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Glass Jun 5
thirty minute play time
sixty hour scroll
fifteen times of homework
and seventy to toll

finger on a screen
lines of all thats in
shapes that have been seen
speaks of what has been

a notebook closed on table
hunched back over the board
bringing grapefruit abled
cracked knuckles to the core

touch and sense and good
twice upon the body
water held in stood
two thirds of the laundry

music in my follicles
art inside my pores
theres feeling in my eyelids
emotions in my joints
and most of every single thing there is
the thought of it conjoined
060422
holding up a peace sign
while dodging their land mines
studying the art
of how they fight

with a journal in my left
and a pen in my right
i'm naive enough to think that war could end
but wise enough to know
that there is no hope in pretense

so i'm holding up a peace sign
along with a journal bound in leather
aware that peace signs do not mean surrender

and folks like me,
we tend to fight forever.
we tend to fight forever
Yemaya Mar 12
Life is flourishing. My tears have worked hard, to rejuvenate this life.
For the first time in years, I feel like myself again.
I S A A C Feb 22
I lost the plot and that's fine
I lost my mind within the lines
of my aquamarine journal
oh the feelings it holds under lock and key
oh the feelings I keep just for me
the pages filled with my metaphorical tears
the pages filled with my realistic fears
describing my intrusive thoughts
outlining my dreams of yachts
It is so distant yet so near
my journal is where I disappear
it houses the memories, my souvenirs
my breath that you took, the lyrics to my next hook
all lies within my aquamarine book
undefined Feb 13
A girl I dated once called me an "emotionless robot." Yesterday I woke up screaming, last night I fell asleep while crying... Guess she was wrong.

Fingers freezing.
Paint on a smile for passer-bys.
Keep my feet moving down the street
to PJ's for coffee,
for my daily "Good Morning."

Someone told me a song I played was "sad,"
I told them it was the happiest one I had.

The little market store on St. Louis is letting me stock the cooler again this afternoon.
So, I'll be able to buy another drink tonight.

The mornings are stiff,
and the late night shivers with cold.
1987 is the code to find the restroom.
Coffee warms my disposition.

Words stay trapped in my pen,
I start writing sometimes,
and don't know how to end.

... (i'm sorry)
Journal entry today.
Mose Oct 2021
To be seen for the first time;
Your palm pressed firmly against my cheek but I felt it radiate in my chest. Watching your eyes gazing the horizon of my pupil. Getting lost in the breathless moment of our desire escaping. I don't think there are enough thank you's to be said about that moment. By now I would have already created an extended fantasy of this night turning into a lifetime, but not this time. This moment shall be pressed like lilacs in between my journal just as is. This time I don't pray this road leads anywhere other than where it actually ends. I could have said I loved you in that moment but I waited till after you left & just told the universe thank you. Thank you for whatever this transforms or ceases to be.
L Jun 2021
-
This is the only poem I am allowed to write about you.

I went to a strange store today. Immediately, it smelled like my childhood. It smelled like the stores my mother went to downtown. The snacks in transparent little bags, the keychains, the painkillers, the unmarked items. But this place was different in that it was so big. In the toy section, amongst the many visibly cheaper toys, they had a handful of toys from big brands, just sitting there collecting dust. I found a certain big brand stuffed lion and thought, "This is unreasonably priced but I can't walk out of here without him." So I got that for myself. I'm excited for when he's washed so I can hold him all day, he's very soft.

There was a small hair section. Hair ties, hair brushes, hair things; hair clips. One of them caught my eye. In a white, slightly bent square piece of cardboard- mostly unmarked save for a tiny, tiny logo that said "Melody"- was a hair clip in the shape of a flower. I thought it was so pretty. I instantly thought of you, I'm not sure why. It was beige, and soft to the touch. I noticed there were other colors. I picked up a red one and looked at the beige one. Obviously the red one, right? And with a little bit of hesitation I put back the beige flower, the first one I'd seen. I always do that. I feel so sad picking a different one, slowly setting down the first one I'd picked up and held in my hand. It feels like abandoning someone you love.

For when I see her, I thought. For if I ever see her.
-
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 2021
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 2021

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 ***
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