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Kay P Apr 2018
It exists just to be used
Softened lead and wood the color of sunshine,
On a clear summer day at noon,
Sharp to be dull to be sharpened again,
Cut to be cut to be cut again,
Long, for the purpose of being shortened
Shortened, short
Made to waste away, to sacrifice,
simply to make its mark, your mark,
A mark that will never be its own
What do you own when you are simply a conduit
Of other ideas?
An implemented utensil made to hold,
To shape thoughts, to make words,
To make worlds,
Smooth as soft grass beneath flattened palms,
Light enough to flick between fingers,
A soft hand, a trailing finger, a lover’s touch,
Round and round, and then round again,
Here, then there, unthinkingly,
As your focus trails over…
And doubles back,
Before crystallizing, your tool suddenly held firm,
As you spin your tales, your worlds, your words,
Then pause, and look, your thoughts made tangible,
Your tool a stake, a spear, a weapon when needed,
Sharp and dangerous, ready,
A pike, a sword, a dagger,
Able to communicate the sharpest words, the harshest touch,
A slap, a hit, hard, and heavy,
Smarting like a bruise just found, just poked, just pushed against.
A tool, a weapon, a builder, a revolutionary,
With just the barest hint of pink, of regret, of dissonance,
To stop.
Your trailing words, your tirade, your letters of love to leave,
Second guessed and sectioned off and sacrificed successfully,
Erased from all of history,
Transformed, at once, to nothing.
September 27th, 2017
Colm Apr 2018
The height of the stars
The depths of the ocean
The colors of the flowers
And the warmth of a summers morn
No human heart nor hand to hold
Is responsible for making you
Feel with such feelings as these adorn
To love is to try. To forgive is to forget. And such choices go beyond mere human fleeting feelings.
Colm Apr 2018
Every time she looks on him
Every time she reads what was his
Every time though he tries and tries
It’s every time she makes him fly
Something In The Eyes (FLY)
Colm Apr 2018
I could tell you a tale
Of eyes like his or of hair like hers
And how such moved, or was, or is
But this is known
To all imaginations
That the retelling and told
Of an already known
Will not change your life
Though the telling of who
To whom through you
May yet remold
Your life into an amalgamate
Simply. They'll never know for sure. Unless you tell them that it's about them.
Colm Apr 2018
I'm not myself when I write like this.

I am no more than a memory.

An ink well river which flows and bleeds on tempered sands.

Forever resting at the foothill of childhood.

I am.
It strikes me as odd. That I write so much and yet remember so little of what I write. But one word, one line revisited by me, and I'm right back there in the moment of its conception. Silly self. Lolol.
Jennifer DeLong Mar 2018
Eye on life
Eye is here
Eye of me
Eye of you
Eye can see
Eye can be
Eye I am
Eye can
Eye is true
Eye can see you
Eye of blue
Eye can't lie
Eye is true
No eyes
Can't see
Eye is done
Eye will laugh
Eye hope you do

© Jennifer Delong 3/7/18
Colm Mar 2018
The discovery of true words
Is but one of the many mysteries we seek
Both under stones and under moon
And in the volumes of our histories, we find
That no two words were ever successfully left alone
No sentence of the mind was ever so perfect as to be
The word of God without inspiration
No, mere mortal words I find to be
The loneliest of lonely things
But true words are of a great ideal
And ideals are often shrouded in such mysteries
And THIS … Is where you may laugh at me

(:
The quest goes on dear friends!
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