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Rowan Ayman Aug 2018
Have you ever been in the early seventies?
Have you heard the melodies
Have you felt the style
Of love songs or even rock
Have you seen the houses
Calm lights and wooden tables

I guess love back then,felt different
In the cafés that play jazz
And streets crowded with trees
Or just a few benches by the sea
Extremely Seldom beeps

When elegance was still a trend
When movies didn’t have much quality
But an impact was always left

Friends were not virtual
Outings were not for photos
Cards were played for long nights
Walks were not interrupted by texts

Have you ever felt that warmth
When you enter a house somehow old
Like the sense of memories is still there
Nostalgic in a soothing way
Hard to explain
Unless you’ve been there
Have you ever been in the early seventies?
Ady adson Feb 2018
Its late for you to be mine
Its 2018 dear its not nine
May this realtionship instigates
The scattering of light in my life
By the dust
The dust that you thought
my love to be.

May this light makes me understand
That
LOVE RUINS...

Still...
Don't know why i love you...dear Raazh.
I think...
Its not that late for you to be mine.
ali Mar 2017
when we met
i told you
that i liked to spill my insides
all over the paper
and you told me
that you liked to fix things.
take them apart
just to rebuild
and i fell asleep thinking about
if your brows scrunch together
when you are fixing your mother's hard drive
or if your tongue refuses to rest
comfortably in your mouth
when you are focusing.
i never thought that
you would break me apart
and lay out my insides
all over your bedroom floor
just so you could try to fix me up
with tape and glue and whispered sentiments
but by the time i had figured it out
you had already taken my voicebox
placed it under your mattress like
a trophy that you could pull out
and show off to your friends.
but i am not sally and you are not jack skellington
and my skin does not look good
stitched together
with your truest intentions
ali Mar 2017
a house is not a home
a house is not a home
a house is not a home
a house is not a home until you paint the walls with your insides
a house is where you can count 63 creaks of the bed in the room to your left on a night you cannot get out of your own head
a home is where your skin mixes with the person below you until you cannot pull yourself apart without ripping yourself to shreds
and you probably definitely love him, you tell yourself, and you count 47 creaks of your bed
where is your head?
he breathes into your neck
and you look at his walls, painted with his insides, this is his home
where is your home?
you are vagabond, choosing to take bits of everyone else you have glued yourself to in order to keep yourself whole
you use their late night whispers to build a temporary home
but keep yourself far enough that you can sneak out the back door without the walls collapsing in on you
(that happens after you are gone)
does it hurt?
your wallpaper is made up of other people's insides
where did yours go?

— The End —