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Hannah Zedaker Jan 2018
zooming, zipping, speeding by
the air rushing by me as the spokes spin freely, gravity pulling me down
I outstretch my arms, and the wind lifts me high above the restraints of this world until the hill ends
and I clasp back onto those worn handles once more
bracing for the cracks in the walkway

'always be back when the street lights come on'

little creatures, sitting peacefully under an evergreen, only a little way into the old woman's lawn
a teal bike thrown quietly to the side
and crouch and creep slowly into the late afternoon
sheltered by luscious green ceilings above me, and the slight purr of a fur ball in front.

'always be back when the street lights come on'

the sun is setting quickly
but the bats always come out around now
an abandoned school with overgrown grass serves a grand hotel for my nocturnal friends
here they come
a large rain cloud of echo chirps and the flitter of paper thin wings catching air

'always be back when the street lights come on'

the bridge
water rushing quickly by,
it must have somewhere to be
the glowing moon settling above
content
prancing thoughts of dancing on those ripples and tickling the streaming moonbeams cross
and a little heartbeat quivers
trembles
shakes

"always be home when the street lights come on"
Julie Grenness Apr 2017
Some people live in fantasies,
Feed others non-issues and hyperboles,
Like politicians in government,
Phony fear campaigns, not what's meant,
Target disenfranchised, that's the way,
Who writes this drivel in our days?
Why worry about such hyperboles?
We all get ****** into fantasies....
Feedback welcome.
Julie Grenness Aug 2016
At my antique womanly age,
I have reached beyond cynicism stage,
I am quite blasé about hyperbole,
Hearsay evidence about chicks like me,
You're wasting your time, unfortunately,
Old bags like me are basically resilient, you see,
I've had 700 billion lovers, it seems,
Plus or minus 10%, is that how you deem?
Contemplation on such matters makes me giggly!
Yes, quite blasé about hyperbole,
You're wasting your time, quite definitely!!!
Feedback welcome.
Ava Courtney May 2016
My tongue is a piece of sandpaper
I’m melting into a puddle
I want to dive into a snowdrift
The hot asphalt burnt my toes to ashes
Oh lord. Open me up, My organs are cooked
I think I’m well done
You can fry an egg on the sidewalk it’s so hot.
As I melt away. The sun keeps shining down on me
Laughing and mocking me as I slowly burn to death under this
500 degree heat.
AJ Jan 2015
They say a semicolon is used by an author
when they could’ve ended a sentence,
but chose not to.
In a way, we’re all authors,
writing our stories out as the days go on and on,
as they fade from as golden as a crown,
to as dark as a melanistic fawn.
You see, I’m the author of my life.
I had the choice to force a period to the end of a few sentences
as my short life moved forward on countless occasions,
to stop the clock from ticking,
the heart from beating,
but no.
Because my story is far from done.
I will forever keep adding semicolons until my pen runs out of ink,
or until I can’t find the courage to keep on writing.
I have more fights to keep fighting,
mountains to keep climbing,
a million lies to tell, and a million sorry’s to
bandage the hurt,
a thousand kisses to receive from strangers
and family and friends alike
until the word “suicide”
is nothing but a fading page in my life story.
And if I ever want to add a period,
such as when I’m when I’m feeling as blue
as the eyes of the boy who shattered my heart into pieces,
I’ll remember the semicolon,
and how my short little story doesn’t need to end just yet,
now does it?
cheesy semicolon poem for english, *******
it's the draft version, cause it's too long and missing a lot of pieces needed but hey oh well
Tianna Routley Nov 2014
Little drops of his favorite coffee stained his body, residing as freckles.

They show their quiet walks, with massive dogs and shattered mugs.

They show the bright stars that dissapear when the fog creeps up.

They show the times smoke perched against his smooth, spotted fingers.

She aligns his spots like costilations in the twilight sky

As the sun stays longer, and those mornings are chirp, those freckles apear like April rain showers

They show their stolen kisses when she pouts her warm lips like a new born baby

They show each time she's fallen in love with him, lost within his eyes

Quiet morning couch, he grins at her and sips at his coffee
She starts to count
This is a rough draft of some little free verse, but it makes me happy...
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