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J Apr 2022
past the boroughs
and the busy streets.
the suburban lifestyle
he screams of defeat.

past the sorrows,
and away from concrete
the drops of rain (like his eyes)
followed from the backseat.

in the foliage
at the farmer's street
an apple, blueberries, a cart!
he jumped to his feet.

in the solace
through the plants of wheat
the first rays of sun
he slowly felt complete.

from thrashing limbs
to resting knees,
for sanity's sake
all it took
was a change of scenes.
escapril2022: limbs

I'm a bit late for the prompts, but this one turned out good somehow.
LC Apr 2022
the dark limb splits the moon
from the expansive, pitch-black sky.
at a distance, we paint it
as a glowing, surface level circle
that we place our wishes onto.
we never listen to it in return,
so the limb fiercely protects
the whispers of the moon.
Escapril Day 3! The prompt was "limbs." I used the astronomical definition of limb, which was "the edge of a celestial object." This poem took some twists and turns, and this is where it ended up.
Danielle Mar 2022
She romanticize the orchestra of her muffled cries, caught her canvases
bruised with purple and red,
Her bare chest was beautifully wounded by a serrated cage, arranging her disorganized open heart.

Her heart is malleable from tragic delights, she ripped herself open, willing to give it whole.

Will you take it all and leave it as it is?
Does it oblige you to wrap your arms around me like a tightening noose?

And as she draw marks of red stains and carve on her skin, her limbs were perched perfectly, as you adore it with a painful stare.

And her hands were pure certainty, remained untouched.
Note: might trigger self harm, u can skip it <33
N Feb 2022
No, this is not a
poem about her

But I know that deep
within my aching heart,
I will do anything
she asks of me

I will break all
my vows for her  

I will break all my limbs
for her to mold like clay
Nolan Willett Dec 2020
It feels as though something has ended,
Philanthropy has been expended,
People are left to their own devices
To sink into their own vices.
It’s not right, that we’ve lost our care
For how our fellow man fare;
Blind to one another’s pains
And entropy is left to hold the reigns.
What we lost, can we ever find
When we ourselves are so supine?
Nevermind we’re all one soul
That together form a reconciled whole,
Different branches of a single tree
Limbs that emblematize you and me;
And when we leave the poor out in the cold,
Forget and ridicule the old,
Renounce our secular vows,
We’re just splitting off another bough.
mothwasher Jul 2020
the mattress is possessed and my days are numbered

my numbers are possessed and

tree branches are starting to grow from inside

my neck, sprouting ****** bulbous limbs

wearing the springs of my mattress

in my sleep, the tree talks to my mattress

from my throat

they are in cohorts and I suppose

the ghost has nothing to do with it

but in the end the ghost will

have an affair with the mattress

and they will run away leaving the tree

and my numbers

I can’t speak because of the


and the karmic terror

of the heavy branches tearing

through my throat

the ghost doesn’t know about the tree

the mattress will never tell her

the mattress is missing several springs

the mattress is possessed and can only speak in tongues

so the ghost only hears the whispers of leaves
Mark Toney Oct 2019
cool green leaves rustling
hot red tin roof expanding-
freedom of movement
stiff arthritic limbs longing
go - exercise caution - stop
8/14/2019 - Poetry form: Tanka - A Japanese poem of five lines, the first and third composed of five syllables and the others seven. In Japanese, tanka is often written in one straight line, but in English and other languages, we usually divide the lines into the five syllabic units: 5-7-5-7-7. Each tanka is divided into two segments. The first three lines are the upper phrase, and the last two lines are the lower phrase. The upper phrase typically contains an image, and the lower phrase exposes the poet's ideas about that image. - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
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