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Connor Dec 8
Once mingled,
free-floating piano tunes
sun-harshed highway
could be a match.
The Light Rail
took its time on the causeway,
I am a passenger,
safely guarded from the
unapologetic summerness
like tourists from the safari park.
I am a outrageous punk,
perching onto handrails
lost in his romantic dream of an
impossible summer. Romeo and Juliet in my hand.
Vehicle garages rusting
along palm trees lined
This is Yuen Long. This is the outskirts
with gated dogs with feral barks,
this is a compromise between bungalows and nature.
Piano symphonies morphed into
eighties tunes
in the Call Me By Your Name soundtrack album,
and the eighties synths
draws the archived mystics,
out from avenues
that leads to villas similar to those I have sojourned.
And the world as I see it, it is beautiful.
and we
won't just
    but we'll
      thrive till
        we're five
           and make
              peace with
                 our hearts
                     till we're
                                   and my
                                                            will talk
                                                                   to the
                                                                          sky and
                                                                               we'll drift
                                                                                      through the
                                                                                              night till
                                                                                                      we're free
I cannot really think what to write.
Oh, how frustrating it is not to write.
Having rhymes that don’t come easy
That line is not breezy
Something something good meaning stuff
AHAH! I got it! No, took too long, this sentence. Man, writings tough.
My brain is tired already and just look at this mess.
Oh, but un-inspiration, you're one of the best of the mess.
Bah, maybe next time, I’ll do it later.
You expect a rhyme? You’re just a hater.
To un-inspiration
A somewhat humorous poem I showed to my English teacher. (A B A B - - - C D C dDD E E -\& -\1^8+10+12)
How little I require be
And hence can’t adequate become
For retrospection to hate me
That loathing is efforts outcome.
Not enough, I simply had.
Not alike the other limbs.
That dreams haven’t substance instead.
Many wonder what continues my?
Have haste or trifled questions.
How despise a villain, I.
My speed won’t possess regressing obsessions.
Me, evil have so much like.
Skewed eyes of the beholder, I is a traitor. Me has hopes. Oh, how hard he fought.
He will give in, man, because myself, like a ghost, changes not.
One of my first poems, exploring my teenage edginess after entering 9th grade.  (A B A B - - - C D C dDD E E -\& -\1^8+10+12) That is the form, I will on my profile paste a public access to a document detailing what it means.
Connor Nov 29
The metro station caged the slumbering metropolis
From this dingy mid-March town fridged in January wind
A ******* clad explorer marches in mellow strides
All the way to you
To back the lover's whisper spoken by static selfies
With fleshy whiffs, a borrowed jacket and a gawky face
Blind to but maybe fiddly pepples on the ground.

Down at a backstreet diner, its locked out doorstep,
A hygge cover made for two,
Humming low is the city's nocturnal remains' dubstep
Coming from an illuminating exit,
Luring the busy hands and buckled excitement, whereto ----

Whereto the vacant main street glides them
With the at ease traffic,
Down loops of everextending branches
I followed you
To the roundabout between
two surrounding glassware towers
Where gleaming sparks ***** on each other's windows
Divining themselves by lighting up pavements, entrance signs
and glooming heavens.

Corridors, lawned with clutters from refurbishments,
Lead to glassrooms of suspended business meetings,
And that cozy cavern,
Where you flump into a swivel chair.
Your inhibited expression unwinds
As my curious caress explores
The damp torso slumping deeper into the pliable seat.
And a devoted twitch of ecstasy, blossom unexpectedly
On your face,
Which already shied itself away from its audience,
Doubtlessly, for way too many times ----
A candid sight I could only cache from you,
Because I intend to see it again, your effortless reaction.
The sarcoma-like lump left uncut at the bottom,
Wrinkled like wind waves in a Ukiyo-e drawing.
I scoop the saline ripple, so you can taste it beforehand.
Our bodies started gravitating
onto each other or all over the place.
And lips, they startlingly perched,
out of wills, like magnets
For the very first time.

I've been feeling patient.
And I love taking my time with you
"Democracy is the lesser of all evils."
Says the Liberal.
The Libertarian.
The Corinthian.
The Macedonian.
The Farrier.
The Squire.
The Stoic.
The Astronomer.
The Ornithologist.
The Eschatologist.
The Augur.
The Retiarius.
The Hoplite.
The Centurion.
The Governor.
The General.
The Senator.
The Orator.
The Assassin.
The Emperor.
The Ferryman.
celeste Nov 19
I feel like that's just a fancy way of saying

“jumping is the biggest decision a person can make”

because choosing to die is the most powerful thing you can do
to be free from every wound and trauma
to be free from another day or another trial
to be free from every single **** part of living

so if my legs took me to my balcony
and I stumbled
as if I were going to jump
do you think I might feel a little of that freedom?
it's been way too long, poets. i'm glad to be back. this was an interesting piece to do, sparked by a phenomenon my friend explained to me the other day - call of the void. i recommend looking into it if you understand the feeling i'm writing about or are just curious.
Sebastian Nov 8
How many colours fit in your hand?
Is this a question you'd understand?
How many palm trees obey your command?
Unless you are dreaming, I'd dare to say none.

How can a word go swimming in land?
That makes less sense than a musicless band.
Lightly drawn bridges, which taste naught but bland.
Don't trust your own words, unless they are fun.

A desert will bake you with deafening sand,
As much as a cloud will make you less tanned.
That's more than a cockroach could ever withstand.
The words on your tongue would melt in the sun.
“Oh **** yea, they’re suffering! They’re believing that they can go home, but aren’t getting any closer to the Entropoid Valley which leads to Kubla Khan, by whom they were cremated and born. Instead, they’re here, whiling away their days for boys who are bringing the death of days.”
“Hold your thoughts, lad!” Yells the Cameraman of the Head.
“I’m here, I’m in your head ImhereImhereImThere. You’ve no right to chastise the boys who have not kissed the horror. They’ve seen it, yes. But they haven’t captured it, you see. I am the camera, in my ribs are the film reels, the oscilloscope in my uvula, the trigger rested in my right earlobe. I tell you, there is strength in their brutality, I can bring you the tribal taste.”
“Man, we was just talking about centrifugal farce.”
“No, was it?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Hey! I believe-“
“Can’t be”
“Shan’t be”
“Oh, whatever. Those bullets find their way to the ***** anyhow.”
“Hey, grab your Coca Cola, Clean. We’re ‘bout to miss the show. The cameraguy could record it if he wants.”
Alfa Oct 17
I am                  split into
People. Speaking up           /or stuck in a box
          I will                         never be(ing)
me                                      .
Three poems in one that speaks of my confused identity.
Read as: 1) I am split into two people. Speaking up and/or stuck in a box I will never be completely me.
2) I am two people. Speaking up and I will complete me.
3) Split into two, or stuck in a box and never being complete.
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