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Often at breakfast,
I savour the piquant poetry
dipped in the honey of your eyes.
James Study Nov 16
plywood windows
  
              dusty streets
  
                         faded graffiti
BadBookthief Nov 11
🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹
when you told me

to keep secrets

I kept them hidden

so deep inside

that I couldn’t find them

to save my own life

and that night

the moon laughed

at my foolishness

for I was crying

over the corpse

of my self-made follies.

Guess that’s what

you made of me

not blind

not selfish

but a god

the god of the foolish

🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹
#badbookthiefpoetry
For more of my poetry, check out my page @badbookthief on
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Thank you!
BadBookthief Nov 10
🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹
When

the last of the

winds have

stopped howling

even a

dead leaf’s stir

will cause an

uproar

🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹
#badbookthiefpoetry
For more poetry, check out my page @badbookthief on
Instagram
Facebook
Twitter
Thank you!
Sandoval Nov 6
And if music were love, would my name
be the only letters you’d sing to the sky?



Sandoval
BadBookthief Nov 5
🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹
it was the

light from the scars

that made

the broken ones

shine

* * * * *

🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹

#badbookthiefpoetry
For more poetry, check out my page @badbookthief on
Instagram | Facebook | Twitter
Thank you!
Caffeine.
Nearing addict
status; once spurned pure black
but now it’s my composition.
Jitters

my thoughts;
next round is scotch:
Next, I’m alcoholic.
Yet, withdrawal never latches.
I’m safe.
Two Cinquains. Describes how I overindulge in coffee (I once couldn't stand the taste of black coffee and now I can't get enough of it) and I fear that alcohol will do the same to me (I don't like the taste of it but maybe I'll love it too much like I do coffee). Yet, even with coffee, I can drink heavy amounts of it for days and be completely fine (not experience withdrawal symptoms).
So with my anxious thoughts, they seem like they will stick with me forever but in the end, I'll be fine.
Norman Crane Sep 2
Once upon a tiny planet,
a hunter and his rifle stalked their prey,
It always got away,
  until the day he fired—
Dropping dead,
with a bullet in the back of his head.
Attempt at microfictional poetry: a few lines and rhymes telling a story. This one's scifi.
Trust:
that fickle antimatter;
still, I subsidize.
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