can look through the window and watch the street outside. this waiting game has always frustrated me; my knees buckle underneath me every time someone walks past our rust-encrusted gate. i can feel the anticipation weighing heavy on my chest with every glimpse of a shoe or a shirt only to have my nerves unravel once i realize they look absolutely nothing like you;

every stranger that walks by is just another soul that wasn't yours.

i use numbers as my ultimatums. this is the third person who has walked by that isn't you; two more, and i swear, i'll go back to my room and write and chat with other people and watch youtube videos and try not to think of you even though my fingers are itching to pull at my door **** (just one more look). i count ten vehicles that pass before stalking back in to my room, only to peek out of my door to check the streets again minutes later;

every jeepney that doesn't stop is just another car that you weren't in.

i welcome distractions that send me moving around the house. to wash the dishes, get my dad snacks, fake going to the bathroom, check on my brother, nibble on some leftovers in the refrigerator. as long as i have my little disturbances i feel like time's moving faster, but then i find myself pausing by my front door and wondering when you might come knocking or if you'll even come knocking at all;

every minute that you're not here is just another sixty seconds to spend thinking of you.
Christian Bixler Dec 2014
I look out the lonely window, misted in the mornings cold.
I see shadows, grey and formless, out there in the sleeping
world. Still sleeping, on this grey and quiet morn. I wonder
why I feel this way, why I hate the noisy, bustling day. Why
I prefer instead, to stand here, alone and cold, and draw
pictures in the condensation, gathered from my steaming
breath. My melancholy is my oldest friend. She sits there in
the corner, content to stare, wordlessly out the misted window,
and fidget with her hair. I wonder why I have this life, why I
am not instead, a tree or rock or distant star, burning coldly,
out in the great expanse. Or even a flower, violet with the
shade of twilight, here only for a brief while, a second to
The Infinite, and then gone, blown away like chaff upon an
Autumn wind. I wish. For I am like the quiet breeze that
stirs the grasses, and raises the heads of sleeping flowers, in
the cold of early dawn. I am like a shallow pool, clear for those
with eyes to see, still as a translucent mirror, set upon those
tiny waves. People glance my way, and then continue, on
with their vibrant lives, so full of light and color, determining
in a passing glance, the frailty of life I hold, no threat, no pain.
As easily extinguished as to blot a word of faded ink.
I sit here, my melancholy by my side, hand upon my shoulder.
I wonder if it is not time, to seek some newer fresher place,
like the violet in her time. I wonder if it is not best, to leave
this faded world behind, and just....go. To leave and seek a
better clime. For after all, what's a word of faded ink, too
grey to read, so light as to be barely seen, but a thing, not far
removed, from the clean expectancy of the white beneath.
Awaiting only a ready brush, and ink, near at hand.
This is a quiet morning upon which I write. Truth bleeds from the tip of my pen,
demanding of the world, to recognize it as it truly is. My gift and everlasting curse.
Salomé Albrecht Sep 2014
"Now listen, my best friends mommy, I'm sorry
For hugging you
So tight"
Is what I couldn't get my mouth to say
"Sob, sob, sob"

She dropped me off, my best friends mommy
That day
When my daddy shared his news
"She's left"

She was never really here,
Believe me, She was never REALLY here
Is anyone really with you when they don't love to be?

Now listen, mommy
These are the things I was sure of
One - my tears burnt my skin as daddy hugged me hello and gave me the news
Two - you weren't coming back, were you?
Now listen, mommy,
I was ten years old, still a baby
Expecting the world
(Not really) ( I expecting you to come home to)

— The End —