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Margaret May 2014
Mum spilled wine on the patio
*The may flies are going to be drunk tonight
drunk flies haha
The slight twist of weather
Rain, sunshine, and clouds
Whispers in the air
To increase gradually or calm down
The rain pitter patters on the tin roof
The clouds scurry over in a ****
Continuing on just for a short while
And then trails along the sun shining with a smile
April fades and May swings by
Then summer comes, June and July
This poem is in the season of April and is talking about the transitional weather patterns and how often Spring tends to fly by.
Àŧùl May 2014
Thanks to my parents and good wishes of friends that I am writing this poem 4 years after my major accident which nearly killed me. This poem has no rhyme-scheme because it is more of free verse than a primary school poem. I am nearly fine.

7th May approaches once again,
Another year has passed me by.
It was filled with hostile attitude,
With nothing for offering to me.
Virtuous actions failed to suffice,
Nor did all my humbling words.
7th May approaches once again,
365 more days have passed me by.

That event - I can't call it fortunate or unfortunate,
But it did affect my life knocking me out of senses.
Not for just a day or 2, but 23 days in all that was,
I escaped an end to my life during that long coma.
Red - rosy cheeks & lips of mine now veil all injury,
Just balance & memory problems need to be fixed.

Some misfortune did come my way,
But so did shine my fortune greatly.
And after the accident I have met her,
She made me forget all pain of mine.

Tears which failed to escape my eyes after accident,
You vent them from yours after listening to my story,
But hey, I tell you to look at me for I am alive,
Yes I've cheated dear death once and for you I can cheat her again.
Twice or as many times I have to post my victory over death to ultimately unite with you in love, peace and tranquility.

'If I ever meet Time, Destiny or that thing called God, they will have questions to answer and it'll be them who will have lessons to learn.'

My HP Poem #625
©Atul Kaushal
Daylight 4U2C May 2014
People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.

But we could be a family.
We could be a whole.
We could be together.
But no one could be cold.

If we could live on an island,
no hate,
no guns,
no war.
We'd look back and wonder,
what was it all for?

People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.

Gangs,
tempts,
nudes,
exempts.

We sit at desk,
eating or eaten.
we laughed at or laughing.
beating or bleedin'.

We know the truth, but call it cruel.
The cruel one is we, the blind fool.

People diein' on the streets
****** puddles at our feets.

Who shot the most guns?
Who then killed them all?
Who didn't mind a casualty?
Who could be responsible?

"Not me!" we cry,
"I'm a good soul."
But even if we declined,
can I be told where they go?
No one WANTS to die. For someone to do it, there will be an opponent. A THREAT.    That's what this poem is about.
MS Lynch May 2014
I am a flower
on the broken bridge
and you are the hand
that places me in your hair,
behind your ear,
and you let me whisper
all the awful reasons
I was broken off
from my stem and
from my garden,
and you let me cry
about why I am a bad, bad,
bad, bad, flower.
And that is when you tell me
that no fingers deserved
to pluck me down to nothing.
I have not lost my stem,
but found a new one.
You are my stem.
And I am your flower.
Some days, I will be
your stem, and you
will be my flower.
And we can learn
to grow ourselves
our own new stems.
Because it's not about
the baggage,
it's about who helps you
unpack.
B Zells Apr 2014
In all of the pages that you wrote
There was never once talk of the past
In every single story that was sold
You locked away all stories to be told

All of these letterboxes used to leave me love
All of the hopeful words you could dream of
But now your past is dead
The future wades in your head
To your new self
I say goodbye

Well, should I change? Must I remain?
Should I love you all the same?
March on steady to the beat of that drum
If it’s gonna go- I’m going this way, on this line

All of the people had the notion to speak
All of the words, now so weak
Surrounded now, blank white walls
Paint a life, your world calls
To some motivation
I say hello.

I’ll walk until I think I’ll stop
Rest awhile ‘till you catch up
Put my boots next to the fire
While the body and my mind do conspire

All of the birds would sing their song
Don’t mind at all if I sing along
In a quiet world sound erupts
The chant of choir soon conducts
To this plague of mice-like men
I shed a tear.

Beat, beat on that black-laced drum
The march that gets every man from
A kingdom to a kingdom in the sky
Living in a world of life just waiting to die.

All of the eyes were looking stern
All of my letters have been burnt
Carry coal from that mine
Who knows, he, she, or mine?
And tip my hat to whom it may concern.
13 Apr 2014
Electricity is talking; we understand
losing interest in conversations. creating land.
droplets of ice define the day
August ends in the middle of May

intrepid peeling; scabs of the earth
the hands fail; a dumbed feeling
Eins, the seeing blind have never seen
on screen, a shape of many faces

in through the open windows outdoors
smoke dries the unseen. air dry.
so paragon goners repulse the cleaver
the system has failed

so much detail to attention
when pink isn’t even a color
time is wasted on time itself
unfortunate cookie

wires once made you. complete.
ask for the answer to the question is nothing
Zwei light birds on a wire
the happenstance, the fire

where hell listens, there sight is drawn
selfishly we glare and mourn
******* ice cubes yelling “Jesus may…”
cold as **** the cesspool lay.

So, maybe I’m over thinking this.
Posted on 27th September 2013 7:55pm
Edited by Harish Nair (http://glimpsesoflucidity.tumblr.com/)
Joseph Bruin Jan 2014
The revolving door spins swiftly, taking its passengers by surprise
With its transient metamorphosis. The foreign scenery is at first
exciting in its bold contrast, before boredom ages beauty and
Weathers it away until it's faded and ugly like the peeling paint
On an abandoned house.

Situations that caused tears, blood and agony become but foolish
Memories, as attention and perception shift to new situations
We gladly then sacrifice oursleves to.
A poem I  wrote on graduation day, I Go Back to May by Sharon Olds had been coming to thought that day.
Daylight 4U2C Jan 2014
If you give a wishing stone,
she'll travel out all on her own.
She'll  leave behind the fear and pain,
and keep herself from going insane.
While her friends are getting diagnosed,
she'll be somewhere in her boat.
Maybe she'll have tea for two,
but at least she'll know what to do.
And they may ask, and plead, and beg to be in her world,
but she'll certainly say,
"Be gone, be gone, or off with your head."
Which should be said, since they cursed her be dead.
If you give a girl a wishing stone,
she'll truly feel all alone,
and for those who never cared "be gone!"
The queen has finally sang her song.
She was never a fool, just a withered small bud,
and those pigs would throw her around in the mud.
So sure she dreams and dazes off,
but she can do whatever she wants.
She earned a bit of recognition,
for all antagonize and inhibition.
Give that girl some cheer,
she fought a war for all those years.
Stop the hate for her being crushed,
unlike some, she had no love!
The glass shattered hard,
it's no surprised it became shards.
Giving time and yells,
doesn't heal, it kills.
If you give a girl a wishing stone,
you've given her one happiness finally of her own.
Daylight 4U2C Apr 2014
Eyes of glass, in the ocean, deep and blue.
Like fabric of white-
worn to grey.
No where in this world are there people to shiver,
yet the people, we live without day.
No morn' to see.
No rooster to crow.
No light to show our way,
yet we as humans',
lives continue,
while our mother's love makes us okay.
There be..
there be..
moonlight..
dear be..
lukewarm water,
so in which it sway.
If I may run,
I may yonder,
for I'm a mere symbol,
a minnow.
To which will force up ponder,
if rather or not,
the fishy is gay.
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