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Doodling out the hours
And minutes
Become tiny emojis
Criss-cross, half-finished
Tic tac toe games
And I feel lost
Each box a reminder
Of these quarantine
Afternoons, and your name
Is always on my lips
Along with the words
I miss you
one of my favorite hobbies-doodling
Trains pass by
Hiding bombs
Waiting to kiss the sky
Of the blue hours
I've been drowning in.

Another pill passing lips
From broken fingertips.
I wonder why my hands died
Before the rest of me could.

Empty monsters
Fill up attics
With my dead friends.

They walk past


Laughter and


Just as empty by the end
As they were at the start.

So far
Nobody good
Has mentioned
My dead hands.

The drunken ghosts
Whispering to walls
Still blame me
For your death.

And my beauty is blurred
By my dead hands.
And my chest is bruised
By your young death.

And my glass philosophy
Has begun to shatter
Under the light
Of the blue hours
I've been drowning in.
A more abstract poem inspired by my words page.
Sheela Aug 3
Sand and oh it’s fall,  your formation and mine relate after all!

As the time drifts down
It’s echo swifts round shedding old for the new, yet envisioned my days blue
Scintillating hours, despising what was yours
To making it all mine for “dissolved ME ” could again shine
All those mystical minutes made out of fallen sand hath landed uncharily out of my close clenched hand

I collect all of you here in the bulb of one section,  its all together yet seems like it has lost its direction
Witnessed sand falls united at the apex, if this is the sweetest testimony
You and I never blend together is the bitterest baloney

Sand and oh it’s fall,  your formation and mine relate after all!
Kellin Jul 29
Going to
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2015
21 hours ago
received the message below,
from a fellow poet, here,
now somewhat, more disappeared,
resting in the shady quietude of
Elliot's servers

a mere 21 hours ago,
a thunderbolt telegram
of virtual dots and dashes,
well received

whose name
you have forgotten,
even if you knew it back when
I shan't knowingly now reveal...

perhaps if you were
one of the
multiyear variates,  
still here, still seeking
to the
equations of the
human formulation,
one of the veterans of the
early word wars,
when the line between fellow poet
and human being was full of
invitational openings,
tween those dots and dashes,
we all eagerly entered those places,
crossing over into
those human openings,
making poets into friends,
if you webbed here back then,
you may have known her too...

21 hours ago -

"there's a reason
I got to know you,
even though that might
sound silly.
In a way,
you saved me
two summers ago..."

this message,
teaches me to remember
the power of words
be careful what you
you just might save a

didn't not ken, well enough
the pressurized curve of her bend,
though read all her private journals,
her thesis academic,
her private ascetic analysis
and poems that milked & masked
the angst of a life
really real hard

tried anyway,
two years of messages

could not feign
the pain
unintentionally recovered
while looking for
clues to myself,
this purported savior

all I recall is
a woman near her ends
woman near no means
but knowing the meaning of
the power drink meaning of
"just going on"
that was dug deep in between,
and how we traded poems
for each other,
and I called her,


but from now on and within,
when I see a message
time stamped
21 hours ago
I'll be
better ready
for the
explosions of myself
21 hours ago
"However long I don't talk - for whatever stupid reason I never have the courage to talk to others when I am lost in my life-- I still think of you and I hope you know that. I still think there's a reason I got to know you, even though that might sound silly. In a way you saved me two summers ago..."
In the mellowest light of lilac hours
Dewed branches glimmer in lifefull spectre,
Nurture the sight and feed the body
Rose - clinking hushes the early morning's
Insect hustle and shuts down the micro - worlds
It is time for us to repose
Nature wreaths the mind in million lighted
Colours of youth - lasting spring, like web
It spreads through us till we are but foam of images.
Ivy Leigh Apr 23
I'm depressed
I'm a mess
I'm afraid to send that text
When you said
I could spend
Any moment with you to mend
Oh my heart
Needs to start
After hours spent apart
I miss you
Yes it's true
But I'm looking for a cue
That doesn't have to do
With the constant need to *****
Baby you're all I need
And you even make me scream
But beside all the ***
Where will you take this thing next
So I need a little change
That wherever you go
You will loosen up the reigns
Sadie Grace Apr 14
1am thoughts drive me outside to the stars
the wet grass and night breeze remind me
it's not a bad world
it's not a bad life
it's just a bad night to stargaze
clouds litter the sky,
but somehow stars still peek through
clouds roll on
and somehow they unsteady me too
I could lay here for hours
in the uneasy silence of the night
Nat Lipstadt Apr 11
a woman comes to me at 2:20am,
from across the world, asking if I am that cool jew,
occupant/son of the unholy hours when death and crucifixion,
them two old friends, are waving temptation with both hands,
never mentioning heaven, offering .99 cents of sanitized compliments,
which for a fifth rate amateur writer is revolutionary,
as close as you will ever come to global recognition

that woman says, yes! you’re that insufferable fool whose
suffering keeps us awake when he should be sleeping in the
half-death state, in the unholy hours, only reporting back
what he has seen across the borderline, in these times
when a thousand-die-a-day daily from suffering
that is uniquely human, a wracking medieval torture,
granting those viral messengers, slow extra pleasure

be nice to yourself for a change, write ‘bout what they want,
broken love and suicide, mundane pain, keep it plain, short!
easy stuff that sells records, making you not whisper words
never meant to be shared, the language of the unholy hours,
a dialect unique, that Google can’t quite rightly translate,
for not every vision is substitutable, suitable, rated G for babies, so,
keep it short like a miserable life that needs a prophecy to complete

48 hours ago thought I was infected, a glide path to rocky moon-smooth,
a landing where words unique, taken away, sealing your mouth with
tubed oxygen that inhibits thinking, air that might **** all of you, not just pain, but what makes you unique, your own 10 commandments
of speech, the old testament, the source book of insight into whatever
makes your lungs breath in rhythmic to heart beating, and dying
discordant disrupts the gene sequencing of inhaling and exhaling

the editors and the critics overlooking, that sit on both shoulders,
are already complaining, no más, no más, no más!
suture that incision, close your mouth, the unholy hours
need a special silence, Ruth’s lips that move but go unheard,
make no mistake, we want to listen in, voyeurs of visions
but we need you broken, we need a break, from confronting
the repeatedly delayed, but undeniable, the clockwork orange
second coming of the ungodly hours

new york city of lips
inspired and spired  completely and totally by a mid-of-night conversation with a Lady From Manila 😉
Bhill Mar 26
the graceful butterfly flitted and fluttered
searching for the perfect blossom to take a stance
a locale, so perfect and flawless, that she could finally unwind
relax after hours, no days, of searching
finally, that bloom, with the exact effervescence she needed was there
right under her delicate wings
she was home....

Brian Hill - 2020 # 85
Have you found that perfect bloom?
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