Her hands are always cold
To match her heart
As she wakes up each morning
to put on a mask.
She sees all the colors
The world has to offer
But only shows black and white
To keep the spectators wondering.
She knows how to layer
Because it’s cold outside
And she can’t let it in.
Her eyes are clueless
Because life feels new
And the fear of the unknown
Creates her limit.

Justin Soberano Dec 2017

Aye, aye, b-b-, AYE!
I try to rhyme ten syllables at a time,
Whoops I meant eleven, isn’t that a crime.
To make poetry is proving nothingness,
Oh I meant something-ness, what a bloody mess!
Let’s just shut the hell up and be pantomimes!

a poem I made on my Twitter, might as well share it here
aviisevil Dec 2017

i'm in a war zone, with rage in my bones, with stick and stones, so sick and tired of the ones gone,
i feel so alone, on my own, with brick and fire, building myself a safe haven,
where i won't be mistaken, for mistakes and scratched lines,
i'm too attached to my mind, i don't see the outline, I don't care for time,
it's just a needle going back and forth, and before you tell me I'll grow old,
i'm already dead, and I know you already know,
if somebody cut open your head, it'll be as ugly as mine,
if somebody cut open your heart, it'll be as cold as mine,
this world taught us we'll be fine, it'll rip us apart before we ever see the shine, sun-shine

there's sun to shine,
in sun shine,
there's nothing to be afraid of,
you see them lying,
you see them crying,
you see them be lost,
oh, you see them crying,
you see, there's only one kind,
the one nobody minds,
there's only one sun to shine,
in sun shine-
there's nothing to be afraid of,
nobody's dying,
everything will be fine,
act surprised, they don't know
what you are made of.

and I'm not the king, oh no,
I'm not the slave,
I don't have the comfort of knowing,
I'm just growing old,
so rotten and cold, maybe it's forgotten,
and I am back in autumn,

so hold onto this torch for me,
and put me on fire if someday I do not wake, that's why I put my voice on tapes,
I don't have a choice, there's only noise
and it does not fade,
put me on fire if I do not break,
if I do not wake, if I do not hate,
put me on fire if I do not fade.

let's talk, just you and me, let's talk-
just you and see, let's take a walk,
count, one, two, three and down,
one for free, drown for thee,
there's nobody else,
who has seen the hell, you claim to be
handful of scars and nothing else to see,
mindful, any day could be your last,
don't ask too many questions,
there's no need for emotions,
there's no need to bleed on vacations,
don't worry about annihilation, for the duration-
sorry, but only the man with gold deserves standing ovation,
and you can't get in, all the tickets sold,
this place is wicked,
the face is sick and wet,
with all those tears and years it was fed lies, they say in heaven nobody dies and everybody is happy,
and anybody who's anybody gets what they like, rich folks,
with their fancy hair and dyes,
ugly teeth, can't you see,
they are as empty as you and I,
it's all the same, and we shouldn't take no name,
we don't know what's sane anymore, we act surprised,
all we do is write stories and complaint, maybe we're all the same,
maybe it's just one huge game, there are a few but not many who can tame,
that beast inside of us, full of love, don't mention the stuff in your veins,
put things in motion, and everybody is now chasing erosion, like some form of poison, pacing up and down in their minds,
inside, in oceans,
outside there are these walls,
can't be broken,
there are no doors, so, therefore
there's nothing to open,
I'm just awoken, and maybe I'll go
back to sleep,
sing for me, dream, scream for me,
grin for me, take the smoke in for me,
choke on your thoughts,
caught up in your rot,
you ought to be ashamed you see, doing things your mamma, did not
want to see, tell me,
is this what they wanted you to be ? but fuck them right ?
they don't see what you can see,
they cannot hear what you wear, they cannot
feel what you feel,
so, steal away all their time, don't mind,
they were never the equation, and you were never patient, they are ancient,
that's how you were raised, the weaker gets eaten up by the invasions,
nobody is anybody just names on a page,
this world is nothing, it's everything, it's a cage-
and I'm not the king, oh no,
I'm not the slave, I don't have the comfort of knowing,
I'm just growing old, so rotten and cold, maybe it's forgotten, I'm back in autumn, so hold this torch for me,
and put me on fire if someday I do not wake, that's why I put my voice on tapes,
I don't have a choice, there's only noise
and it does not fade,
put me on fire if I do not break,
if I do not wake, if I do not hate,
put me on fire if I do not fade.

aviisevil Dec 2017

I'm aware of what isn't, I'm still a peasant, memory's not pleasant,
my brain's not present, I'm in the presence of another's essence,
I'm here with a vengeance, on my mother's breath, I pray for my father's death,

I'm not here for lessons, I'm not here to listen, I'm here with a vision, no goal but on a mission,
lost my soul and now I don't have the heart take make a decision,
the thing about love is that it cuts with precision, if you hate enough you can join the legion,

take a revision, come now, take a test, all the maths in your head, add all the mad in your head, all the sad in your mind filled with education,
the time holds still, you'd rather be blind, not par taking in the anticipation, participating, precipitating without a reason,

you change colours every season, collecting the wreck, wrecking the tech, rolling the tapes until the ends connect, aware what is, but still missing what isn't,

if somebody tried to break your neck, would you help if it was in a way that is considered to be decent ?,
if it was pleasant, would you be the peasant that cries in the absence of his kings presence, isn't that religion ?,

I see, I feel, as if I'm not seeing the real picture, all these scriptures and spiritual teachers whisper, the same, it's now in fashion, to have a passion, to be insane.

if I'm ever back in the region, I'll send a message through the pigeons, a safe passage for the superstition, last page reserved for the delusions, ask hate, if it means the same if you create illusions,

you're prolly havin' a fun time if you're not part of the solution, fuck this world, it's just seven continents and one ocean, full of walls, doors that never open,

wage a war but don't show any emotions,
don't heal if it's broken, it's just awoken,
I'm in a commotion, with all these monuments inside of me full of torment, I'm done with answers I don't ever want to question, I'm done with erosion, my veins are full of poison,

I'm aware of what isn't, I'm still a peasant, memory's not pleasant, my brain's not present, I'm in the presence of another's essence, I'm here with a vengeance, on my mother's breath, I pray for my father's death,

I'm not here for lessons, I'm not here to listen, no, I'm not really here to be fed and see. I'm here for the kingdom, when I'm dreaming in my bed, I'm in a prison, talking free, I'm prolly what Polybius was envisioned to be, a random mathematical equation,

something for everyone to see, something for everyone to feel,
anything for anybody who's somebody, but not everybody is free enough to see what i see, in my prison, where i got past the last season, after killing me, after filling me with theories those are prolly my only, I'm so lonely, even in my thoughts, caught in my rot, with nobody to free, you see I killed myself a long time ago, I don't know who I am anymore, before I was sure and now not anymore, I have less and I want more, cashless but I want the store, faithless but I'm hardcore, so hard to explore, and sooner than later after I explode, I'll still be a stranger prolly a Polybius export, Polybius in my blood, strange things and places I implore, stop wearing those faces, I'm weird enough in my own, I don't want you to own my lore, I'm prolly a Polybius, impervious to imagination, obviously what's obvious isn't how it's all supposed to be, innocence is so vicious, infectious, prolly oblivious, it's my Polybius, so ?

it's a mad world and it grows, it glows in the dark, it doesn't matter how far you run, who you are , how far you are, what you've done,  it won't ask, it's prolly Polybius, no ?

A H J Nov 2017

engulfed in viridescent
i suffocate,
there’s no way my existence only live in one color!
at this rate, i will only absorb monochromatic colors-
boring, black and white colors-
my life isn’t an empty chess board!
my life is supposed to be a prism after sunlight, reflecting the colors of the rainbow rays after heavy rainstorm.
my life is supposed to be a clear cheerful lights that invite happy beams from every eyes that saw me!

where are those beams now?
there are,
but all of them are

it can’t be.
it can’t be.
now it’s only one solid color,
a color that allows me to be invisible.
it’s better this way.
i would die rather than letting my morose colors transparent.

until when?
will i hide my colors forever?
but then, i will never witness the rays of the sun.
how will i refract rainbows, if i only let myself hide in the color of the night?

the sun.
the sun won’t come out.
but the clouds are here.
gray, heavy clouds leaking of water.

maybe i should wash my colors.
wash, wash, until i’m cleanse.
wash, wash,
the loud sounds of thunderstorm.
wash, wash, rain,
volatile sky projecting a vicious achromatic light.
let my colors melt in rain.

until my vicinity is filled with fluorescent bulbs,
‘til the sky is pastel,
'til holographic air diminish,
'til then,
i can see others beams,
and my own cheerful color
is the best one i could display so far.

showing your true self to others is hard. but it's not impossible.
Tony Ortiz Nov 2017

I color words with my anxious, greedy thumbs,
And paint mental pictures with my diction until its numb,
Hoping one day to be known as the Profound Prophet,
But I can't seem to untie the belt tied inside the closet.
Maybe I should be known as the Absent Minded,
Unconsciously assisting my fellow man that's been blinded,
Making sure that their happy endings get finded-
Found*. Whatever, words are just symbols,
Give them meaning and they protect like a thimble,
Or cause damage like knives sharpened by the a syllable,
Words can kill but at the same time are themselves, killable.
My words don't harm, they heal the injured heart,
Seek the perpetrator, and tear them apart.
Call me the defender of love, or a purveyor of wisdom,
Or a street rat cuz if they want it they can get some,
But I assist the community one by one, on a mass scale,
And I pursue my passions in life studiously; without fail.
In short I guess you could say that this was a confession,
But nah, I'll jot this down as another rhyme session.

Just another freestyle.

Just hold on baby girl Pooh Bear,
I am here as your guardian angel,
None more other than you I love,
Xerox my love and give it to me,
Easier than me you can't love anyone,
Drive you to ecstasy I will for sure.

Not fearing the future anymore,
Or not fearing their judgement.

Mighty love will take us to our port,
On the port of satisfaction we'll land,
Roam as much you want in my heart,
Exceed my expectations always you do.

My HP Poem #1678
©Atul Kaushal
Dahlya Katz Nov 2017

A sharp knife
Aimed at nothing
But translucent skin
Staring deeply
At a shimmering mirror
Smeared lightly
By tiny photographs
And emerald squares
In the moonlight
A slight flinch
And unholy sounds
Of desperate cold screams

trinity Nov 2017

i hate her.
i hate the way she talks,
the way it's always the wrong thing,
the way her voice is always uneven.
i hate the way she slouches;
is it apathy she feels, or the weight of the world?
she can never seem to decide.
i hate that she isn't smarter,
that she isn't calmer,
that she isn't motivated,
that she isn't kind.
i hate that she trusts too much or too little.
i hate that she makes everything a big deal.
i hate her fickleness.
i hate her anger that she has no right to feel,
and the sadness she doesn't understand,
and her stupid ticks
and stupid fights
and stupid feelings.
i hate that she likes feeling sad
just to feel anything at all.
i hate her cliche words.
i hate her clumsiness.
i hate that she loves attention.
i hate that she tries to drag everyone into her problems,
ignoring the way they're hurting,
in some sort of warped cry for help.
i hate that she likes the way fire feels against her skin,
but most of all,
i hate that she can still face herself in the mirror day after day.

turns out i cant go long without writing about myself! sorry
harlon rivers Nov 2017

Hops and topsy-turvy jumps ― blurred movement
muddles across  the dewy meadow floor,
as though dawn brushes away the sandman’s magic
from the corner of sleepy eyes,
                                  to cast an enchanting spell
    A sudden hazy yet abrupt stop…
    hastily,  halting ,   frozen motionless

Stillness, as if some final destination has been reached…
Neck stretched and craning,
tilted with an eye to mother earth ;
a canted focus beyond interruption
   In the blink of an eye,
   with a vigor too rapid to capture,
   as the nowness of urgency flashes ― 
   She stretches the earthworm
   with the grasp of subsistence
knowing after fall   becomes the long winterlude.

The morning sun illuminates the glow of the native Maple’s
glorious fiery orange and yellow color palette  
A steady stream of animation rushes in and out
   of the giant tree’s golden splendor

Abundance perishes with the seasonal gardens decay.
Mornings of blueberry and strawberry feasts
have left the red breasted robbers foraging
for the last rotting apples the deer have left behind.

   Harbingers of spring…
   Blueberry sneakers…
   Gleaners of fall and winter..

“Teeek”  “tuk” “tuk” “Tseep”....
        fills the overhead air
   with a beautifully chaotic verve

The flock returns repeatedly     to and fro     the towering Maple
to the ripened cornucopia of scarlet berry clusters of the Mountain Ash

The Robin’s flock ravage and gorge on the plentiful delights
Soon the crimson berries fuel of flight will disappear
   as if it were only an unspoken allusion
          of the passing seasons

The pearl gray sky is an ominous backdrop
          for the fickle fleeting migrants
Daylight fades as the flock disappears
          into a break                in the clouds
fleeting unto the ominous pending winter sky…

In the blink of an eye ... life’s  senescent seasons
transform the stormy whirling winds of change
bearing the golden Autumn leave’s splendor
   across the rolling vista
like a higgledy-piggledy murmuration
   of a migrating beautiful mess

The naked rooted scaffold’s branches stretch
across the sprawling tapestry of the wooded sanctuary.
Winter flocks of Thrush and Robins,
    arrive on a frosty new dawn
Red breast feathers puff with the morning sun’s rays,
warming the tree tops leaning toward the southern sky;
   Their journey here and now,
from distant mountainous horizons,
   is part of a soul’s sacred circle of life…

November rivers ...the final autumn entry of 2017

Postscript:  ... something fitting and gentle for a beautiful fall  morn
in the Pacific Northwest ~ I've realized I want to share lighter moments in life when they are writ,  readers or not...this is for the few with eyes that see beyond the obvious sense of nature's vastitude ...ubiquitous zen ~

The Mountain Ash grove is always a fascinating spectacle in the fall…After watching for several days…recording the thoughts, mentally painting the picture for a sit down at the table, in the window with a pen and paper  tablet.   Today was the day for a 30 minute stream of natural consciousness in this narrative prose poem about a reoccurring seasonal fascination with the American Robin’s cycle of life…
When I stop to ponder the irony, actually our circle of life is just as round…

Some say all poetry is about the writer, at least in some subtle way,
even when they try to convince themselves it is not...
This writer wants his poems to become just as personal to the reader,
whether a writer or not ...Why say that here & now?
As most writing from me is too deep for many readers...
we all need to breathe deeply and exhale a sigh now and then... these days
I try to stay out of the Robin's way... it's my  nature's way
Giving up attachment to things is impossible...
"Attachment to things drops away by itself
when you no longer seek to find yourself in them."

... thank you for reading "it's only water" final fall chapter

Flight of the Red Breasted Robin
Written by:   h.a. rivers
Next page