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Brumous Feb 26
Your love is a music box,
a melody that surrounds me;
it intoxicated me.

Love me now,
so that I can feel safe

Love me now,
so I feel complete

Love me now,
so all worries bid goodbye

Love me now,
so I won't be wanting things;

Things I can't have

Love me now,
so I won't be paranoid

Love me now,
so I can escape this everlasting winter snow

Love me now,
so I can be in your arms

Love me now,
so I won't feel like an empty vessel

Love me,
like those people with happy endings

Love me,
so I can feel warm

Love me now,
so I can breathe

Love me now,
so I can see

So I can live...
Yet I can't force you, not because I know that it is wrong
I'm just too tired now.
this is pretty much a fail or something. But, the music I am listening to right now makes it seem so perfect, a lullaby.
The title of this is the title of the song in the game
Joe Millard Aug 2020
I began to weep seeing horrors
outside the Urakami Cathedral
amid skeletons of the horrific explosion,
that scarred innocent faces,
burnt patterns on human flesh,
and melted eyes of the pure
on that August day in 1945.
The day the bells did not ring
for those disfigured by flames,
charred by unseen radiation,
or left wandering among the dead.  
My tears became fears
outside Nagasaki Peace Park in 1956
seeing the insanity of igniting the air.
Vladimir Lionter May 2020
I know Simon’s a court poet. To dedicate
Odes to monarchs’s survival. Raymond as
A philosopher valued life’s democratic state,
I honour monarchy as any man, at last,

In whose heart the Empire’s spirit beating,
Long live the Commonwealth for time all!
By Nika for all time became blessed Britain,
The country army scare foes all!

And the Queen is the brand for all the world,
All ministers’ll retire but not the Queen!
I have not seen a monarch nobler from of  old,
Who honours just so traditions’, honour’s being.

Thank you for giving inspiration to the poet
For his poems, by your own greatness.
Thus, rule for the population’s good great,
Setting an example for other rulers.


Я знаю, что сейчас поэт придворный Саймон,
И оды посвящать монархам – прошлый век!
И как демократизм ценил философ Раймон,
Монархию я чту, как каждый человек,

В чьём сердце бьётся дух Империи Великой –
Содружества Союз да здравствует в веках!
Британия всегда благословенна Никой,
И армия страны врагам вселяет страх!

И Королева есть как Бренд международный:
Министры все уйдут, но Королева есть!
Не видел в жизни я монарха благородней!
Кто точно также чтит традиции и честь!

Спасибо Вам за то, что дали вдохновенье
Поэту на стихи величием своим!
Так правьте же ещё во благо населенья,
Давая так пример правителям другим!

Translator - I. Toporov
ranveer joshua May 2020
it's as if our eyes hear the wail of each other's hearts.

but i can't talk to you when you're drunk.

because you're irrational and angry,
and i'm argumentative and stubborn.
Bus Poet Stop May 2020
“for when the mind has no solution to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement, the poet’s desperation equals theirs”

The Bus Poet Stop “The Glass Shackles” ^


~this one for Eliot York, who gave us a great gift - opportunity~


The mandated city buses are largely denuded of passengers,
so the drivers, peruse the enriched, enforced silenced life of the
streetscape, and as they pass, call-out a fisherman’s plaintive wailing,
“here we are, where are you, do we exist?” Too few nibble “I am!”

Bus Poet Stops, stumbles on an older writ, now seemingly prophetic,
once again, he is back, living in a glass shackled confinement,
his 16th floor perch, besmirched, the mirthless empty outside well matched by the isolation inside him, a new kind of shackling bereft.

For these glass shackles are not new, but different, the glass is poorly blown, cloudy, pockmarked with air bubbles entrapped, useless
for fresh breathing, many containing a question mark, some ask
what, others when/where shelter, all, harsh pleading tones, why me?

“For when the mind has no solution” poet wrote in twenty eighteen,
unaware that this predictive value would return to rent & render mean,
his composure, no longer a savior, now he weeps copiously for thee,
those that he, in prior life, came to save, now too, another faceless face.

no, no!

Your writing saves self, and a thousand more, you infiltrate, penetrate     our conjoined quiet, giving name to each of our unsalted tears, no fear poems that make us say, Merry, Merry to us all; God bless us, every one! Bus Poet head-hung, shamed, pained, looks away, mask-covers-gratitude.

Rough and tumbling times, we discount ourselves blameless, but voices
say time for gifting varietals of solace mysterious, this! is your business!
words, instruct to touch, to transport us on a poet’s bus to Delirious,
enable arrival+survival to destiny’s destination, “for all, a good night!”

Fri May 1
twenty twenty

in anno autem coronavirus plaga
from NYC, the. epicenter
rgz Jul 2019
She shines like a rainbow in the night
a light, unbounded and free
Her warmth is a welcome respite
thawing the deepest freeze

Her lips a red velvet chorus
I can't help but overhear
She glows with the translucent aura
of a picturesque sunset sea

Buttercups turn to greet her smile
she'll lift your head with ease
Trees send their leaves for thousands of miles
just to be in her breeze

Her eyes are an ocean of opalescent blues
inviting the bold to dive in
and swim to a world of untold hues
her sparkle is unrivalled

In her violet dress and violent heels
The Devil would bare his soul for free
and so might I, for just a taste
the chance to lay her light to waste
first time I've gone back and edited a thing into a (hopefully better?) thing
Smoke Scribe Mar 2015
Part II  of "Got 0 Followers"

aim high
to keep
it low

such an
Awesome Awful
others infect
you with

don't, yada yada,
ya wanna be like
Tom, **** and Jane,
even Harry, a transgendered
friend and fellow (ha) outcast,
all with a good job
prospects of a
goodly tented long life?

so ya write poems
to nobody
about nothing and
you are pleased
to be pleasing just yourself

in writing you have
nothing to prove,
so read them
like keepsakes
ya like,
keep 'em & me hid,
in the shoebox
under the closeted
pile of ***** clothes,
special designer outfits concocted
so they keep my remains,
privatized and unsanitized,
my equity,
disguised as disgusting

but for god-sakes
don't follow me,
you want to curse us
both with
Expectations of Expectations,
then comes with
illiteracy of

then the literary
that always follows,
leading to

the first derivative of the infection of affection

then comes
and it instantly it's too late,
you're *******,
right up the mental heine,
lost condemned
ruined annihilated
crushed subverted
crushed into
mental death camp suffocation of more, please ma,
can I have some more?

**crap, why did you have to go and follow me?
Poetic T Apr 2019
We were buried beneath the footsteps
                                 of generals insecurities.
Like dominos ready to fall when we
                 climbed the wall and fell
before our time...

But we where the steps of others
                  collecting behind our graves
of flesh they hid.
                      Ricochets flew past those
hid behind the regrets of friends silently
                                   shielding there dreams.

Please let our steps be counted,
                   no matter how many never
fall to the beat of the drums..

          Ours are silent, never to tread once again,
                                   we are the fallen.
Like leaves we decay in the ground.
               some buried some never to be found,
Just blossoms of white buried beneath the earth.
Julian Delia Nov 2018
I am so ******* done.
I am now a loaded gun,
So you’d better ******* run.
I am hateful, like a forsaken son,
I am spiteful, like the blazing sun.

An appetite for self-destruction,
Akin to handling dynamite without any instructions.
The chaotic disorder that runs amok,
The scavenging hoarder pillaging dead schmucks.
This language is those dark corners left unilluminated by love,
A savage from unknown lands coming over the ridge,
That unsated, insane impulse that turns push into shove.

Throbbing veins and demonic thoughts,
Sobbing dames and manic frauds.
Your mental kingdom, your palace of peace –
It all falls apart, piece-by-piece.
Hate is like a saboteur, sneaking in,
It robs life of its grandeur, sinking its teeth in.

Rhythm just doesn’t happen,
You feel stricken, like you’re borderline bed-ridden,
Feeling as used as a ***** napkin.
You see hate in every pair of dead eyes,
In every new set of ******* lies,
Whenever another inner child dies,
Whenever another bomb-dropping jet flies.

We have two languages, in this life –
The language of love, and the language of hate.
Which one do you want to speak?
Which realm do you seek?
Choose wisely;
Mistakes are not taken very kindly.
I couldn't help myself - this is a counter-part to a previous poem, the Language of Love.
SJ Aug 2018
Thinking back, it makes a lot of sense...
The well-hidden rage.
Minor outbursts here and there.
The silent plea for help.
Drowned furth by the shower head.
Spurting cold, cold water.

The numbness that comes afterward.
The beating of a heart calming down.
Echoing in your head.

It comes in waves, ya know?
They're not always soft,
Against the shoreline of your inner mind.
Instead, pounding sharp and icy,
Jagged rock and coarse sand under your palm.

Other times it catches you in your sleep.
Completely unaware.
Sometimes mid-sentence.
Your mouth left half open.
Eyes faded into the black tunnel,
Where all words seem to have disappeared into.

Brows furrow in confusion and loss.
Sudden tears spring forth like a broken faucet.
There was no trigger this time.
Nothin to push you over the edge.
And yet...

The screaming doesn't help.
The rage building in the pit of your belly.
Stoking an agonizingly acidic fire.
Which spreads like a virus into your veins.
Vibrating under your skin.

Hyper-aware now.
Thoughts fluctuating so quickly your mind spins.
Unable to catch words, phrases.
So fast they sound like another's voice.
Right in your ******* ear.
Another itch altogether.

Options, throw the good crystal across the room.
Pray your mother forgives you from the grave.
Knock a chair over.
Pull your hair.
Grab the largest kitchen knife.
Blood staining caramel skin.
Unmarred in years.
The old ones faded with time.
But you can still see them.
Drip. Drip. Drip.

You close your eyes against these visions.

"Don't forget to take your meds tonight."
You tell your reflection.
She nods trembling.
I don't know where to start...a couple of months ago I was diagnosed with Bipolar II. Safe to say, it explains so much of my preteen and late teen years. Especially now. Please note, this is just my interpretation of how BBD feels like to me.
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