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mark soltero Feb 2021
it’s what’s done
that can’t be said
stupidity you can see
it’s just me
can’t tell you all the things i see
cause i don’t really know it all
i cry and lament of whats uncanny
sensibilities for unnecessary
points of grandeur
don’t help me
all they do is keep me awake
Dianali Feb 2021
As years go by,  I can only recall,
the same feeling of longing has always been in my bones.
grey Jan 2021
i had always romanticized thought of homocide. but in which way would i  have done it? i couldn’t be caught. that wouldn’t be the perfect ******. I’ve lived with four, but after my mother had locked eyes with me, and picked up the shovel, there were only three. id pondered many ways, the easiest to dispatch of was two. all except of me. i could’ve speared the rest, you’d never be too vigilante. pulling the trigger was an option, but they’d find the bullet. arson, a creative solution. i waited ‘til sundown. gasoline, every inch of the house. i entered my mother’s room, taking two lighters, and a matchbox. i lit three flames on the match, and threw at the house along with the lighters. i left. without taking any belongings. i moved far far away. finally, ive committed the perfect ******.
******.
Jason R Michie Jan 2021
Silent lyrics sung, line by line,

Page by page, movies projected on my mind.

Words that moved me like waves, washed me out to sea.

Words that, like lighthouses, revealed the shore to me.


Sailors of stars, stories in hand,

Of heartbreak and romance, of adventures in distant lands.

Where words can lift you up and make you fly,

And stand with you against demons that darken the sky.


Whether high [on life] and humming happy tunes,

Or maudlin (in my cups) and singing the blues,

This drunken sailor would doff his cap,

Clear his throat, and raise his glass;


To all of the writers in their own little worlds,

To all of the pencils scratching, and all the pen whorls,

To all of the cluttered keyboards clacking,

To all of the rhythmic fingers tapping,


For all of the dreams and even the nightmares,

For all of the times your words let us know that somebody cares,

For all the truth, guiding ship to coast,

I raise my glass in an old Irish toast:


May the dreams you hold dearest,

Be those that come true,

And the kindness you spread,

Keep returning to you.


Slainte!  

Keep writing! <3
© 08/20/2020 Jason R. Michie All Rights Reserved
mark soltero Jan 2021
you’re beautiful to me
my daytime apparitions
wet with my own grace
i look into you
my scars laid into you
insecurities of my shadows
sweetness laid into you
ripe withholding your touch for days
smiling for me
brightness laid into me
your power inescapable
deliver to me your sincerest affections
your taste diffuses my inhibition
for a creature of excess
you’re more than enough for me
brandon mater Jan 2021
the heart of a poet
bleeds
an oozing darkness that no one
sees
enveloping him until he can't
breathe
as he screams at you to just
leave
so that he can be
free
from the pain that you cause
him
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