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Pali Jun 2018
i am a typhoon from the pacific
he is a hurricane from the atlantic
we never meet as wholes
only fragments of our beings get to
Jade Mar 2018

The colour

of bruised knees


and lips begging

for oxygen


A hue

caught somewhere

between blue and red

(two extremes).

Blue for misery,


(frigid, the tundra),

blue like the ocean

(drowning, an ode

to Ophelia).

Red for anger,


(burning, the inferno),

red like flame

(gasoline for blood,

playing hide and seek

with embers).

Ultraviolet radiance

(blinding, turn your eyes away

the Purple).


(well, not so vibrant)

yet dark

(sometimes, too dark).


(just as the lilac

blossom is)

but harsh

(the bee that devours

the blossom's nectar).

China Doll complexion

(rosy cheeks,

skin the colour of moon dust)

paralleled against whirling eyes,

surging pools of burst blood vessels

and flared veins

(dear god, the Madness!)

Poetry personified--

counting syllables

instead of counting sheep

(a spoonful of codeine

to wash down the tears).

Words engraved into flesh

(wearing sadness like it's

crushed velvet--lovely);

these ink-stained wrists

(or is that blood?)

Empty band-aid boxes

(the scars still ache

whenever it rains)

and empty liquor bottles

(enamel eroding,

mouth swimming in froth).

Fearful of the night,

for the night will 

surely bring the mourning

(A seer-- forever dreading


Self-medicating with

Antihistamines and Tequilla

(Witch Doctor,

burned at the stake

in another life).

Dreaming in pastels

(when the insomnia

permits it)

but existing in a

grey-scale reality

(inhaling this pain

like it's cigarette smoke).

"A penny for your thoughts?"

(Haven't you forgotten?

They've stopped making pennies

because this world no longer

has any use for them).

A reflection in the mirror

(glass shatters,

pupils collapse in on themselves).



take away this body!)

"I love you..."


not pretty enough

to be touched).

A serenade for him(s)

(rejected letters,

"maybe we should 

just be friends").










(wind knocked from lungs,

soul plucked from body).

Lips shatter as 

the kiss the cement

(step on a crack

break your mother's 



who named her child


for the gemstone


( ̶p̶r̶e̶c̶i̶o̶u̶s̶),

for the green,

Mother Nature's

chromatic blush

(wilting dandelions,

forsaken wishes).



It's a colour that

never quite suited

a girl like me--

a girl with a purple soul.
LLillis Jan 2018
A thrown dead stick stuck
In the tree. While I ponder,
The dog is dismayed.
Cedric Aug 2017
Fires and forests and bright eyes of tigers,
Snow and cities and dull eyes of strangers.
Of the mind and of the soul is my own,
Of the lips and of the eyes is your throne.
Despair and depression of my own mind,
Hopeful and joyful are your god-like smiles.
Nights so cold filled with god-awful nightmares,
Days so hot filled with your devilish heat,
A whole days' worth of **** figures of speech!
You have introduced me to poetry,
I fell and I got shot and I just died.
A poem of falling in love, falling out of love, falling in despair, falling out of hope and antagonizing my everyday. But one thing remains, you introduced me to poetry, dear, and that is irreplaceable. I might have stopped loving you, but I am in love. With poetry, that is.
moquino Aug 2017
she wrote
on her hands
so she wouldn't forget things
like she forgot that
someone acting like they love you
doesn't mean they want something from you.
Cedric Mar 2017
It's summer I know,
Yet my soul is frozen cold,
Oh how juxtaposed.
Yet I've found some burning coals,
In an abandoned coal mine.
Cate Feb 2017
I was going to write
of infatuation.
I wrote of death.
I seem to be hovering
forever in between,
a partial combination
a fickle being.

I was going to write
how his eyes glint
when I catch them
unexpectedly peering at me.
Now, I can only imagine
the endlessness of eternity
leering at me evilly
Taunting  my carelessness.

I was going to reminisce
small jokes that soothe anxiousness.
Now, consumed
by the inevitable
sweeping me away into nothingness.

I was going to question
“does he dream of me as I do?”
Now I wonder
what my dreams will dissolve into.
Fleeting moments pass rapidly
Gaseous, unaccounted for and ghastly.

Mysidian Bard Dec 2016
I come from a place
Where reality's a dream
We sleepwalk awake
Silent are the screams

Uncertainty is certain
Lies are absolute
Destruction just creates
The vital and minute

Consciously unaware
Of our intended mistakes
Reminded to forget
That giving only takes

I come from a place
Where eyes never see
Through the mists of illusion
Surrounding you and me
It is the last day of May,
Summer's now in full swing
and I've come to realize many things.

I think, for once, I'd rather leave them
unwritten. There's little I can say
now that'll reconcile memory.
Poetry is freedom in expression, a lack of which is in-keeping with the mood I am. What's this then? Where silence says more than a poem.

Refusing to lend oneself to expression instead affirms an equal and opposite impression. Oh memory, once again, playing games with me.

Being, in
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