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E l l e Mar 2018
A lovely little poem
Written under a willow tree
The leaves tickling your soft head
Your skin
Caressed by the soft touch of it's soft sisters
Flowing down the branches
The pen runs smoothly
Across a perfect piece of paper
Resting blissfully on your favorite pair
Of memory-lane jeans.
You feel nostalgic as your poem is about someone you love
All the lovely times you've shared with them
Coming back to you under such a lovely tree
With your lovely head alive with emotions
What a lovely little poem you've written.
This poem calms me..Makes me feel grounded. How about you?
ta Feb 2018
my conscience is blinded
by the sweet taste of nostalgia
and now all i can recall is
how alive,
how exuberant you made me feel,
instead of the ****** you bestowed
to my soul,
absentmindedly,
without a doubt.

— t.a.
02/14/18
Cole M Jan 2018
We didn’t have
any microphone.
We sang,
with the might
of twenty lions,
a savage melody
as soft as flowing water,
a deafening pitch
thar ripped the wind.
It was out of tune,
our joyful voices
lamented spells of hope,
echoing furiously
against the trees
and all over the town.
They heard us
but we didn’t mind.
Maybe everyone heard us.
They wouldn’t understand.
At that jade corner
of the world,
which was ours
and where only us could be heard
we sang with the might of twenty lions
until our voices faded away.
I don't know what friendship is anymore.
now, unlike my usually trenchant literary librettos, I regale the unknown (tum me) reader for savoir-faire articulation, elocution, and indomitable tour de force proffered by a spectrum of bounteous expropriated hegemony rightful to Mother Nature.
--------------------------------------------------------
A Place Revisited Within The Mind
(an illusory escape during dead of winter).
The shafts of a golden veil, spring sun at noon
break through the heavily coated
overgrowth of leafy foliage
and cause shadows spar upon the forest floor.

In a field of wild
a mosaic of crystalline color
from the prismatic play of sunshine
upon the silently talking heads
of the swaying stalks.

the scintillating and sparkling rays
in unison with the weft
(and warp across an invisible loom)
weaves a delicious tasting warm breeze,

(which sways the boughs of treetops to and fro,
akin to an unseen baby being cradled)
brings a ladled spate of cool freshness
from the map-cap world (webbed wide)
of a manmade existence.

The grandeur of the fallow spring meadow
a pageant of exquisite dignity
by the graceful movements
from the un-choreographed fall and rise
of the unplowed acres

eyes orbit, ear re Canal,
and twitching nostrils of sensate beings
to the mellifluous sounds
and sweet smelling aromas
that gently teasingly assault the senses
beguiling the sight,

and lulling ears into a transcendent state.
A buoyant airy tonal plume
rises into the surrounding heights
touches the breadth of cerulean sky
and scythe lent lee gently tumbles back down
like a merry widow waltzing flowery waterfall.

In quiet circumspection
the antics sans plethora of BuzzFeed ding
busily buzzing foraging insects,
which contentedly hum and alight nearby

flitting to and fro
oblivious to plaudits encore
harmoniously thriving
within the living laboratory

of Mother Nature,
sans, Insects or Insecta are by far
count as the largest group of
hexapod invertebrates
within the arthropod phylum,

where simultaneously
underneath the earthen surface
the ground this abustle with
glorious heartthrob
of one micro universe
comprising architects, builders, and weavers
engage in all manner
of natural devices for a livelihood.

This brilliant splendor tantamount
with top-notch operatic performance,
a sensational visual and audiological feast
hypnotizing one humble human (me)
into an inebriated state of bliss.
Mos Jan 2018
Small waves break upon my feet, a kiss from the shore
And even though we're roughly 1122 miles away from each other
Unable to speak consistently
You are still in everything that I see
From the small kiss of the shore to the soft breeze that messes my hair
You are in every laughter spilt from my mouth
and as I look at the stars one last time tonight I can point out the exact location of Mars
In some odd way you are in the light it shines
Ever protruding in the darkness
Ever present whether near or far
Our love lasting a thousand lifetimes
Although we are thousands of miles from each others warm embrace
I still feel you in my heart
and wherever your heart lies
or wherever some reminder of you is present
That is my home, my home is you
Nick Huber Nov 2017
Remember that feeling,
When you pick at a scab.
The fleshy white skin that forms,
over the red underneath.

A thin layer that protects
From elements,
as you heal.

But I'm,
Left staring,
Mouth-wide open,  at the blood,
Coagulating silence.

I wonder,
This time,
Why did you come back?
To pick at my just healed wounds?
I'm sorry,
All that's left is ash.
The charcoal still burning,
Red-orange flames.
Dying down,
Burning out.
This ash,
It covers me,
From head to toe.
written a long time ago.

Aghast
Sans shutting the dresser fast
Lest drawing to cloths to the past.

Akin to dredging up sedimentary muck
That metaphors me whence getting stuck
During adolescence – which lasted decades
each 'n to barreling driverless

   heading toward
   a garbage disposal dump peed truck
   when me entire being felt utter yuck

Holograms of former life inhabit
childhood each dresser drawer
Which furniture about five feet from top to floor
Encapsulates invisible fractals
   of me and contrived lore

Iron nick lee, the latter increases
   as sands of time increase more
Find mine gaze drawn to hash marks
   (from Matthews’) fingers did score

Within the veneer epitomizing strife that tore
And rent psyche asunder
   exemplifying unseen civil war

That raged within façade of placidity
Hosting mailer daemons in this yahoo –
   nobody could see
Re:

Clawing to cleave copper handles of me
Synonymous with malevolent genie
Hell bent of wreaking havoc

   and thus clamored to break free
From shuttered jumbled wardrobe
   stale garments some mold e
bereft of taking a tumble

   in washer and dryer to air
Perspiration from boyhood pores,
   with a skinny body when bare
As would be immediately clear
By many I did fear

Whose gaze akin to a scorching glare
Exhuming a suffer 'n soul silent leer,
   especially when viewer near
Gaze glued at tchotchkes

   like skeletal frame, with palm sized rear
Analogous to that boudoir – over there
Where housed baggy garments,

   yes even under wear
Ill fitting hardly worn hand me downs
   a haunting clasp from yesteryear!
Val G Nov 2017
This room dark
stays calm
the walls sleeping on the ground
like forever
no one stepped inside
the paintings are hiding secrets no one will ever know
the old clock is working as if time will ever turn back
the garden once lived a life
now white and sleeping
welcomes you
and the mirror once looked at a face
quietly staring at you
selfishly
approaches your soul
as you slowly break from the hands of time
Dazed Dreaming Oct 2017
As I look around this empty apartment.
Nostalgia becomes me.
Sadness slithers in my back door.
I was so strong through this all..
Until now.


As reality rears its ugly head.
As the hours pass me by..
Tomorrow all of this will be my goodbye.

I told myself I wouldnt do this.
I told myself I not would cry.
I told myself I'd be strong.
And not let these feelings knock me back down on the floor.

Change is painful.
Change is real.
Change is suppose to be beautiful.
An opening door..
Providing a better life for me..
One so much better than before..

So why am I so sad.
I knew this day would come.
The day I finally walked out that door.
Growing pains have got me tonight.
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