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Klaus Jan 2020
In the morning
I meander
mindfully

A quick drag
A sultry sip

In the morning
I meditate,
I meditate
Madness into a makeshift manual

A fresh breath
that lets out a quick crisp snap
and a call to all airs

A jittering jolt
followed by smooth calming hum

In pitch, on cue
Knowing what to do

The poise of a being
Instilled
Into a day
Take a deep breath
Lavender Menace Jan 2020
I'd love to be fixed but I've given up hope. "It's messed up" I get that alot from the pope.
I'd love to love to like my family has told me but I'm sick at the thought of a guy trying to hold me.
Am I wrong?
Am I broken?
I'm lonely for sure,
But as a lesbian in Utah I don't get much allure.
Idk weather to laugh or cry at this poem, so I'll just apologize I guess?
Maybe this isn't a poem so much as it is a letter. Not that it's anything new since once upon a time I wrote you a book. I only looked you up because I've been watching a show that has a big display of your type of crazy. It made me think of us for the first time in a very long time. I hate most of the things about you. The way you talk. The things you like. I hate your music, and for the sake of rhyming I hate your stupid ******* bike. I don't know what it was that kept me around for so long. I guess more than anything it was chemistry, not details that drew me in. The great ***. I don't know anymore I haven't thought about it in so long.
Moral of the story is I looked you up today. You've got a new girlfriend and for a second I was jealous. She's not as pretty as I am. Maybe she loves you more; or maybe just for real. All I know is I'm glad we're not together, since I missed you for the first time in years just tonight. There was nothing for me in you. Bye now.
Leah Jan 2020
there is something in the corner
I see it
no, now I don't
I just know it's there
but the corner is dark
it changes its face
like a clown
happy or sad?
you decide
now I see it again
its there
but I don't know what is it
I just know its there
sanity
Dream Fisher Jan 2020
In the moments before she leaves
When her hands sweat bullets
With full anticipation of the future to be
She looks in the mirror, worried.
She looks out the window, he isn't there yet.
She looks back to the mirror,
Her hair is a mess, she fixes her bangs to one side,
She looks again outside, he isn't there yet.

She's pacing, wasting time in anxious
She notices her make-up smudged
While he's driving down the road
Looking in his side mirror to judge
Why she agreed to an evening
Leaving him self-conscious of his soul
His eyes meet his eyes and in his own gaze
He feels he could swallow himself whole.
Pulling into the driveway,
He inhales deep and says
"Don't let this one get away"

He walks to the door feeling his pulse
She walks to the door trying to breath slow
He thinks she's going to look perfect
She thinks he's going to look perfect
She turns the **** and pulls
The ending, time will only show.
Capriccio Jan 2020
Grow the friend up
Friend find her within

You were this
You did that
You were an Active addict

Now you're car-full
From your foolishness

Now Fix her
The friendship from within

Be respect
Give up ego
Stop fronting
Acting like Migos

SHOW THAT CONSISTENT KINDNESS

It is the time
Sneha shenoy Dec 2019
Melancholy ain't making me poetical,
Instead, more panglossian!
I need thy cwtch for now and
I'll show how the rest of it is played
with boisterous swagger
Kicking back those icy fangs.
          
*   Don't tell me there's a twist again!
         Come on! Burst the bubble!  *


Every bowl has its day Forget not!
Aaha now that's why i say:
"LIFE IN A FINGER BOWL"
The one in winter, most cosiest!!
Oh u didn't understand ?
It's ok. Don't have to !!
Not everything is ment to be understood
Colm Dec 2019
Learn from this undread
Come wave or crashing waters down
We all get wet in the sooner or later
Don't fear
Only a few ever drown
Fear is natural, in order to keep you living and breathing. But only certain waves would actually **** you, if you know how to swim.
Ayn Dec 2019
(Dec.26.2019)

Growing numb in the icy late December,
turning a strawberry sheen and stiffening up,
like a dead body, when left unmoved.
Writing this becomes incredibly harder
with each passing stroke I make.
I bet it's impossible to read this
I go to a bench in a field where I write several poems in my notebook I got recently, so all the ones written there will have the date written above the poem.
My fingers hurt so much when I came back inside, because I can't write with gloves on.
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