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Emery Feine Sep 27
A cemetery filled with tombstones everywhere
Even though their lives never existed
And she wrote their lives to be a never-ending tragedy
And maybe it would've changed if they coexisted

They went on so many adventures in her mind
Even if it was just to escape reality
And she then began to lose track of time
Lost in her own mentality

She erased their stories as she got older
But never against her they rioted
And no one could ever scold her
Because they had been quieted

But she still grieved when she thought about them
And she cried over their non-existent tombs
And she wondered what they could have become
If she let them live for infinite moons

If you look closely into the late night
You can see a girl holding a rose of fiction
And if you look deeper, you can see she might
Put it on a grave with no inscription
this was my 35th poem, written on 10/26/23. I don't like how this one turned out; it was supposed to be abt daydreams being lost, but the girl just seems like a manipulator idk
Emery Feine Sep 24
Did it all mean nothing, just wasted my time?
Was it all worth something, something I claimed mine?

The people I’ve met and the journey I’ve been on
Did the friendship really set, from dusk till  dawn?

From setting off fireworks on top of the school,
To happily acting like a fool,

From what I’ve learned and to I’ve bought,
There’s been a growing guilt which I have fought

What did she mean when she said, “The dark side of this place”?
What will, in the future, will I face?

Helped others but still felt the presence of wrath,
How do I know that I’m on the right path?

In the past I knew it was the eye of the storm
“I’ll find out the unknown,” I have sworn.

As learning is the only thing I find entertaining,
But in terms of my enemy, reality, there’s nothing I’m gaining

So, I look back into the past, scavenging for advice,
I hope in the future I’ll learn to think twice.
this is the first poem I’ve written, created on 9/14/22
David Hilburn Sep 21
Waited women
Sojourning men
Accuracy, for a doling wind
Sophistication, and their children...

Purpose ought a promise...
Sans a wishful eye, we knew you...
Truer by a salt; a fault to wizen...
Collapse and see, the honor you are due...

Adding hours, with their causes
Risque, is the name of sinister works?
But with reality to invest, the cares are odd...
Of a reason in love with bests, the smile of worsts?

Callous
Actual liberty, to worth in the limelight...?
A voice so simple, that it is the speed of us
Viewing the mercy in a lived seem, are we forever, right?

Lies to the patience, the turn of solace into deems weal, real...
Have the excuse of decisions few, but forces of a secret's wish
Has become the only way to pardon life, a heart to steal?
Hatred is cheap, when your mind swims with a fish...

God's heaven
Smiles of decency, for a frightening halt to it
Timid futures, with a place for love, even given
Only lead by the truth of us, sincerity and wit...

Sleep of the, ages...
Sent to went, the tilling eye of loves sate...
Merit in one more kindness, above which is life's wages...
Time with no proof, of what is a lovers fate...
held in high regard long before silence has a taste, futures with a still silent care, make the time for a quiet rendezvous with appetite's ghost, misery's avarice
kel Sep 11
to my imaginary lover,
I wish you were here,
cuddling me,
together cozily in the warm
blankets,
with my hands in your
pockets,
so you can chase away
the iciness from my fingers.
but there's no way
that could happen, hmm?
you're just imaginary,
after all.
a figment of my
imagination.
Mista G Sep 10
In a world where dreams pour out on pages,  
A house was built, through countless ages.  
Walls of parchment, ceilings of prose,  
A storybook shelter, where the mind overflows.

Each room a chapter, each window a verse,  
Filled with the whispers of scholars immersed.  
Ink-stained floors tell tales untold,  
Mysterious adventures in every fold.

A fireplace lit with sketched desires,  
Paper flames, yet warm as real fires.  
Soft rustles of leaves in a paper breeze,  
Crafting a haven for hearts at ease.

From its towering spire of tempera ink,  
One can see the stars align and think.  
A paper house is fragile, yet strong,  
A sanctuary where you truly belong.

Whispers of wisdom in every nook,  
Bound together by a bookbinder’s hook.  
With open doors to the land of dreams,  
In a paper house, nothing’s as it seems.
POETRY IS ART,
Like PAINTING WORDS
with a PAINTBRUSH,
VERY SLOWLY, DON'T RUSH,
LYRICAL WORDS as to
an ARTIST PAINTING PALLETTE,
Giving a VISUAL EFFECT of
POETIC GIVEN TALENT.
Every STROKE of the BRUSH,
Is to the WORDS that are DRAMATIC,
When your CREATIVITY is DONE,
You look upon it and say:
FANTASTIC!!!!
It may have TAKEN A WHILE but
yet you're STILL VERY PROUD,
YOUR WRITINGS DO STAND OUT,
IT'S ACCOMPLISHED, COMPLETE
and AS AN ARTIST YOU SMILE!!!


B.R.
Date: 3/25/3024
Don't mind me just doing some free writing or whatever comes to me. My mind is full of imaginations so, I decided to free write this creation.
Ela é o motivo de estarmos aqui
Ela aprecia
Ela despreza
Ela recorda
Ela desvanece
Ela tem saúde
Ela adoece
Ela cura
Ela fere
Ela ama
Ela odeia
Ela cria
Ela incendeia
Ela é minha
Ela é nossa
Ela é o motivo de nós partirmos
Cuide da imaginação.
Zywa Aug 11
Most of all I like

to draw things I've never seen:


bridges in the sea.
"Diary 1960-1961" (2006, Frida Vogels), May 13th, 1961 in Bologna

Collection "Trench Walking"
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