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Chloe May 25
Quiet streets
Tall buildings, dotted with a grid
Of uniform windows.
Little sets them apart
But the people within.
You watch their silhouettes,
And try to determine their stories.
Are they alone? Are they happy? Are they asleep?
There’s only so much you can draw
From a brief shadow.
But there may be meaning, there may not.
Meaning is what you make it to be.

Black pavement
Lies bordered by dim streetlights.
A telephone box
Stands vacant, serving little purpose.
Another relic of the past.
Perhaps we should hold a funeral
For what once was.
But who has the time?

Concrete fades into dirt, gravel, sand.
If only.
It climbs between your toes, up your ankles,
Luring you away
From the city lights.
The waves roll onto the shore,
And you fill your body
With the freshness, crispness of the air.
You hold it, but you know you have to exhale
And let go of the waves,
The sand,
The cool wind,
This place trapped in time.
You know you have to keep moving.

There is little time
To be still.
To watch strangers dancing in windows,
To gaze upon a distant horizon,
To catch your breath.
Keep moving,
Or you will be left behind.
Keep moving,
Or you are lost in the crowd.
Absent Smile May 20
mannerisms containing grace and beauty vanquish
when conquering the internet's cruel anguish.
feeding sins with apples that bloomed in the evening
of february to survive in a fast world unreal to the underachieving.

in solitude, her essence blooms despite her
bruised virtuous soul that screams her damnation.
in isolation, the substance of his being thrives in the
waiting room of circumstances that bring prosperity.

reprise a revolution for the modern age of devils,
let them build e-tombs for the sensational forgotten.
encourage the death of language for the birth of a new culture
where the muted can still share words for the world to publicise.

beware of trolls lingering between the lines of text fonts
for a new plague has occurred with no treatment found to cure.
the heat of a blush from "i love you" absent from the screen,
the streets are a little too quiet for the comfort of elders.

do not be frightful for a generation
made from a future a past had conceived.
do not be hopeful for the undoing of the internet.
believe in amor fati, my dear, for this was inevitable.
the internet is a scary place
ConnectHook Apr 29
Enough of angry fixes, ***** streets
incoherent poems and arrhythmic beats,
drug-addled mystics and feminized fools
who compose no further than breaking rules.
Junior Dadaists, after the fact;
dull poetry’s second, third, and fourth act.
Actual poetry exists for the page
and ought to be able to last an age.
Real poems are NOT composed on the tongue,
as are the ravings of the angry young.
Diarrhetic voidings, awash in words
that rain down upon the poetic herds
are not the same as life-giving waters
fit to refresh our sons and daughters.

**** it up with your existential vacuum
from off the floor of that San Fran backroom.
PROMPT 28:
try your hand at a meta-poem of your own
(Meta-poem = a poem about poetry)
Eleanor Apr 11
And did they hear, those on-looking distant
Rules, hear did they what was said to the world?
That story must be told by one “me,” can’t
Have a sonnet without that one letter mold—
First person voice, and make it beautiful,
Can’t have a sonnet that doesn’t love,
That doesn’t speak from a mouth of its own
That doesn’t rhyme, that does not resolve
Can’t call it a sonnet if it won’t grow old,
Not Shakespeare but Brooks, not Byron but Stein
And here— the words that did not do what they were told
And here— rules fall, away in line in line
But author? Who author, who inspire? Who make?
Un-sonnet, un-sung it, not claimed. Not take.
S Bharat Apr 9
The Master

The Master had a dog
And a docile goat.
Once he went through
Jungle in the boat.

There, he left his dog
Known as bad hat.
The dog returned home
And received a pat.

The Master's was then
A sweet darling pet.
It made the dog happy,
The goat very upset.

The goat annoyed none,
Made no mistake.
Still she was ******* to
A rusty-iron stake.

S. Bharat
RJP Feb 12
Chicks out of season
Scamper subtle fear
Creation torn up
Jagged and exact
Mud and green beaten
Senselessly into
Concrete submission
For the pleasure of
No honey-like dust
Being dragged over
Woven corridors
Void sovereign feeling
Imprisoned stare blank
Distrust unerring
Greed and Ambition
Little boxed in hills
Animate in guilt
Projected from those
Who like to point out
'Look, look its something'
Turgut Berk Nov 2018
I need no one
Except myself;
No one can threaten me,
As I escape myself
Why do they try it?
Why do they compete
When I run away from them?
No one knows it,
As I struggle with myself.
T daniels Oct 2018
Daybreak and weathered men with their fermented drinks,
make way for the morning.

Doorways dimly lit beyond the ruins of lesser worlds,
older boys laughing aloud,
Near the honest sun
and the absent clouds.

The mesa seemed heavy as birds shimmered above-
whats their place in all this land?

Mornings were always cold
even while sunbeams flourish,
The farmhands copper in color, congregate near cattle, pipes in hand, hoping for good days ahead.
Elyon Sep 2018
Transfixing mushrooms wide
into soil where it spreads like jelly
congealed of teary elephant trunks,
where upon raves of reviewing waves
widened with staves of sonic craze,
like spores into you, like you!

Across Africa, truly truly –
not one country. All through chutneys,
it is poetry and Aphrodite’s ivories
where blood drowns in Lake Loch’s
scabs of **** of Ella’s contrast
back into square dancing acts
and somehow, somehow –
esta no es mi lengua
why did you ever come out?

Crumbling inwards as in space,
individual supernovae, quite a chase
I do hope Woodrow dies a boy.
PoserPersona Jul 2018
O why, O why, O why was I born in this non-laternlit world?
No!
O why, O why, O why was I born in this non-torchlit world.
What woe!
And try, and try, and try I do, to fulfill myself, all others, too!
And try, and try, and try I do, to remind myself, all others, too:

That it is not man's devices that light the darkness,
but the sun's brightness…
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