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that fog horn blows,
worries my mind, lord knows, we don’t need,
more obstacles in this tired world, so the horn
trying, to be blowing fog away, without success

the sound’s remainder air-lingers like foam bubbles
ridden down to coffee cup bottom, resisting, protesting,
refusing to expire, useless/nonetheless, says no dying

sole boat outlined, bout mile out, must be anchored, it’s
unmoved by fog danger or noise, fishing is my informed
best guess, but fish ain’t stoopid, swimming another way

the fog horn wakes the woman who looks askance
cause there is neither coffee or a newly christened
poem upon her nightstand, an explanation is sought

“stand by me,” I sing, “be unafraid my darling, stand now,
stand by me,” poet said “been guarding our bed, this long
foggy night, agin interlopers, bad dreams and sea troubles”

shied ‘em away, knowing that when a man loves a woman,
she can lean on him, cause he’s load bearing, her safety is
always first, poem second, coffee coming, with sun rising

she bemused, funny you’re, kooky like the poems you’ve up-
written all night, up all life long, all stored up in my nightstand,
you’re sweet, like  Tennessee whiskey, ignore my scowling my own
poet-mr. coffeeman-sea guardian, you’re alright with me
b Nov 2019
that i liked the song your
boyfriend made.
i don’t. its bad. it doesnt mean
he is bad, just the song is bad.

all the alcohol i “drank” and
all the times i got “****** up”
or “smashed” in between
the ages of zero and nineteen.
lies. all i knew was the sadness
of others, my neighbours magnum opus.
why would i ever touch a brush for
myself when i could remake something
we all agree is beautiful.

when you once told me that
if two people stand at opposite sides
of the room and close their eyes,
if they keep walking forward
they’ll kiss. and when it didn’t
work the first time i guided you
into my lips and you smiled like
the sun was in us in that moment.

is that so wrong
chelle Nov 2019
Sometimes you come to take me
On your magic carpet ride
In the midst of all the darkness
The still silence in the middle of the night

I never thought until this day
That I'd be blinded by this light
That's your disguise, that's a cover
Get ready, hang on tight

There's never been an evil
Thats deceived me quite so well
Or that claimed the truth
When clearly flying into hell

I've heard it said a time or two
Demons look like light
Maybe that's why you always come
In the secret of the night

At first I thought it beauty
No truth I saw in the dark
But what goes up, must come down
And now I see you're mark.
I believed every lying word. He spoke of beauty and light but it was only ever evil and dark. Distorted perception on both parts.
izzn Sep 2019
I think what it means to be a poet is to express feelings not just my own, but the feelings of everyone. When a poet writes a poem and publish it for everyone to see, he or she is doing it on behalf of everyone. A poet has the audacity to show the world the true meaning of bravery. Clearing the gist of tyranny. Fought with the soldiers in the same warzone but different timeline.

I think to be a poet is to be in someone else's shoe, to be the voice of reasons for those whom voices could not be heard. Those with thousand swords in their lungs who fight a neverending battle through their whole life. Those who died and those who survived. A poet could engrave golden marks on every scars and turn them into a work of art. A poet also records all shrieks and screams and muffled cries of poor unfortunate souls and enshrine them in lines by lines of intricacies. When the society finally get it, maybe then they would actually do something. And maybe then this world would be a better place for you and me.

I think to be a poet is also to perpetuate the joy in laughters of shiny glittery pink and white moments in life. Those times where hearts become one and jokes become light and minds become free. The giggles of newborn seeing their mother's silly faces, the smiles of little kids getting presents during holidays's sunrise, the tears shed by a bride while walking down the aisle seeing her true love, with her old man walking by her side entering a new phase of life. The jumps made by students as they get their first degree for all their hard work and sweats and stay up late at night.

I think to be a poet is to be empathetic, and to see this world in a whole different perspective.
During my literature class on famous poet Mr Kilmer, my teacher ask us the question of what does it means to be a poet. Here are my answers.
And flows
Jon Thenes Jul 2019
Variations can be made on the fly according to mood and individual
How were these melodic notes made?
A thousand symphonies
from the sky upon him laid?

Mr. Tree and petite Ms Tree met with a distant ancestry,

Although he sprouted from a Cherry pit,
She has been growing from an apple seed,
Together they play,
hiding and seeking with the wind,

Silly them when thinking about the humanity
while they both have plans to grow to be.

Petite Tree sits under Mr Cherry tree
They laugh and laugh, won't leave.

Mr. giving Tree
shares his cherries for free.

Petite Tree eased her hesitation smiles.

Please, please Mr. Tree with cherries,
Petite Tree would like to grow with you distance memories.
Following up with a peer poet’s post in regarding Mr. Tree.
izzn May 2019
It was at the creek,
where the buck crept in,
So mesmerizing,
scene of jaw-dropping,

Chill hits the bones,
when truth struck him,
Richard had to be the one,
who pull the trigger in;

No tricks up his sleeves,
he missed the clean ****,
He knew what's coming,
the **** cussed him,

'I just couldn't do it,'
Pa's look was disappointing,
Richard will never be the one,
who pull the trigger in...
This was from my literature class
Sergio Esteban Oct 2018
I long for your love
The way I long for the change
Of the seasons
Our thoughts reshape
For no apparent reasons
And the axioms we’ve had
Have disappeared
Over the span of time

Stop looking for the aesthetic
She’s beautiful the way she is
God didn’t make any mistakes
It’s apparent
Put your eyes through the looking glass
Look towards the intellect
Not what you see through the internet
I miss you in the summertime
I miss you all the time

Take the time to know me
You’ll see me bloom through the clouds
And find a better side of me
One I can share with thee
My sweet honey bee
Write to me your feelings
I’ll treasure them
The way Mr. Krabs
Treasures his very first penny
You mean that much to me

I want to be with you
Past our Amazon primes
Let me hold your hand at night
And let a myriad of calendars pass by
That’s a future
I would really like
But for now
Lay your head
And dream,
my love
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