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Rory Dec 2017
And there is too little
Not enough softness

And the world may
One day do me in

And cause me to turn
To stone or nothing at all

And yet I am too strong to
Submit to these fears

And life may be hard but
So am I in my softness, my love

And my compassion that comes so
Easily to me that I may care for all

And while I may hurt and feel weak still
Now I know I may overcome all
it's been over a year figured i might as well come back lol, things have changed and i am doing better in my life, and i'm not so depressed anymore and i hope that changes will happen with everyone else for the better, and this isn't the best i've ever written but it certainly does sound pretty right? yeah i think so ^^ so hellopoetry i've missed you
JG Fletcher Nov 2015
I really don't understand
Why people think they
Have me figured out
Sure, I'm well mannered
Respectful and giving
My natural introversion
Proceeds me at times
But believe when I say
There's more to me
Then what you see
At face value
I'm layered
And I only open up
To a select few
The worst part is
I haven't opened up to you
I uphold my shy demeanor
But in due time
I won't hold back
And my actions
Will turn admirable
Written on a night when the moon glows yellow in the riptide
Martin Narrod May 2014
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.

On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.

We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
*Johnny 3:16 is an unattainable film featuring Vincent Gallo. The trailer for the film is available here

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