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sand drifts down deserted beach

leaves float off once vibrant trees

lashes left untouched on cheek

curtains shut the bright sun bleak

endless hours of midnight sound

bruised knuckles on dark wood pound

sound of sheets sigh on mattress

second-hands strike drum and miss

misspelled words, soft spoken steps

lonely rose, the last one left

no air in two burning lungs

dead garland on mantle hung

dust dances for aimless wind

sunflowers to ashes bend

salt vacates a brackish sea

empty woods hold silent plea

never-ending days to come

deeper nights, but brighter sun
I spend my nights thinking of how you thought
If ev'rything you said was all for naught.
Did you love me true romantically
Or did you just say it to not hurt me?

My dear, I loved you with all that I had
I thought we would both end up real glad
But now I see that you didn't mean it
Now all of this, to me, is pretty ****

I wish you meant all of the things you said
Maybe I wouldn't have wished I were dead,
But I still love you in all honesty
I wish you never said that you loved me

Because I'm finding hardships moving on
If we stayed friends this feeling would be gone,
But you decided to ***** the floor
And told me that you felt a feeling more

I would've missed the style and way you kissed,
But all I am right now is ******* ******
I really truly wish that you loved me
Or maybe just let the friendship we had be
Star Eyes Mar 17
There was a short moment, the other day
My work had ended- free and lone, I played
The strings vibrated in the plastic air
Sudden, my mind posed a question: "Do we care?"

I looked down and observed some flesh and bone
But it did not register as my own
Shapes swirled around me; no meaning attached
I glanced about, but felt as if detached

'My' room, 'my' song, 'my' life; they were just shapes
An absent sense of dread with no escape
The world ground on, but I, the husk, was still
There's nothing here, so I say come what will-

A voice of reason, hiding in my soul
Reached out to make the husk and the heart whole
Blinking, 'I' returned back to my pain
The thoughts once dispatched, now attached again
there was this moment the oher day where I was playing my guitar and then I looked at my hands, but they weren't my hands. Just... shapes. Holding more shapes.
I don't know how to describe it other than the normal human meanings we attach to things just... weren't there. It wasn't my room. It wasn't a room. It was just shapes. I don't know how else to describe it.
It didn't last long- somehow, I ****** myself out of it... but the feeling still hangs there in the back of my mind.
Star Eyes Mar 15
You love me? I love me, too.
We have something in common.
Let's be friends, until the end.

You hate you? I hate you, too.
We have yet more in common.
Let's be brothers, you and I.
I don't really know why almost every freakin poem on this site is a free-verse, romantic poem. I don't mind it, I guess??

I did a sort of parody on it, ha- though I love my meters too much so I put seven syllables per line anyway...

This is, like, the ultimate friend zone poem X'D
Tiger Striped Jan 23
we hope and we dream,

not for reality,

but for moments and scenes

that are not what they seem

shimmering behind sheens,

sparkling on silver screens

we do not see the deep

cuts, the endless lost sleep

promises they won't keep;

no, we thought love was cheap

so what now of our dream?

still, who are we to deem

that it can't be redeemed

and to now call unclean

these faults that we have seen?

is it beyond our reach

to both learn and to teach

our tongues new ways of speech

to taste something so sweet

we may forgive that heat

and venture to entreat

that we somehow may meet

in the vastness between

our mistakes and our dreams?
Count the syllables,
One by one,

The eternal tale,
Spoken lines,

Reading our silence,
Word for word.

~Robert van Lingen
Day tripper. (An Acrostic)
Day tripper.
An Angel of the streets
Yes  looked good in the dark with light behind

Though her behind sagged She were a tripper
Ripping through every penny that she made.
I knew her when she was young n beautiful
Pimps ran her life now and oh how she’d aged
Persecuted by the cops with the tricks to play
Eventually she became the tripper every day.
Rita was the meter maid of Liverpool they Say

Written by Philip.
She had a ticket to ride
But she don’t care.
November 4th 2018.
A nodding tribute to the Beatles.
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