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Steven Bowman Jun 2018
Tonight it’s just you and me,
I’m just here because of you.
Our love is like cute puppies,
I love how you’re loving too.

Our love is like working hard,
It needs time for us to picture.
You’re loved this so from the heart,
Love is like a large architecture.

It can be messy, it can be sloppy,
Our love is keeping us from apart.
I know this, our love is all choppy,
You just need to know from heart.

Just need for me to respect wishes,
I’m always stopping how it is real.
I respect us and how it’s all feelings,
Love is a mystery, to me it’s unreal.
Sara May 2018
Hair long and dark like a silken night,
her eyes glazed over, lips pastel silent.
Every so often sips a cold long island,
no jazz musician but her feet tap in time and
she's skin like China, won't crack even for a smile.
While people try to please her she will only check the time and
she's not a people pleaser for she'll bore within a while.
Perfume carried by the breeze,
she's freezing, smoking outside.
Her cheeks are apple red but her eyes, quitely tired.
She claims your jokes are dead and then she'll laugh like bitter cider-
a bittersweet pink lady brought to life beneath the night's limelight
the apple of the eye of every single man in sight

He'll ask her if she knows this song
and she replies 'no, not tonight.'
He'll ask if she enjoys herself.
Blankly, she says 'yes, quite.'

The room a-brim with deep jazz sounds:
she sings sweet melodies aloud,
she sways as if no one's around,
she sighs, it doesn't make a sound.
Pourquoi pas?
.

Metre based on the new arctic monkeys album
Marty T Ottman Apr 2018
When I stare into the stars they remind me of how you illuminated my entire world,  before the sky got so tired cause it's left in the reflection​ you imprinted​ it with. These days grow longer reminding me how all the beauty is precious before taken for granted.   Than it doesn't refuse to break through..  As season may change the reason that mark just  exactly everything in this heart.   Leaving the pluses​ absently  beating in your presence.  The ocean may collide with its heavy blue waves crashing but doesn't quite compare to these eyes that collided with my soul that lit up the darkest depths deep within.   Everything taints in your reflection cause I doesn't surpass the beautiful unique  soul that stood before my eyes..  Even in the most concealing disguise  she will shine ever so bright an that right there was my light..  An  nothing could dim such a twin flame that could never drain..  Even if its ever taken away.  In my heart chained down in your reflection..  The truth that steers my direction
Another hopeless poem x.x
Arlene Corwin Apr 2018
I'm always trying to figure out why I go back time and again to writing poetry.  It's such a strange phenomenon.  Sometimes, like now, I'm allowed a glint.

      Poetry Is My Means

Poetry is my means:
To thinking out a thought;
To finding more about myself;
To analyzing good and bad:
To making tail or head
Of circumstance.



Poetry helps me define,
Refine,
Become a finer person,                
Binding my persona.



So many things I did not know
Of which I had not one iota
Of ability to see:
The ****, silly, plus the *****-nilly
Miracle of mind,
Its mysteries revealing hints
And hinting at the revelations
Which belong to geniuses
And saints:
Everything I ain’t.

In learning and forgiving            
Poetry is everything a giving gift
Can give.

Poetry Is My Means 4.15.2018 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative III; Revelations Big & Small; Arlene Corwin
Mansi Apr 2018
On dark mysterious nights
A young mysterious lady
(Who had mysterious black hair
And wore a mysterious black dress)
Brought mysterious black berries
From a mysterious garden
To her mysterious hut.

One day a mysterious man
Knocked at her mysterious hut
The mysterious lady welcomed him in
And gave him a mysterious drink.

The mysterious man died a mysterious death.
Funny how some things happen mysteriously.
Megan B Apr 2018
I want to be mysterious
I want to be the kind of girl
who leaves pieces of herself
with different people, all around the world
so that no one knows her full story
but it is all there
for some potential dedicated soul to discover.

I want to be a puzzle
that everyone thinks they have figured out
and all I do is smirk
because they have no idea
what they're talking about.

I want my life to seem effortless
my world falls gracefully into place around me
to the wonder of everyone else
but all according to my plan.


But that is not me.


I love fiercely, and with reckless abandon.
I tell the world my story in hopes that
someone will care enough about it
to stick around to watch the rest of it to play out.

I care. Deeply. About a lot of things.
So much so that it hurts.

I stop to watch squirrels munch on their dinner
and would much rather talk to a child about nothing at all
than have an adult conversation.

I am not mysterious. I am no puzzle. Nothing about me is effortless.
I am an open book with her heart on her sleeve
yearning and searching for true human connection
somewhere in this vast cold expanse.

But what's so wrong with that?
Emily Mitchell Mar 2018
Dreams flying like time
Through the skies of our mind's eye
Mysteries within...
2nd dream journal haiku
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