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Purcy Flaherty Nov 2018
Peach the worst of the of my small lumps are like putty in your hands,
My armpits glow like a midsummers wasp!
My lips are haemorrhaging for the hamster gnawing on your legs, bath time gurgles in a desperate attempt to save humanity,
***-chortle, guff and blast; oO0pS it's all brown and runny!
believe
that you can surely shuffle your miserable untested
vocabulary into never been heard before combo’s,

believe
your insights have never transversed in my blood stream,
a poem unheard, yours, a transfusion of not-my-blood type

believe
you are special in life, in love, in pain, in sad madness,
only you can feel primarily and primitive, all of us, tertiary

does the optimist mock you?

most certainly not.

achieve
poems are allusions, born each time, first time, summary illustrations
of eyes, mouth, all your sensations together, make a messy birth canal

achieve
your first is our first as well, make the risk-taken a celebration,
newness is a gift unique, bond us to your children issue nouvelle

achieve
with insolence of the blind beggar, a teasing teaspoon of outrageous
good fortune, a fist hammering breakthroughs of pain and glory


N.B.
my words have been tasted by thousands of thousands,
a fleeting glory that is instantly lost to the crumbling
dissatisfaction that all that your needs, your findings, solutions,
the breaking of the chains of your boundaries, drawn by imposition,
the fragility of the lines that contour your image, make you nothing, are nothing more than just another poet which is the most,

most glorious honor one can proudly bestow upon oneself
No. 5
In the path of truth
The frail, sieve out, to seek their own
Test of conscience, guide the rest
Em Oct 2019
In Death
there are only
Machines.

Machines
made to guide the man
to a heaven
that never existed.
i woke up in between naps to write this im going to sleep again
Rory Mels Tims Oct 2019
Create to start day
Relax by midday
Learn by late day
Contemplate to end day
Read when it's not day
Dream it all away
Six steps to happiness!
Nylee Oct 2019
Punching the numbers
I get the feeling of being lost
In the sequence of the memories
I feel my feet touch the ground
So when I open my bag
There is emotional side of me
Flickering in the dark.

Down in the pitch black
I look for the tiny spark
In the stories of old age
I look forward to happy times
And then I pull up myself
Found that I can stand
for a while more for a start.

The dark clouds clear and move
The sun makes the way
When mountains stand in path
From a valley it shines
And I know in truth
Darkness guides to
The road of eternal light
When no other lamps make you sway
.
Yoh Esters Sep 2019
The sounds that riddle out from her. It plays an instrumental tune as it bounces in the atmosphere.~

Too soft yet still noticeable, light enough to find me when I'm lost and strong enough to lift me up when I'm down.~

This is the shape of her voice.~
Sehar Bajwa Sep 2019
braving the tempest
hope plunges on; horizon guides;
their lighthouse signals dawn

-----------------------------------------------------------­---------

your compass guides
across uncharted terrains;
your light leads the way.
Joseph Miller Sep 2017
In the morning
I see them
coming over the edge
enlightened spirits
guide me
Through the day
I feel them
pulling me towards
all the answers
when I need them most
In the night
I hear them
whispering in my ear
Rest easy, they say
And I their humble servant
gladly obey
Chaque fois que j 'escalade
Les parois des mots vers les pics inviolés
J 'emmène avec moi dans l'expédition
Mon éclaireuse d'élite.

Ma sherpa me guide et me prévient
Des chutes de sérac et des avalanches,
Cuisine les rimes embrassées, porte les alexandrins
Installe le campement des rimes embrassantes.

Alors elle se repose sous sa tente
Et, satisfaite, cure sa pipe
Tout en fredonnant inconsciemment
Ses deux quatrains suivis de  deux tercets
Tandis que que moi je suçote
Mes surelles poétiques confites.
.
Ma pisteuse pose ses pitons et ses broches à glace
Dans l 'ombre des cimes
Sans oxygène sans assistance
Dans les nuages de la haute poésie.

Nous avons ainsi planté nos sonnets
Dans les vingt-et-un sommets continentaux
Ma sherpa c'est mieux qu 'un sur-homme
C'est une sur-femme, une sur-muse
Une sur-déesse
Une vieille briscarde
C'est Junko Tabei et Bachendri Pal
Et après chaque sommet qu 'elle franchit
Sans désagrément
Elle se retire sous sa tente
Et, satisfaite, cure sa pipe
Tout en fredonnant inconsciemment
Ses deux quatrains suivis de deux tercets
Tandis que moi je suçote
Mes surelles poétiques confites.

Parfois la chute d'un sérac imprévisible
Nous emporte, nous ensevelit et nous broie presque
Mais jamais ma sherpa ne se départit de sa pipe
Ni moi de mes surelles
Dans nos joutes poétiques.
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