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Tommy Randell Feb 2019
Dance to the music you're given
Your life has not yet been written

Read the poem you're writing
Each line a rhythm of lightning

Play the cards you're dealing
Cast the rhymes with your feelings

Risk all upon a moment of chance
Abandon yourself to the dance

That you are here in Free Fall
And Love & Life are a scrimshaw
Poetry instruction manual
My friend came by the other day
As a leaf in the wind he has blown
From street to street
            Town to town

A wanderer he may be, but not at heart‑‑
He longs to be attached to a tree
                                            Any tree

In spring and summer the leaves are green
                                        And attached
Summer slowly dries them out as the tree
                        Prepares for winter

My friend, the dry brown leaf
Blows in his perpetual autumn

We all grow in our own time and season:

Winter dormancy

         Spring regeneration

                   Summer fulfillment

                               Fall  preparing for the
                                                  
                                            Inevitable season of death

These  seasons of the soul
Are the very essence of our existence

They teach us

                         Temper us

                                                 Fulfill us

But there are those who do not see
The purpose of the seasons
To them winter means only

                                   Cold

                                              Snow

                                                          Desola­tion              

Spring means only

                                Rain

                          ­            Mud

                                              Flooding

Summer means

                                Beauty to mock
                                     The heart in winter

I trust in the wisdom of the seasons
Nature teaches us lessons in her cycles

Let the leaf fall to the ground
Let it rot into cold

                         Stark

                                     Winter desolation

Spring will come

Bleak gray will become bright colours
                  Of spring

The beauty will fade once again but will
Reappear in winter's own stark beauty
Though it may be cold and gray
Then spring will come

          Spring will come.

                  
                     --Daniel Irwin Tucker
NOT just another poem about spring.
mmikee Sep 2015
No, don't look at me
Nobody asked for your judging stare
Nobody asked for your pity as well

Don't say I'll be okay,
'cause I'll never be
I am always scarced
always scared.

They say life is beautiful
but whenever people look at me
I see hatred, despise, and worse, judgement
No, life is not beautiful

Let me be
Let me be alone
I would rather look at myself
I would rather love myself
alone.

don't look at me
don't try to be
nobody asked you
I didn't asked you
so don't
don't be.
I am feeling so low today. I have always been cheeky and happy, but today seem to be different. I am not being myself, I am so scared of the world, I am so scared living my life.
I have always advised myself to live my life to the fullest, everyday if possible, being heard, being able to express my self...

It's just that... not today.
Abigail Ramirez Dec 2014
Silky sheets, cool against my bare skin.
Moonlight from the window, cascading in.
Eyes adjust to the darkness,
shadows morph into something more.
inhale a sharp breath, as you enter my very core.
Your body is sculpted,
like your creator knew what he was doing.
Perfection.
But don't get the wrong impression,
this is just another life lesson.
Not an obsession.
Our bodies are in sync,
i've never felt complete.
Rush of ecstasy as i curl my feet.
My Virginity has been sweet,
but those are words i can no longer claim.
You took it with every ****** you gave.
Caught no feelings, felt no pain.
Dropped you as fast as you came.
She stands in her garden watching daffodils dance in the breeze
Her own hopeful waters sail in a boat where prayers reach her knees
Her mind only clear when her garden is near

Visions of somewhere, anywhere, but here

What’s that river running fast through the veins
Where’s that place where the mind can remain
free and clear
Where the mind can be clear

She never threw dirt on his grave, gave him a stone watching green fields
His own hopeful open space, freedom to die from a living too real
His mind only clear when no one was near

Visions of somewhere, anywhere, but here

What’s that river running fast through the veins
Where’s that place where the mind can remain
free and clear
Where the mind can be clear

Visions of somewhere, anywhere, but here
Since I'm a songwriter, many of my poems have that flavor of "hey, that could be a song.."  This poemsong is about people I know who live their lives to be somewhere else.

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