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Matilda Oct 2018
I can do it too

Author essays outpouring love
written in abstract as if not
PAINFULLY pointed-
A spear to stab straight through.

The kind, like a fish hook
which snag prey on the
backwards draw
dragging them in
to dinner.

Except: My written word could
never match that which
i showed in every breath
or act.

Inverse of yours, these fragments
of passion that
I NEVER ******* SAW.
What ******* SWOON?
**** your ******* retrospective

… Because I caught it too.
A precious illness I never want to lose…
I’ll join to idealize you.

Yank on the line harder.
If you stitched it of any substance…
It might not snap.

PS: Now I can see you ripping through
my rainbow scales, to dine on
my cooked white flesh.
Do I even remember how to bleed?
eleanor prince Oct 2018
Where are you
my one perfect muse
the shape of contours
conjured in dreams
held since bud was formed

Where do you rest
like me for that
of moments


Are you even
embraced in capsule
located in One

Or are you diverse
scattered like seed on
winds unknown
beyond my reach
as I wonder


Is it pointless to conceive
of your fullness
knowing deep down
you exist only in
poetry of disenchanted idealists

Newly formed realists
whose life work
lies smashed
pointless journey
reaching reality

Or will I glimpse you
in passing crowd
ephemeral but
sharply cut out
from all the rest?
(If not 'muse' then boss, friend, partner... )
amber Aug 2018
I am trying
to keep my head above water...
and avoid looking at you
if i mistakenly do
I will sink so deeply
air will no longer be
a familiarity
not even a privilege
simply nonexistent
i will solely breathe you in
Idealism boards its boat
and sails out to the ocean
and its middle reach.
Out as far as it will dare
it takes its detached opportunity
to yell its prayers
back at the beach.

"Wouldn't it be better,
if things were just [x] way?"

"The problem is that we're [here]
when we should be [there]."

Both bare and shoed feet
fist up the sand
and shout
shout, shout back --
They shout back,

"In the mid, your world is gold.
Here on the land, everyone's stomping toes.
On purpose. On accident. It happens.
**** happens. As far as living goes,
reality just is. So, sink with your conviction.
We challenge form, train adaptability.
Super humans laughing up from the tar.
We've come so far. We've come so very far.

It's still nothing."
Madisen Kuhn Jul 2018
in another life
i wear clay beneath my fingernails
and linen pants around my hips
fastened with a braided leather belt
rescued from my mother’s closet
one she wore in the eighties
when she met my father on the seaside of france
i carry flowers from the corner
down a gum-stained sidewalk
past the park i fell asleep in during one
slow sunday afternoon
there are cherry red stains on my pillow
some from my lips, some not
i’ve never been in love
but i’ve never felt alone
my nose is slender
and my collarbones flaunt themselves
beneath tanned skin
i am someone who drinks ***** and
orange juice while watering my plants
a longhaired cat licks its paws
in the windowsill
as i lie ***** in the sunlight
reading tolstoy and kerouac
and obscure poetry introduced
by the neighbor in 4F
none of it matters
i am just like a cloud
like a creaking step
i share myself only through
spearmint breath and coffee dates
here are my sweaty palms
here are my uneven bangs
you will never know me
i wrote out a daydream
Nickolas Niles Jul 2018

What a dream of writers,
Upon its grand galore?
Lifting hands upon Poe,
To ask forever more?
An Ernest near his sea,
Of Dante’s own heaven.
Fun to see Angelou,
With The loved Whitman be.  
My dear Plath of saving,
Nestled on her pillows.
So pleased to see the Frost,
Odd this time of willows.
Pleased my own time of miles,
A spirit dream of Niles.
For all Times...
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