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Bluebird Dec 2
I just want to be like you.
I want to do the things you do.
Because those are statistically always right.
So when you hated me
I hated myself.
I just resonate to it
It is raining
And they are shooting
This is not a game
This is a shame
Everyone is afraid
Babies and children are crying
Men and women are very mad
Where everyone is dying
The streets are infested with idiots and bandits
They are our enemies
They are not our friends
They shoot like crazy ants
Bullets fall like raindrops and rice
Gangsters are not nice
They are terrorists
They are bad tourists
They Are robot-criminals
They have no hearts, no minds and no souls
They are eternally ******
Bound for Hell, the infernal dam
Their organs are made of steel and iron
They are not human
Their hands are soaked with blood
They are scoundrels covered with mud
They are the spawns of Satan.

It's Raining
And they are killing
What a **** shame
Amidst all the madness
This is outright sickness
The universe is not at peace
The entire world is at war, in distress
Deep in the dungeon of the cemetery
We don't make deadly weapons
Here
We only have tears, rhymes and songs
At home
We cry everywhere
At home
They make too many weapons elsewhere
Too many people are dying in this madness
Everyone is afraid at home
There is too much misery and unhappiness.

Copyright © November 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Eliza Prasai Nov 29
These roads no longer feel like home,
because they don’t lead to you
The wind doesn’t feel so fresh anymore
because it doesn’t smell like you
My hands feel so cold in the night
because they are not wrapped in yours.

They say
Home is where the heart is;
And for the longest time
I have not felt like I’ve been home,
But then one day
these eyes got to catch a glimpse of you.

Have you ever felt that feeling?
When it seems like its been an eternity
but also No time has really passed at all?
The same fragrance, the same smile.
Those eyes and that
One glance that took your breath away!

The stars in my eyes were dim for so long
but that one day;
I see you , just one glance and with that light
Those stars in my eyes twinkle so bright.
They make me forget that
I had not been home in a long time…

And, just like that, the light of those stars
inside my eyes, they guide me Home
all along to right where you are. <3
Angharad Nov 28
How I miss that sycamore now. It’s gnarled and twisted yet perfectly elegant branches, crowding around me, holding me in my solitude.

Unconditional love that roots deep into the ancient soil of this place of moss and myths, surrounded me and pushed through layers of old leaves to get to me.

In that place, with those that live from earth, I feel welcomed home. Whenever I return there it feels permanent, a settled soul that had found its space in this, the damp side of the valley
It's strange.. things that sting most.

Like the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room..

Standing like a photo backdrop in memories of home.

That house is not the same.

Gutted and plasticized…

A mad surgeon with a jagged scalpel.

Walls torn down…

Reclaimed wood fencing replaced the chain link.

What happened to the Apple tree..?

I fear to think.

Pictures in a Zillow ad for me to find…

God can be cruel… yet, I  find small mercies in his work.

© Nathan A. Brock 2024
I S A A C Nov 28
fur lined coat
misspoke, words stuck in my throat
xoxo, written
let attraction become diminished
misspoke, memories mined for gold
xoxo, smitten
misspoke, your scent clinging to my clothes
xoxo, got to go
long walk home
Emma Nov 28
Pills rattle on cue,
Cats purr in soft solace true.
Sofa hugs my frame,
Netflix whispers, sleep reclaims—
Healing slow, the hours accrue.
Yesterday I stayed home was too sick and in pain to move. Today I'm only going to help my friends, I desperately need to rest.
Broadsky Nov 27
can you tell me with your lips how your eyes perceive me?
do you see me as an intricate basket with colorful beads?
done so by ancient hands so expertly weaved?
can you tell me the secrets of the soil that clasps the roots of the trees?
can you tell me all the names and whispers you hear in the breeze?
can you tell me how you always know the ice is thick enough to walk on after the winter's fourth freeze?

can you tell me how your eyes always know how to find me through a drunken crowd?
even through all the smoke from the hundreds of people creating this dust cloud
can you tell me how you always know when I'm saying things out loud?
even when the music is blaring
and the bartenders can't read the words people have mouthed
and say "sorry, if you want a drink you'll need to shout"
can you tell me why you smile when I lean out the window as you drive over and over again circling this roundabout?

Can you tell me how you've always known the tone of my breath and the song of my soul?
Can you tell me why somedays it feels like our first time meeting at a school dance back in the days of old?
Can you see us standing at the table with the snacks and the spiked fruit punch bowl?
Can you see me trying to catch the words of this song in whole? they're playing this new type of music, "have you heard it before? you ask me, they call it rock'n'roll"
Can you tell me you'll walk me home? hold my hand like it's the first time and forget I live just three houses past the big light pole?
Can we keep talking and maybe kiss at the end of this stroll?
"Can you tell me something about you?" I ask because knowing you deeper is a different type of beauty to behold
I smile as you tell me "I always loved when my aunt would make her thanksgiving broccoli and cheddar casserole"

Can you tell me how with you nothing feels like sin
even when your lips trace over every inch of my skin?
Can you tell me how you know to always lift my chin
to look you in the eyes even when the woes wear on me from where I've been?
Can you tell me how you felt about me when you watched me order a cocktail with my favorite gin?
but now Can I tell you how long I've I loved you? it's actually long before I even knew our time together would begin
Vrinda Nov 26
"I would say that you make me feel like
home but you never hurted me like the way
that apartment did."
Zywa Nov 23
Will, after the war,

our hearts still be awaiting --


us at home, sweet home?
Novel "the Passion" (1987, Jeanette Winterson), chapter 3 the Zero Winter

Collection "Blankets of snow"
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