My love with you will not only be filled with butterfly kisses and silky grips
But it will also be filled with stingray whips and electric lips,

My love with you will not only be filled with warm sheets and bunny cuddles
But it will also be filled with polar ice cubes and freezing tongue muscles,

My love with you will not only be filled with sugar sweet smiles and jelly joys
But it will also be filled with tear soaked shoulders and confusing conflicts of noise,

My love with you will not only be filled with seven star resorts and ravishing restaurants
But it will also be filled with playing various games and nights of movie hunts,

My love with you will not only be filled with heavenly peace and encouraging each other’s dreams
But it will also be filled with running races and roller coasters of emotion on diverse streets,

My love with you will not only be filled with artistic gifts and poetic lines that flutter
But it will also be filled with a collage of master pieces that we have created together for each other.

Ghazal: A short lyrical poem that arose in Urdu. It is between 5 and 15 couplets long. Each its own poetic thought but is linked in rhyme that is established in the first couplet and continued in the second line of each pair. The lines of each couplet are equal in length. Themes are usually connected to love and romance. The closing signature often includes the poet's name or allusion to it.
Julie C Smith Jun 13

coмe wιтн мe
ι'll ѕнow yoυ тнιɴɢѕ
тнαт yoυ woυld ɴever нαve вelιeved

вυт вαвy pleαѕe
doɴ'т poιѕoɴ мe
wнeɴ yoυ cαɴ'т нαve тнe тнιɴɢѕ yoυ ѕee

ιт'ѕ мy plαyɢroυɴd
we ɢo 'roυɴd αɴd 'roυɴd
αɴd тнe cαroυѕel wιll prιcĸ yoυ lιĸe α ѕpιɴɴιɴɢ wнeel

вαвy, ɢeт oɴ тнe ѕeeѕαw
вυт нey, вe cαreғυl
ι cαɴ'т ѕeeм тo нold yoυ υp wιтн αll yoυr нeαvy lιeѕ

тнe ѕwιɴɢ ѕqυeαĸѕ
нeαr тнe ѕнrιeĸѕ
oғ тнe rυѕтy cнαιɴѕ wнeɴ yoυ jυмp oғғ

yoυ're ѕcαred oғ тнe ɢнoѕтѕ
oғ тнe нαυɴтed нoυѕe?
вelιeve мe, тнe ɴιɢнтмαreѕ yoυ ɢιve мe αre worѕe

dαɴɢer zoɴe
do ɴoт croѕѕ, we're ɴoт αloɴe
wнy dιd yoυ нαve тo вrιɴɢ нer αloɴɢ?

ѕнe wαѕɴ'т ιɴvιтed
αɴd ι'м ɴoт delιɢнтed
ѕнe'd вeттer ѕтαy αwαy ғroм wнαт'ѕ мιɴe

нer нαɴdѕ oɴ мy тoyѕ
ι cαɴ'т ѕтαɴd нer voιce
ι ɴeed тo ɢeт нer oυт oғ тнιѕ plαce

ѕнe cαɴ'т ɢeт αll тнe ғυɴ
вαѕιc вιтcн вeттer ѕтαrт тo rυɴ
ι'м cαllιɴɢ мy dollѕ тo cнαѕe нer

вυт тнey тυrɴ, ιт'ѕ α ѕcнeмe
тowαrdѕ мe αɴd ι ѕcreαм
αre yoυ ιɴ тнιѕ ploy αɢαιɴѕт мe?

ѕнe ѕтαreѕ αт мe wιтн нer deαd zoмвιe eyeѕ
dαrlιɴɢ, нelp мe, doɴ'т yoυ нeαr мy crιeѕ?
ι ғreeze αѕ ι ѕee ѕнe worĸed нer вlαcĸ мαɢιc αɴd yoυ αre тυrɴed ιɴтo plαѕтιc

lιғeleѕѕ αɴd ѕтιll, yoυ lιe oɴ тнe ɢroυɴd
αɴd ι ѕιɴĸ тo мy ĸɴeeѕ, мy cнιpѕ αre dowɴ
мy plαyɢroυɴd ιѕ нell, мy lιттle ɢαмe ɢoɴe αll wroɴɢ

тнe oɴly wαy oυт ιѕ тo тαĸe мy lαѕт вreαтн
ɢαмe over, тнe ɴeхт level'ѕ cαlled D E A T H
вυт dyιɴɢ вy yoυr ѕιde ιѕ мy нιɢнeѕт ѕcore

ι тαĸe мy мαтcнeѕ yoυ cαrry wιтн yoυ
lιɢнт oɴe αɴd drop ιт dowɴ ιɴ тнe ғυel
ғroм ɴow oɴ, мy love, we'll plαy αloɴe

Better give back what's not yours

I love the game
that I can’t win
I’m a fool
for what I want

Vexren4000 Jun 3

The cowboy,
In the wild west,
Starting confidently at his poker hand,
To the trembling man making his last bet,
Humans have been using math,
To many ends for centuries,
From the first man to carve a dice,
To the first set of playing cards,
Games have kept man alive,
More than he may ever realize.

SM May 29

The glistening sun sets,
leaving a silhouette of hanging trees,
a decoration on pink faded walls.
Humming cicadas and chirping crickets,
play in a symphony of the night.
Bike rides and park games in darkness,
softball games in the bright field lights.
Each crack of the ball and bat create a chaos of teammate screams.
Lost every game, but won each time.
A refreshing water runs on slippery rocks,
swimming among fish and ducks,
Soaking bodies run home,
Baggy shirts, gym shorts,
Adults and children mix in a weekly party,
Beer bottle caps and soda cans clink to the ground.
Love and laughter surrounds a crackling open fire,
Warming bodies and hearts.
Little feet race to where the sidewalk ends,
the grass grows thick.
It is here where teams are picked and knees are scarred.
12am games are played,
cans are kicked, ghosts roam graveyards, and flags are captured.
Waiting to go home, hours and hours of waiting
Hours of talking of all different ages,
Country music and guitar melodies play throughout the street,
a lullaby of our childhood.
Television reruns at 2am entertain tired minds,
Couch and floor beds of blanket forts,
Carried up to bed to sleep in comfort at 4am, the chirping birds, already wishing a good morning to most, but goodnight to this home.
The raccoons rattle and the woodpeckers poke in a serenade to sleep,
In a neighborhood of blaring nights and silent mornings.
Each week, the time flew by.

A poem and a glimpse into my childhood.
Maria Etre May 9

It slapped me
so hard
that it shook
the darkness
out of my sadness
and the apathy
out of my routine

It slapped me
so hard
that it awoke me
from my nightmares
and took me to daydreams
that float outside my
window fabricating
fantasies only to
entertain my
mind on a boring

MU May 3

Sometimes, writing poetry feels like...

Playing Charades using metaphors to describe your actions
Solving Jigsaw Puzzles to assemble your current thoughts
Using Ouija boards to converse with your own feelings

Sometimes, reading poetry feels like...

Playing Poker when you study the writer's intentions
Connecting the poet's thoughts as if you were playing Dots
Figuring out the writer's feelings like in Strings

                                                      ­         Anyways, its always fun!

Its amazing to think about how many things poetry can be...

Reduction can be degrading when I'm reduced to cigarettes and pills.
Because when I'm awake I can remember faces,
I can even remember each touch.
So I'm lost in a kaleidoscope made up of loathing, with parts remembered as pleasure.
Every time I reminisce about quivering lips, I'm reminded of blood-shot eyes.
I'm in between rebirth and death itself.
Running between fear and obsession.
It's been a long road, and each stop was a harsh lesson.
It might be pride but I keep reminding myself until my body is buzzing with life.
Masochistic tendencies, all a fear of control and decisiveness.
Keep playing games to pass the time, playing at feeling alive.
We only endorse a fantasy of indulgence and ego.
Who are we to keep lying to ourselves?
Saying we're alive and well when all we want to ask is what if it isn't?

Mrs Charming Apr 22

Hair of a thousand silver strings. Her beauty forged from fallen stars. A present from the sky, too precious to be held forever.

On the contrary, your soul so tattered and weak, hungry with lust. The teeth of her ghost drag across your feeble bones, tasting the desire you have for her King.

Shame on you for playing with things that aren't yours, silly girl. Her howl shifts ocean tides and scars the moon. No universe can survive her thunder. Worlds have been slain and devoured by her wisdom alone.

Selfish child, did you think it wise to compete with the Queen? She will crucify you with her elegance. Her beauty will rip your heart out from your fickle body and feed it to the sun.

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