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Journey's love ...

let's travel now ...
into each others ...
so deep ...
so high ...
as we do a journey ...
to the whole of the world ...
until we touch the sky ...
to feel as we are in another place ...
as in a paradise ...
among trees ...
and birds sings ...
an amazing songs ...
tells about our love ...
while we are together ...
making nothing more ...
than love only ...
let's travel baby ...
let's do it now ..
let's go for our journey ...
journey's love ...
to create love ...
and to feel it ...
as we both ...  
always need ...

it's a journey ...
to find out ...
more love ...  
yes sweetheart ...
it's our traveling...
only with you ...

hazem ...
adira May 8
daydreams take us away
into far of worlds and other days
an immersive play within ones mind
full of many things they wish to find
journeys bring us far and wide
to see sights that are incredible
from sentient robots
to fire breathing dragons
there are no limits to what one can imagine
I made the toy with imperfections
The broken pieces in my collection

It was whole
And filled with joy
when it was given to me

But so many people wanted it
So many fought for it
Some earned it
Still they crashed it

Maybe because theirs were also broken
Maybe they didn't mean it
Maybe they just didn't know how to treat it

I am aware that there are pieces that do not belong here
I am not proud to say it but I also crashed and and kept pieces of other people's toys
Trying to fix my own
I joined the pieces

Each piece has its story
Stories of different journeys

Me?

I've traveled so far with this little gift for you
But how would I know who you were?
Why there isn't a sign on your face saying "soulmate?"
I tried to find you so many times and I had to use my toy as bait
I am sorry for not bringing it in one piece
But hey look around
None of these toys are new
And all this suffering led me to you.
Yes... The Toy is The Heart.
Incredulous
It seems
When you grew to
Connect with the
                               Spaces
                    You
                                Left
   ­                 Your
                                Prints
In
W­hile the others
Only left their memories.
© Teri Darlene Basallote Yeo
ACAC Dec 2018
hold on, wait, what, what similarities?

I sit in the group looking around, the grey plastic chair crushes my ******* spine as I cling to it for dear life.
the tutor comes to me last, two weeks in a row I don't get time to talk.
great, I'm already an outsider, now I don't get time to talk.

I listen as the group in the nicer, cosier and brighter room next door laugh and joke.
they are all young and pretty, a feeling of longing pulls me down like a giant magnet, why am I not in that group. have I not got the skills to be young and pretty anymore?

for almost one month now I despair.
how can I ever find my voice in this group there are all so strong, strong women.
this week she comes to me first, I speak, it doesn't help. can they even see me, understand my accent, it seems I'm more different than similar.

the next week I don't go, avoidance wins 1st place gold trophy as I sit alone in bed.
with other groups I'm so strong and proud, can I fake it next week, or maybe just conform and comply.

and so it goes on, am my question remains, what ****** similarities?
Arke Oct 2018
I can see where the forked road leads:

one path smooth and easy
it never leads to happiness
but maybe I could fool myself
into thinking your heart never made me
feel anything at all and
if I squeeze my eyes shut
and wish very hard
while I count the songs
of origami swans
or the rings of tree branches
like a boreal ribcage around the path
I'll wonder if the trees were happier rooted

the other road is treacherous
my heart shatters and breaks
in a million new ways
crossing shaky bridges
with hundred foot drops
and I don't come out unscathed
because there's no way to perform
heart surgery on yourself
some weeks I'm so scared
I'll bleed out entirely
others, I'll spend growing alone
uncomfortably
finding strength in myself
wondering why I didn't pick
the smooth road--
though it was never
a difficult decision to begin with
Penny vase made from
the brown voided canyon rusting.
Friends that were made of waste,
they said time was simply turning,
the boat spoke back and said the depth of ones nature
could walk on water
But a deep voice
Was all that sprayed in pungent
aerosol and
displeasure.

Do we need to be on the same boat?
To drift into the beguiling surf?
Altogether
Better if we were dispersed
Dropped by the caving soft curve
Sliding through the unseen wash, watching your muddy glare.
Track the force in
blueberry motion
pulling and pushing us,
a sollen hand
and flying sleeve
The touch of flaunting fingertips and strings,
The fluttering wick
Swing and swished.

The chest of wonders beaming
Transmitting
a map
and lines like hay and wires
They were all exposed in the lines of her eyes
Maps

You frightened me that sleepy day
The dusted arsenal stick
Casted me on a rod made of hibiscus dew and syrup
A venomous hook that entangled my earrings
The push and her wave of desire,
Maps
To her treasure,
Reeled it now all over her wet webbed feet.
Caged,
Maps
and pressure
of the rocks falling against the time ticking
Hours away from the swaying shore.
The meaning of the word ''sollen'' in Dutch provided by Wiktionary,

Dutch
Etymology
From Middle Dutch sollen, from Middle French soller.
Verb
sollen

to throw back and forth (of a ball)
to play, to mess
We laten niet met ons sollen!
We won't let anyone mess with us!

© Teri Darlene Basallote Yeo
Nupur Chowdhury Sep 2018
Dust motes and sweat stains
Faded graffiti over rusted steel plates
Advertising everything, from politicians to a massage parlor,
The engine roars disgruntled, in smoky rancor.

I stepped on your feet, said I was sorry
Tell me mister, could you tell I was lying?
Pushing through the rush-hour crowd
I finally found my footing and was proud.

Well, there’s something to be said for low expectations
A word of praise for cranky co-passengers.
Not that the polite ones aren’t fun,
When they smile and roll their eyes like they’re so done.

And it’s not that I’d ever expect sincerity,
At 10 on a rainy Tuesday morning
I’m not a nihilist, or even much of a cynic by default
But at 10am, I take nice with a bucket of salt.  

I put on my headphones, crank the volume up to max,
Sway to the shrill screeching of pirated tracks
I’m sorry, did you say something? I can’t really tell.
It’s not you’re uninteresting, it’s just that this song is swell.

And maybe I could’ve made more of an effort
Gotten to know your name, exchanged toffees and emotional support
Maybe you’d have told me your story, if my ears were free
Maybe we could’ve found something worth a keep.

But you see, mister, it’s not you it’s me
At 10 on a Tuesday morning, I’m not the best company.
I hope, tomorrow, you’ll find a co-passenger worth your time,
As for me, facelessness suits me just fine.
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