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Izza Feb 2019
The cold breeze is the reflection of how cold my soul is

The tangled thread is the reflection of how jumble my mind is

The empty canvas is the reflection of how blank my stares are

The rusty chain is the reflection of how weak my faith is

The glass is the reflection of how fragile my heart is
Ash Jul 2017
I am sick of being silenced
These chains wrapped around my voice won't break
By the time courage has woven around them
The words are lost and I have slipped into an anesthetic languor
I crave the feeling of the fire
But when I want it the flame is extinguished
And when it burns for me the chains snake around my brain and the words become jumbled
I have the fire in my heart and hands
But I no longer have the power to use them
Sam Nov 2016
wondering
why's the vice president always so senior
is that a permanent feature
like how 2+2 is always equal to 4
and I'm lying on the floor
wondering if these words have been said before

like
what makes the beauty of the sea
are you beautiful
or is it just to me
does it matter
do we matter
what's beauty's main factor
why does the mad hatter
drink tea
a clock carrying bunny
is more mad than a tea party
bon soir mon amie
that's all from me
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
Silly words like daughter and laughter.
Why isn’t dotter and lafter?
Both, moth and mother are confusing.
It all depends on the way you are using
Those mad silly words in our tongue
More bizarre than between and among.
And, of course there are the oughts
And ought nots of enough and thought.
Shouldn’t one sound per word be
Far less typographical insanity?
I mean someone wound a bandage
Around a wound on an appendage.

It’s just plain silliness of a high order.
You fix food for a boarder, not a border.
You can fish for fish, not sheep for sheep.
And, you can’t daydream if you are asleep.
There’s a rhyme about a wood chucking wood
But he only seems to do it if he would.
A dog can bark at a cat on a roof,
Which can be said either like root or woof.
In Britain anyone can go pound on a pound
In America, ground coffee can be on the ground.
And driving a car now your own can be fined.
But finding a free auto is something of a find.
It makes very difficult to tease other tongues.
Not even if you shout at the top of your longues.

Lately we changed things like light and nite
But, not white, night, knight or blight.
We changed you to one letter, a simple ‘u’.
Now, tell me please, was that so hard to dew?
Oh, wait. I mean due. No, I meant do all along.
The way English is, it’s not hard to do it wrong.
Is it its or is it it’s? It’s dependent upon.
What kind of sentence you have going on.
For example if you have an itch on your ****
It’s on your ****, but I’ tell you what.
It’s itch is its own, and needs no apostrophe.
Just one more view how silly things can be.
So, until later, when things get better
We had better do it rite to the letter.
Oh, wait, that’s wright. No write, no right.
See, I got it rite before the end of the nite.
Foxgopher Nov 2015
Like a dryer is the human mind
Sopping wet and rolling around
Everything succumbs to heat
Shrinks, tears, fades
Everything

Even the sock gets lost in the dryer
And yet one remains
A half of a whole that can no longer be complete
One sock
Gone forever

Do we mourn the lost
Where is the vigil?
A sock mourned is a thought lost
An idea that can never be
Static we never feel again
And the worn corner of a textbook,
Blocks a few burning rays,
Building a citadel across,
The scratched surface of an unstable desk,
Gently rocking beneath my words,
That show themselves between feint ruled,
Lines of a notebook filled with,
Plans, pain and poems,
Abstract sketches of worlds I made and,
Shadowy drawings of what I,
Could, might, mustn't do,
Confessions to myself alongside,
Drafted chapters as yet undecided,
Unchecked, raw,
Seventy-two sheets not yet,
Filled with my written song,
Still not complete,
Like my jumbled thoughts which,
On occasion grace the page.
jls Jan 2015
Hollow chests and shattered hearts are the equivalent
of birthing babies who cannot breathe,
aching for something that will not be there.

Angry tears and snapping jaws
were born in the same moment
disappointment crawled into your womb
and made a home of your soul.

Loving in hate longs for clarity,
clings to sound with deaf ears,
singing songs about heaven and hell.

Vacant eyes and unstable thoughts
make for nice conversation
with a man that teaches you
how to tie a noose with your words.
This is one of those poems that I thought of at 1 am and trashed my room looking for a pen and paper.
When your words are placed with precision
And your thoughts are all in line
When there's the perfect analogy in your speech
He's not there to listen, that's the time.

When your words come out in a jumble
And you laugh 'till you're in tears
When you tell stupid jokes and nobody but he laughs
That's the day that he appears.

— The End —