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The past two days were recklessly engorged with alcohol.
Intoxication has become habitual. Each weekend, drowning one's self in an illusion of joy and folly; The jester entertaining not Kings nor Queens, but the ****, the weak, to deceive the empty crowd in my mind that I matter to someone. But matter is fleeting and we, myself and the abyss, understand the plight of today; waking up to nothing-- the empty abyss for which I am well acquainted with. Simply put, I am revisiting my old home from a not so distant past. The only difference between then and now is the relentless bottoms of empty glasses and a false sense of security and composure.
1 page of my thoughts a day to prevent my head from exploding!
Juliana Apr 19
On the wooden tiles,
the tanned shade a reminder
of tiny grains of sand,
the border to the ocean,
to the unknown.

On the wooden tiles,
where words flow out my fingertips
like a snowboarder slides
over serene snow,
leaving a scraped scene in her path.

On the wooden tiles,
where I do my best thinking.

A journal to my left,
the reminder of my past.
My memories.
A melody of murkiness clearing
into lines of text,
serifs removed
as I’m reminded of the truth.

A font is a beautiful thing.

My mind is a font
of which I paint with lead,
little lines, circles, and swirls
transforming before me,
recorded for eternity
in the open notebook to my right.

Right where I form my future,
my wishes,
my dreams.

Dreams created on a
teal and tanned typewriter,
erasure impossible,
only blocked out and burned,
escape imminent,
awoken as I turn off the screen.
Lyn-Purcell Mar 2

A kiss under stars
is the greatest place to be
For they are our sparks


Hard to believe we're in March! Time is really flying by.
This one is just a small haiku for my journey.
Something I've always dream to have, haha!
It's a girlish dream of mine but a dream none the less ☺💜
I'll hold onto it though, in a better time and when I'm in a much better place.
Please stay safe and well all, everyone! You and your families!
Much love,
Lyn ***
Lyn-Purcell Dec 2020

Flame tongues ravages wood,
licking till its black splints
A mug of cocoa caresses my palms
and my lap became a coaster
Every sip leaves me feeling toasty
My forehead rests upon the glass
console by Frost's lips

Jack's designs were of floral mandalas
Soft as clouds, gentle flakes
Each made with love for no design ever the same
I admire as they rain,
I imagine that they whisper secrets as they fall
Giggling so softly yet as pure as a baby's laugh
Coating all that is viridian in a shawl of white

Untouched
Unmarred
Cool yet so crisp
Beckoning for all to come out in a rush
For snowmen to be built, for snowballs to take flight
We would never feel your cold touch because
the warmth you give keeps us as one

Seeping down to our laughs,
You keep us close to our inner child
Nostalgia rests upon my lips
And greater still
Are these tender moments of unity
Upon my window sill


Getting into the festive spirit is easier said than done
And understandably so with 2020.
Just something I wrote while on my window sill.
It's rather cold, but I'm warmed by just letting my imagination run wild and thinking back to the days where I would just stare at the window and look at the undisturbed snow.
Something about seeing a fresh coat of snow leaves me so mesmerised.
Any who, I wish all of my fellow poets from all over the world a lovely Christmas. May you all stay safe and well!
I think I'm going to keep staring at my quiet neighbourhood for a while and wait for the stars to appear.
Be safe out there all.
Much love and air hugs,
Lyn x
kcpoetry Dec 2020
it’s raining outside today, and i binged “like a bird,” by fahira róisín. melancholia is the only word to use here. i eat that **** up. do i tend towards sadness as a means to escape my own? or to find solace in shared identity?

i’m hungry, but i don’t want to cook.
i’m tired, but i find it hard to sleep.
i’m lonely, but i don’t know how to be anything else.

im thinking about the future, a new concept for me. ever since i were young, i’ve had trouble imagining the future. not because i didn’t think i’d be alive, per se. i simply didn’t know how to see something that hadn’t yet happened. or maybe i didn’t want to see for myself everything i saw around me.

it’s hard to imagine a future completely different than the world that you’ve grown accustomed to.
Quiet Justin Nov 2020
I honestly really mis high school. When I moved to the UK a few months ago, I really though I was going to start off my new life in university meeting new friends and having the time of my life.

But so much happened that postponed that and now I'm at home in an area where I have no friends and nothing to do. Hopefully, that changes soon.

On the topic of missing people, I look at social media a lot and see my friends having fun and that reminds me of something else I read online once. It was about something called FOMO, which I didn't understand back when I first saw the word a few years ago.

Nowadays, I get what that means. When I see people my age having fun and doing things, it makes me feel upset. Kind of reminds me that I'm not living my life the way I really want to. But social media does that to you. It shows you the really happy parts of people's lives, the boring parts usually being left out.

It really *****, but I have next year to look forward to so I won't worry about it too much right now.
These are nice. I can be honest and don't have to go through the effort of being poetic. I like this
Quiet Justin Nov 2020
I have been trying to write more poems for a while. But for some reason, I can't really find the motivation. No that's not the right word, I can't find inspiration.

When it came to writing poems a year ago, I did it because I was sad. I was sad and lonely and didn't have much places to go. So I took those emotions and wrote them down. Turned it into something others could read as well. And maybe it wasn't relatable, but it made me feel a little bit better.

Fast forward to now and I don't know what happened. It's like the creativity I had had just left me. I'll write things down because they look good but they don't sound good. I don't really enjoy them.

Maybe I've run out of life experiences. Maybe I just need that inspiration to get me going again. Because I like this. Poetry is fun for me and I don't want to just give it up now.

So I'll wait. I'll wait and see what happens in life and when that happens, I'll come right back here to see if I can turn it into something great.
If you can write good poems every day, I applaud you. I stil need some practice.
Dante Rocío Nov 2020
It has been such a Long time since our last incarnation such like reassembly.

We’ve been scrubbing our United States
and leasing places
as scarification and other humans‘ faces
of stories,
to bless or gargle foreign.

We’ve been to the Neptune’s Fountain to find Young Man Hogan’s bench situated within all those loners’ speedy extroversion,
and catch the Saint Petersburg bell that hitchhiked the church there

to make a glimpse of urbanism and the world’s history replaced
by just one journal
and one fella’s pencil
swerving greatly‏.

Still,
the words are still trying,
flexing,
to fit their whole ends
into shoes they should have taken off
already, a long time ago,
and that‘s this somewhere
where we could say:
crossroads decide their fruition.

And it comes to realisation:
faces,
screens,
bruises,
droppings,
chilling entries,
work,
how I remade the word “naked”of one thousand and one nights
under my tiny silky
cloak
-
it has been nothing but a play
for the day when I’ll write,
and the Life,
that will take on my own skin
one way or another.

One paper corner will meet with the other.

Departures are all eventually just fun geese’s bump in another flight of a night.
How does it feel like to be stranded in a space between the exile from being poems and at the same time fulfilling all the tasks, seemingly full creation of functioning daily?
Duties have been and are strenuous, lots of flocks, yet own and desired by my aspirations’ oath, or rather at times disgustingly expected from apart of you too.
Had no space for that.
But now the game is finally on.
Poetry is my constant patron of its choosing of me and that makes us one.
And I cannot or will ever be killed.
So will It.
Xella Nov 2020
Like bells they hear this ringing
Not of Christmas but of orange goodness.
This Irish voice walks past on balled up green,
her hair red as the warmth in early March spring.
The voice speaks of prickled roses that lie at my feet,
she reminisces on the tacky green and welcomes
the seaweed green.

It's baffling the up and down in her voice
Like a paper crown it could tumble,
My eyes dare look left.
She's skipping now, down to the town hall
to walk off the corners edge.
Josephine Wilea Feb 2020
But I guess it wasn't all bad,

because now I have a journal full of

poorly written breakup poetry.
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