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Jim Feb 24
Her body was acoustic
Her skin a melody
My mind hung on every note
As she sung her life to me

Her passion was a crescendo
Although her tone was soft
With a cadence of bounding horses
She threw my rhythm off

I felt all of my heart strings
Pop, break and go out of tune
Her voice cracked -  All I heard was feedback
As she measured me up from across the room

I walked to her in 3/4 time
I struck up a chord - she told me a rhyme

She was well versed in French poetry
A deep bodied bass with fine copper strings

I was her rosin
I was her trill
Together we sang
We're singing still

Her body acoustic
Her skin a melody
Her mind on different wavelengths
She's the song I sing
Winter Sparrow Nov 2019
What's your star sign? Let me guess a Leo?
I felt it. You're strong.
And charming.
Proud even, like a lion.

I'm a Pisces, a romantic...
Oh, you are too? Ok!
You like a challenge as well,
yeah, me too.

And you're an adventurer.
An artist as well. Smart and Free.
I like your soul. Your face. Your body.
I love, your mind.

I barely get lost. I know my way around the world.
I know how to protect myself against monsters.
Even my own. But your eyes;
I'm lost. I know the exit, yet not where they lead to.

Don't give me the map. Its ok.
I can handle it. Let the green light be the guide.
You're fragile and sensitive.
You're bare, unfiltered.

I like that a lot. And you like me too?
I'm...in awe. Wow. You? Really?
I...thank you, beautiful lady.
I appreciate you.

What can you teach me?
Lets exchange lessons.
A give and take.
You seem wise. Enlighten me.
Anksy Oct 2019
Chuck your documents and bills, your old love letters in
For I am your container, your waste paper bin
I’ll take whatever you give, and I won’t tell a sole
You can count on me, secrecy is my role

I come in all shapes and sizes, with lids and without
You can dispose of whatever you wish, of that there’s no doubt
What goes in the bin stays in the bin, shredded or not
Under a desk, in the corner, your garbage, I’ll take the lot

But should somebody come just to rummage around
I can’t be held responsible for what it is they’ve found
I only hold your papers and don’t know what is contained within
It is not my duty to judge if the papers reveal any sins

Every so often you empty me and the history for you I keep
But you have plenty to refill me, in fact more and more each week
To you I’m just a container, a vessel of no repute
But I’m a hoarder of your *******, of that there’s no dispute

If only I understood all that you lob
That would for me make a very interesting job
Perhaps I could figure out what is fact, fiction or sin
But I know my place I am just a trusty old waste paper bin
Lady Ravenhill Oct 2019
Lured by her intrigues
They know they are almost caught
In her spider silk
©LadyRavenhill 2019
Haiku 119
So much to say in such an excruciatingly long and short time,
Like a snake who just digested an owl, you spew lemon, yet you do not shine from your cliff
Do you choose to let the citrus of your breath slowly pervase the depths you do not wish to seek?
I’d be more erudite to listen to the air from the vent
To break a thing down is to bring about more intrigue than your aura of bore
The room is a bubble being blown into with much more
Two opposites that come together to form a center
With such statistics, the room is cold,
As I focus more on it, that feeling becomes more bold

Thorough are your detailed thoughts I suppose
I do believe you drink unsweetened coffee
On and on you do prose
My eyes become weary by the second of your presence
You speak such common sense, with such a light that’s dense

You reach outside no borders
You stay quite consistently where you have been
If you were in the middle of the room, looking up
No one would give you the privilege of our ears
My ears are open, yet at the sound of you, they become muffled
dense teacher of mine, oh so dense you are, this is for you
The Tinkerer Sep 2019
She's got an air about her.
Makes butterflies flutter.

She makes my heart stutter,
The world's her oyster.

Always, I'm with her
Rooting, in her corner.
I feel for her, forever.
Even if..
Never again, I'd see her.

Her presence, her might.
Subtle beauty, not withdrawn.
Majestic mind, this benevolent body,
Many a day, she is my Dawn.

An adventure..

Like magic.

Exciting, enticing.
A phenom, a danger.
Many a goal, may she achieve.
Incomparable, may she be.

She's always like magic, to me.
Uncertain of whether we'd be friends. Or we are anymore. I will care for you though. Always.
-O
sushii Dec 2018
Let me ask--
what is worthy of being untitled?

What is the poem or story with so much meaning that it cannot be labeled?

Is my work worthy of being without a title?

Is this poem that meaningful?

Will a title spoil the emotion?

-------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------------

When we see something untitled, there always seems to be a reoccurring sense of intrigue surrounding it.

I wonder if you'll be intrigued when you read this.

----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------

If I filled this page up with hyphens and forward slashes, would it still be intriguing?

You could say yes, since there could be a secret meaning or code within the longer and shorter lines.

But what if I told you there was no meaning to any of this?

What if everything you're reading in this poem is nonsense?

Would there be any way to know?

You might argue that you could ask me.

But what if there is no answer?

--------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------

Now I wonder why you're still interpreting these words.

I hold nothing against you...

I just don't see the point.
Robin Lemmen Nov 2018
Maybe I do, hope for you to one day read this.

And if you do, know that I did think about our could have been's. The conversations that would have created, deep-rooted storms inside of me. Intrigued by the glimmer in your eyes and the way your bones seemed to be pages full of stories. How I would have loved to read them, explore the meaning of words with my wildfire touch. Fingertips trailing down, tracing lines, writing songs along the curve of your spine.

And if you do, too, maybe one day we shall find a way to write them down. These will be's, as they are now. Crafting a universe, just us, you and I.

And if you never do. I hope you are well. Speaking in chapters with people worth your time. I am glad you found magic in their minds and a challenge in their smiles.
And I still hope you will.
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