The dose of smoke I consume to lighten my soul, exits the lungs.
Feelings of sadness, regret. I am left unhappy from my decisions.
I am left opened up bleeding out, staining the concrete.
All I have is this negative introspection,
An “Idea”of self hate.
I want your soft sweet love.
I want my best friend back.
The ideas of our future playback endlessly, a constant buzzing ringing in my ears.
I focus on my darkest moment. I am forced to reflect on the pain I’ve caused the both of us.
God Damn I would give anything to talk. I would give my life to be with you again.

Everything reminds me of you.
You’re in my music, in my writing, in my food, in my stories.
I’m Losing all my emotions to “The Size of The Moon”.
We should forget these setbacks and get back moving again.
Because I know what I am afraid of;
I know that I am absolutely and utterly terrified of this being the end of the road.

That we reached the two paths in that yellow wood.
That I forced us to take separate roads of travel. I finally have learned, One decision makes all the difference.

Both roads are less traveled when we walk the alone.
Madeline Renee Tidwell you’re my everything and I will do anything I need to do to get better and fix this.
a white coat of frost
covered the spindly grass
near our town's river
Once I thought to myself
that Frost was right,
that free verse was like
playing tennis without a net.

But sometimes reading Bukowski
is like looking into Chapman's Homer
for the first time
and I think of writing
as an organic process
like cum-stained thank you notes
and Spanish bones.

I think I enjoy poetry the most
when I'm not thinking about it at all,
the way the deep sea makes a sound
that can't be heard
but we all see the rain
and feel the cold on our skin.

It's just something that happens
like an orgasm
or a suicide
or a murder
like weeping in a pillow
when no one is looking.
Where have all the writers gone?
Where are all the poets?
Where is our Sandberg with his easy lines,
our Jeffers with his discontent,
our Frost playing tennis without a net
or with a net it doesn't matter?
Where is the greatness that defines us?
Where is our crying Ginsberg
our Bukowski with his rough blackbirds
and our Cohen of the Modern Miracle
(we're still waiting)?
Where is the voice of the internet age?
It'd better come soon.
Because it's lonely here with no one to read,
no modern sage to turn to
and I wonder how many people today
turn away from their windows
to their keyboards,
like me,
and type this in.
With all apologies to Leonard Cohen.
Seanathon Jul 27
My echoing laughter
Catches the walls
Just below the ceiling
When I see it again
In the reiteration of his own hand

That you were right
And the world was wrong
That it was not meant to be as this
A singing song
But a reproach of the sigh
Of another man

How clever of the Frost to hide
On another set of snowy hands
  
How clever indeed were you also to find
The original meaning of such a man

With props to you
I laugh again
It was to reproach the sigh and to remember the moment. I think you were right (or at least on the right track).
I walk every day like in the desert
I do not know what for
for whom and for what purpose
my existence

I walk every day like in the desert
in search of some answer
in search of some kind of truth
which in fact is not present

I walk every day like in the desert
bright sun beats me
cold of Russian frosts kill
but I'm going and I don't know why


02.04.18
Mina Jun 29
like frost, you melt
when the sun crosses the surface of your
suckled face made out of silk,
rain and the cold.

like frost, you seem fragile
you seem as you are vulnerable,
you appear almost weak,
but you can burn when someone touches you,
you can make a daisy drown in your cold blood,
you can make me break everything just for one snap.

like frost, you disappear after winter.
like frost, you are only there to make me slip.
duncan Jun 29
tied up like
the perfect man.
but let my neck drape
low like
an unpicked Lady.
bathe me in attention
but dont ask if ive earned it.

'its chilly out here'
she told me through
smoke
from her breath.
well god bless the
turpentine i transfused
for my blood
thats keeping me
upright.

i only live in the now
and by the time you
get there
ill be gone.
chasing a pipedream
or a dragon that might
give me a different
perspective
on things.

'its chilly out here'
she told me through
smoke
from her breath.
all you want is warmth
but i breathe
snow and
hail
into your atmosphere
not because i want to,
it just cant stay
here
anymore.

i dreamt a pair
of wings into my
life to find if i was
ready to see
the tops of buildings
without wanting to
jump
off them but i
gave up.
only i know whats
good
for me i think
thats the
problem.

'its chilly out here'
she told me through
smoke
from her breath.
she wiped the
frost
from my hair
and i felt
juvenile
the comfort of nothing
all over.
the
high
ive been chasing
from the edge
of a
hand.
Mary-Eliz Jun 18
I often wonder if Robert Frost
in all his life ever got lost
did that road he took need corrections?
if so, as a man, did he ask directions?
Hadn't heard of this poem form (Clerihew) till recently. Had to give it a whirl. :-)
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