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A staggering buck comes to life
But awakens to find
A tone of peace
It is something
To ease
The regrets and fights to come time
Will only come to past
Antlered in time
To last
Drinking from  the water of life
He stands tall to the sun
Fearing it down
Gets numb
Sometimes not knowing where to go
The forest all
Freedom to choose
His call
B 23h
Took a day trip to the beach
just to bury my head in the sand
Restless is the water
changing is the land.
We're miles away from each other
you're holding onto my hand.

Stare down at the shoreline
something fuzzy waving a warning in red
but I only ever learned about surrender
I'm bored and off my meds.
Your dark sunglasses are reflective
it's going to your head
I had a thought, so terribly perceptive
it's just something that I said.

Deep and beaconing ocean
is cold and I am unprepared
choking on my way back to the surface
getting sick on the drink that we shared.
Fruitless journey back to our spot
you could save me, wish you cared,
but you do not.

Talking together about something so strange
you say you like me and the way that I smile -
like I'm kind of insane.
Kiss you like I miss you
like there's an itch in my brain.
I like your bright nirvana thoughts
and the way you never seem to change.
Sadie 6d
I wish my existence could be as poetic as my subconscious,
As graceful,
Elegantly dancing through life,
Like metaphors on a page,
Rain filling puddles,
Mud filling cracks,
Swaying arms of willow trees.
I think that I used to be that way,
I appear to be in the hazy happiness of my memories,
But I don’t trust my mind.
I look back on a life lived in pastels,
Baby blue skies,
Blush pink cheeks,
Sage green eyes,
Lilac dreams.
It’s all daisy chains and braids,
A freckled face,
Ferns and worms,
Rolling clouds and running streams.
I wonder now if those memories are just dreams,
Did they ever really happen?
Was I ever really happy?
Or was it all just manufactured to protect me,
A safety blanket,
A quilt handcrafted by my mother?
I wonder now if my life is just an amalgamation of stolen moments,
Memories stitched together by glorified nostalgia,
Fabricated by a veil so thin,
Made entirely of imagination,
A fictitious eulogy written by me as a child to remember the life I wish I had,
A life I’ve never lived,
A tortured poet trapped in a painfully privileged portrait.
Who can I trust if not myself to remember my own life?
I grew up cold,
Stuck in the rain with a broken umbrella,
With stormy eyes and a stormy mind,
Deep greens and blues,
Scarring scrapes from the sharpest scraps of misery.
I was born in the image of hatred,
Generational distaste that I inherited,
The quietest violence,
Gentle wrath buried beneath the softest reflection.
Tell me I’m beautiful,
Oh, how sweet,
Tiny and weak.
Admire all the lies I’ve told myself to stay alive,
Hiding my agony in metaphors,
Tucking it neatly between stanzas,
A great illusion,
Fallacious lines describing a person I'll never be.
No ode for you, periwinkles
No exalted verse or prose
No lover's gift you will be
Unlike the regal rose
Not placed in summer bouquets
In vases - never seen
Nor gracing dark tresses
Nor found in floats of dreams
Yet sweet you are to me
Happy in blue and white
With your merry little faces
Like fairies and lithe sprites.
When a tree waves its green leafy hand,
Most don't notice, but I understand;
The swaying of a flower, the buzz of a bee . . .
That's how my garden beckons to me

The little blades of grass gently nod
As a worm pokes his head through the sod;
Cast blame if you will on my vanity,
But I'm certain he's looking for me

Now the wind wants to join in the game --
Spying a windchime, it takes careful aim;
Soon the air fills with a soft melody,
And I smile, knowing it's playing for me

I watch as the sun sweeps clouds away,
Showing off with such gaudy display;
But I must admit, the sun's victory
Causes the flowers to dance with glee

And I stand in awe amidst this scene
Of peace and beauty.  If I were a Queen
What nobler entitlement could there be
Than these treasures unfurled before me?

A warble suddenly hushes life's din,
And soon more feathered minstrels join in;
But such incidents are no mystery . . .
That's just my garden calling to me
The mycelium network seems to be connected
to my corpus callosum
just beneath my cerebral cortex.
I lay naked on bare ground to recharge and revitalize!  
I am one with Gaia!
Traveler Tim
Piotr Balkus Mar 10
Still cold outside,
so why are the birds singing
so joyfully, so loud?

Still freezing out there,
so why are the flowers blooming?
I don't understand.

The hope is still cursed,
so why am I writing this poem,
like it was my first?
Steve Page Mar 9
Pallet is just a trick of the light
Echo a deceit
All we have is reflected
- for all that
it's no less sweet
I heard a radio interview where someone referred to the colour of a birds plumes as a trick of the light.  I shouted at the radio at that point.
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