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Miriam Mar 2
Life without you
is like food with no recipe
Don’t care what they say
You’ll always be the best of me
The truth is I’m a little lost inside
I keep on letting my feelings hide
Is it wrong not to feel right
Without you walking by my side
Day after Day-Night after Night
Don’t care what it takes
I’ll put up a fight
©️Copyright 2021 MH
sankavi Feb 13
you make me feel unlovable
you make me wonder why I'm not good enough
why I will never be enough for you
Braydon Dungan Apr 2020
you are the burn of cigarette smoke
painful, tearing at the insides of my body
yet i need you, i always crave you
smiling as you rush through my body
you can hear me screaming for help
yet i am silent
there is no sound, no movement
only the tears that drip from my eyes
a waterfall, slowly being drained of every drop
i look up
you are my detriment
and cigarettes only burn for so long
Sammy Fowler Apr 2020
feeling like dead
wanna be dead
but you make me feel alive
i don't know if this is a song, or is it not
but as years grow, my love for you grows
i cannot stop loving you more and more each day
more than you could know, more than you feel
for i love you...
Me and my best friend wrote this one. This is now our poem. Show love to Mr.Seth!
TIZZOP Feb 2020
we're stopping to breathe
vampires and zombies
have come to eat...

you don't know joe
you don't know sue
what's going to be:

let me tell you:
some human stew
ain't nothing new
to dem creatures

you're just a feature
a gimmick
some meat
has to be in it
Today be a good day. Haha.
Blind Eye Dec 2019
Simon Oct 2019
Logic isn’t focused with poetry. Poetry is purposely alienating logic. Splitting up logics meanings into pieces that can’t be put back together again. Only fitting back together in a more imaginative sense. Imaginative grasp of abstract functions winding up a newer playing field. Playing fields that aren’t taught, until you instinctively bind them back together again. Logic is thinking, right? Feeling makes it subjective. Instincts collapse the two. Rearranging them back into fitting purposes without design of chance. Chance is everywhere. But design is not necessary. Only when there is a purpose in thinking. Feeling is the doppelganger of neurons smashing synapses together. Filling in logic that doesn’t need to be. Again! No design of chance. Chance is everywhere. Feeling interprets the pieces of logic when infused with poetry. Poetry being chance. Chance dominating all aspects of abstract features in its thrall! Poetry becomes infused with logical mimicking. Copying to catch the details of reasoning, interpretations, and analyzation. Repurposing the pieces to remain everywhere. So, it can learn what it means to be separate. If it’s logical, It ain't chance. It’s purely intentional! Making each separate piece its own backing logical platform. Giving rise to more reasoning, interpretations and analyzations. Never repurposing, until it’s ready to unwind itself back to the core. Like a magnet. A magnet with no purpose, rebuilding itself back up again. Diminishing the vulnerabilities of feeling too stretched out. It doesn’t hurt. Yet it’s uncomfortable. Resistance isn’t futile, if it’s a positive process one is nurturing to overcome. Overcoming stresses of desires. One has become too cramped! Cramping the style of the only vessel to hold those aspects together. Abstract features on a timer. Timer equivalent to infinite steps to achieve a goal. A goal of provenance. Provenance without limits knowing when the deed is done. Magnifying the timer to ring! Signalling the imaginative grasps on the newer playing field. How long have those abstract features of aspect attributes knowingly collected new material? And how many abstract features culminated parts of itself from far off reaches, from the original core? Except with time, comes (process inducement). A claim hinting at miniature parts of a whole, becoming their own wholes. Finding their own cores. There center. There true calling. Poetry being the culminating focus of every aspect ever formed. Producing far reaches of perspectives. Overclocking desires newly buffed up on a style that makes simple reasoning, interpretations and analyzation blush constantly!
Poetry being everything one can desire in one focal point. Desires never claiming logic if it hasn't accessed the aspects around itself, first and foremost.
Mystic Ink Plus Apr 2019
When logic and reality intertwine
Should one need to close the senses?
Or, let one feature the time in rhyme?

What should one do?
Genre: Experimental
Theme: Being the observant || How to be writer || Then it happened || Who may not have wrote something in any point in time?
Tori Ginter Mar 2019
She did not have soft hands
Her hands were red.
Her hands were a boneyard.
Her hands were tired.
But through all the folds and shapes
Out of her paper mistakes
She made cranes.
She made them for the people she loved
And sometimes, the people she hated.
The cranes stood in her favourite places
Or they marked “I would literally rather be anywhere else right now”.
A blue one for Portland
A red for Sanfransisco
Yellow for,
She stops.
He always said he loved the colour yellow.
Time withered on and she withered with it
Soon, she was gone.
And as if the people had nothing left of her
They wepped.
Yellow, he thought.
He looked up through his sorrows
A yellow paper crane
Peered about on a windowsill
What once blended in the crowd
Now stood out like treasure
Some say the paper cranes flew that day
She would have liked that.
Leave your mark on the world
Kayla Hardy Mar 2019
The loving, vibrant life I try to give you won’t be fair,
finding your ground won’t be easy on this never-ending, spinning orb.

Although I keep you safe and sheltered in this, hand-made dome,
it can’t protect you from the damage of natural disasters.

Rules aren’t meant to be broken because if you break them,
you’ll end up tumbling down a steep, rocky cliff with nothing to gain but pain.

Sticks and stones may break your bones, and other words can break through your innocent, fluorescent bubble and leave you with a litany of tiny scars.

Crying under the secure, warmth of your home won’t lessen the blow from that whirlwind of turmoil and heartbreak.

Drowning in a burning elixir and fading into a cloud of toxic smoke will only numb the aches and it will dim your glowing light, killing you rather than healing you.

Cutting yourself off from this dysfunctional reality will only bring you damp, cold, darkness to fend for yourself and nothing survives on its own.

No matter how much hatred bubbles up like hot lava inside of you,
remember who was your home,
remember who cared for you,
remember who gave you life,
remember me.
Prompt: Write a poem about the things you’ll tell your future children someday
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