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EP Robles Oct 2018
MY heart.  Speaking words
have crippled all letters.
A great passion explored.
  Destroying all rhyme
and meter.
  Is how my teeth have
  broken.
    Now mumbling.
  Babbling nonsense!

:: 10-15-2018 ::
EP Robles Oct 2018
listen.  Of hearts that sing --
wailing aside.  Better if eyes
could taste the color love
And in flight with bee
a passionate kiss from thee!

:: 10-15-2018 ::
Nivine Nahli Oct 2018
I tell myself I would forgive people,
Those that have done me wrong.
Forgiveness, will allow me
To let go of my heavy heart.

In reality, the ones that I want to forgive
Are the same exact people who,
Wouldn’t even bother to forgive me.
And we wonder why we can’t let go.

n.n
Forgiveness.
Mr Uncanny Oct 2018
Art derives in an array of forms
Mother’s art is in dancing
Father’s art is in drawing
Sister’s art is in drawing
Niece’s art is in drawing

But where is my art?
Do I lack skill?
I cannot draw
I cannot dance
Am I just genetically flawed to not be artistic?

NO

My art is in my writing
My art is in the ability to take apart a computer and rebuild it
My art is in education
My art is MY ART

Art is the freedom to express oneself
Art is being able to put emotions to what you are doing
My art just isn't at the same level as others
My art is MY ART

The passion
The flow
The elegance of writing
Is MY ART

So if you ever cast doubt on yourself
If you ever wonder what you have to offer
Just remember
YOUR ART is what you love to do
You are an artist in your own way
I used to compare myself to my family. I used to think I had no artist skill, but I really sat down and learned my art is in my writing
Snowflakes scraped underneath fingernail tips
When the charcoal was pressed harder.
As often as the cheetah runs with the crocodiles by the nile
They do not look for each other.

As often as the bees sing
Only once could they muster poison and sting
With a clockwork, shelter and carpentry of honey.
The fruitness of a living body.

The sound that gets lost in the woods
Gets lost and carried
Flying through the whispers between the branches and twigs.
All the creatures are all but lost
Yet the striking fur
Shocks
Hunters into firing hot shells across
and the falcon fell.

A shouting cull
The silence that meant that wildly blooms have been collected.
A bouquet was calling the passing hours
Wrapped in the scraped white spirit of the wooden towers.
© Teri Darlene Basallote Yeo
My wretched little life
Consumed by pity.
Trying to open my eyes,
I feel the weight.
Why bother standing
Here in this blistering cold?
My soul's worthless
Anyways,
Too old.
I'm always shivering,
Constantly battling
Deluded musings
And babblings.
Maybe I've gone sane,
Maybe I'm numb to the pain
Of normalcy.
Grumbling engine underground
Again
Rotates and repeats.
The echo
The steamy yawn
Mellow fiend unseen
Creeps
Bearing teeth in metallic joints.

A fat snake's yawn
Blows and bellows quietly.
Uncoloured ornament at ten feet
Floats through that crawling wind
Full from everything it could eat.

***** sand in the far east
Rustic in the sense of dripping spit.
The blue walls painted over the white plain
Are scratched
White walls slain.

Drilling ripple
In the black pool
Ink
Coloured the lonely riddle.
A cold under the sun
Blinds our noses
Disguising away our senses.
© Teri Darlene Basallote Yeo
There the merry hologram glowing blue purple blue
Cactus human cherry on a stool
Beyond the window he would not look
Inside the sky made of wood.

The barber talks to his ferns
The flowers he understood
The living they earn
Sparkling its rough nails of your barber.
The breath and life he will spruce with apple-pie order.
He listens to
Each one story
Always about a time
A time which was cheery.

He looks piercingly to all their prickly
What he touches intently
To turn the time that latches onto your head which started feeling heavy.
Lifted into glee so jolly and carefree.

A man
Or the boys
They finally stand up easily.
Capes dusted
Top hat powdered
Their voice of fears collected as tips
For pricking up his ears.

The door that opens in the end
The swirling light that beckons
Hair became a way to lighten ---
When times get rough and belligerent
Cut it off, rugged and ruffian.

The barber hears him and all
The others like soldiers
They share their laughs
Troubles leaving shoulders
Leaving like a waterfall.
The barber knows everything
The barber knows all.
© Teri Darlene Basallote Yeo
Rhymes are better heard than seen.
I feel like that is what makes poetry...
Still trying to figure out where the truth lies.
Deep Beneath me or up in the sky,
Wherever it lies it must find a way out,
And open to the crowd.
You are looking at me from a distance,
Trying to develop a thought about me,
Believe me you cannot until you come and witness,
The horrors that I have faced ,
The Devil's that I have clinched,
Or possibly the devil that I have become.
I can be the soldier, I can be the warrior ,I can be the game
But wait a minute, I think I have the power to change the game.
We may not together come to an end, but separated we may die as "just" friends.
You have been with me not for a long time,
but I think it is enough to call you mine.
I won't say you are the end to my journey, but you are the companion to the end,
The end has to come and it will come.
If Living with the Legend, I may  climb the sky
And call it an achievement, that will make me climb.
But if I am living with human like me, even a jump in the sky.
It would  not make me, but it will drive me to the farthest end.
I want to be smart enough to be called a human,
But also fool enough to not be a legend.
Going by the basics I am still a kid,
But by the age I'm old enough to be called a teen.
I have began like a kid but would end like a hero one day.
Patrick Austin Oct 2018
There are two types of

people who are passionate...


Those with a love of being intense

& those with an intense love of being.
Personal quote.
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