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Derrick Jones Nov 2018
Soft focus is not hocus pocus
It is relaxing the locus of concentration
But staying aware of the state of mentation

It is breathing free
With perfect clarity

It is falling asleep
But waking up to dream

It is forsaking worry
For a flurry of focal points
Getting blurry between the joints

So sink into the fabric of space
Erase the stitches of time
Wrap up in this infinite quilt
Guilt-free equanimity
Silt free liquid purity
Rest in perfect surety
Divest your uncertainty
There is no space ‘twixt you and me
Only particles we cannot see
For more poetry and essays, follow my blog on Medium at https://medium.com/words-ideas-thoughts
Thanks for reading!
Nick Stiltner Nov 2018
You see I was I was
reading this book right
this real great book
and i had it in my hands
and im seeing this scene
that its describing
im not gonna go into the details
right now per se but im seeing it
in my head, you know
you know like how when
youre reading the words
but not really because they
are becoming blurred
and the picture just
kinda appears
in your brain
like you are living it,
like you are actually there
but you can't be
its just something that you see
without eyes
it blooms and engulfs the inside
of your mind
it opens the door and enters calmly
and makes it self at home, like a
painting on the wall
or or
like a number youve been meaning to call
do you see what im saying?

so that got me thinking, hear me out
you can imagine anything, yes i know duh
the pictures can sprout and bloom
become overgrown and be trimmed
maintained or treated with disdain
or with some good ole TLC,
really anything you want
a home a gnome a crystal phone
in Rome trapped on the wrong end of a honed
pearly white bone,
what does it mean oh let me tell you
i havent got a clue not one
but what about
a light you were shown when you were
younger but somehow still aware
that what you really need is somewhere
out there
or in there I should say,
does that mean something or does it
only hold significance because its your memory
of what you did when you were young
because right now you arent moving you arent seeing
anything you are just there with a blank stare
and if you measured the time that was lost
in this state it would be sad it would be
disappointing yeah if you watched it from the side
but from my view its fantastic i see lights
in different colors and see crystal worlds and
different others, thoughts borne of differing
mothers from different places
but all the same
down the same path
from the same origin,
its all really a walk down the map
to find your own x
but thats a discussion for another day
but as i was saying it could lead
to so many different places
filled with beautiful faces and cases
left shattered and broken on the ground
and everything is sound and safe
but then there is a clap or a pop
and bam you are awake, aware
that you were stuck staring into thin air
trying to see shapes  
awake awake awake
and then its all gone like an old song
that youve forgotten the words too
but sounds so so so so
familiar,
you know?
plat Nov 2018
Poetry
Is not your most common sight
But the most unusual delight

Some poetry
Comes and goes
In neat little rows

Others yet
Scramble it's
Words

Some poems
Aren't what they seem
Others say exactly what they mean

Some poets
Are archaeologists
Digging for the remnant of a long lost being

Some poets
Are photographers
Taking in what is seen

Not all poems
Though
Have rhythm
And flow

But all poems
Are in their boats
Sent here by their authors
To run the ships
And tend to the goats
And be what they be
And do what they do
Poetry is whatever it is to you
Not my best work, I feel. A friend of mine said he didn't like poetry, or poets, that they're all arrogant and pretentious, little does he know. I made this to show what poetry is and isn't, and how it's both. It really is whatever you want it to be, and it by far is not one exact thing, and cant ever be wrong.
Anthony Oct 2018
All I see
All I see
Everything in front of me
Is a river

Flowing

All I see
All I see
Everything in front of me
Is a flower

Unfolding

All I see
All I see
Everything in front of me
Is a spiral

Unwinding
L Oct 2018
Im losing track of time again.

Lost in words, lost in my own head.

Theres so much to see, so much to do.

So little time.

And it slips from my grasp like how sand slips through the fingers of a clenched fist.

Theres no fighting the flow.
    So why try.
Dont bother. Youre gunna end up getting swept away anyways. Deal.

"*******, its dark outside."
Yanamari Oct 2018
One step away
Two feet at bay
Three thoughts sway
Dangling
In my gaze.
A door certain,
The distance short,
Viscosity of air
Uncertain.

With all the steps
That have pulled me
Here,
And with all the
Inter-flows of life curving
My path
Left and right,
I have come,
Oh expectant One.

Thank you
To all.


My gaze loses focus
But remains on one.
There is no handle.
The door is yet to open.

Thank you
For recentering my gaze
Each and every time.


Whether it be the flow
Beneath my feet,
By my arms or,
In my mind and heart,
I...

Thank you

I, a wistful soul,
Have always been
On the verge of you.
Each push and pull
Of the flow of tide
Almost pushing me through
And yet
Here I am.

Thank you

My body lays
Sensing the flows
Eyes closed
Thinking about
The One who expects me
Beyond the door.
Jack Rodriguez Oct 2018
Cannot let the artist in me give up or stand down.
Lyrics keep me sane, making me okay with who I am.
Empowerment is granted to me like rocking a crown.
Without my practiced passion I would be ******
Like an unwanted hound found in a pount.

This art is what I want, it is what I chose.
Forever I am backed up with disposable flows.
Committed to the craft that I have to create.
I wanna see the progress and where all of this goes.
My style is taking a flight without a debate.
My literature mixture cancels those who oppose.

From the bottom, I started as nothing.
I put in the rhymes and took all the time.
I needed to go from nothing to something.
Surely I've climbed until I've inclined.
I had to age like production of wine.

Lacking realization, before I could know it,
I became what I desired to be.
Admiring how I morphed into a poet
that bloomed everytime that I showed it
Letting the stream take me,
This is a voyage in a boat as I row it.
This is about the development/love I have for writing lyrics/poems.
Sillva Oct 2018
Many have said why do I write so much.
I said
"I been listening to the flow of art of my pen".

The beautiful voices that have said to me to CONTINUE.
You can listen to my pen and
what it has said
to this piece of paper.

There are times where I can no longer see myself as a person.
Only what's coming out of my pen,
The ink I compare my self to.
But where has the emotions gone to?
If I'm only ink?

Emotions that I can never discribe.
Ink that crys on it own
For every movement my hand makes,
A different form of pain comes out.
Emotions that can only be  described through this pen.
Excietment, happiness, pain and sarrow,
all coming out at once.

There are nights where I close my self to the world, while under the night light preferring to open up with my Pen.

The last drops of ink has spilled
An said out loud

A Pen without ink is a Pen without it's owners soul.


                                                            By ERS
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