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Kale Oct 2015
The tension between
Our cold eyes were
Thick.
We entangled our broken
Hearts
Into one entity
Without realizing we dragged
Each other to the breaking point.
We worked hard
To maintain this fleeting love,
But our pride
Crushed it.

Now we are left
In a pool of tears
Wondering what life could be
If remained unified.
Marisa Lu Makil Oct 2015
If I could write a poem
From the notes of a song
A song near
And dear
To
My beating heart

And plucked out by
My heart strings,

I would write a novel

But alas
They are just notes
And these - majestic words.
I was trying to think of a poem I could write, and all that came to my mind were the piano notes to a song I wrote. If only...
brandon nagley Sep 2015
Sɦɛs ռօʋɛʟ
                   Sɦɛ's ʄʀօʍ tɦɛ ʊռɛxքʟօʀɛɖ;
                                    Aռ ɛռɢɨռɛɛʀ, օʄ օtɦɛʀ աօʀʟɖ's.






©Brandon Nagley
©Earl jane nagley dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Numerous number systems beyond the real:
complex numbers, octonions, omnions which can eat whole black
      holes.
It's axiomatic that your personal history, preferences, how you feel
account for nothing at all.

$30 buys a flock of chickens for a needy family (International Rescue
      Committee)
$29 gets a girl a school uniform (CARE), for $300 you can stock a fish
      pond (Heifer International)
$69 can start a female entrepreneur in the sewing business (Mercy
      Corps)
$5 will buy a bed net that protects a family from mosquitoes (Against
      Malaria)

20th century experiments demonstrated that electrical charge is
      quantized; that is, it comes in
multiples of individual small units called the elementary charge, e,
      approximately equal to 1.602
x 10-19 coulombs (except for particles called quarks which have
      charges that are multiples of
1/3e).

Why has the experimentalism of the avant-garde, which has failed in
      the novel, succeeded in
poetry? Because poetry is always experimental; while the novel, on
      the contrary, by its nature,
cannot be . . . which is to say that experimentalism is synonymous
      with poetry, and that applied
to the novel, it leads simply to the substitution of the novel with
      poetry. --Alberto Moravia

Man made the town, Fibonacci inflated zero to be the wheel
around which the universe turns and language is the soul
walking and talking quietly or going angrily to war.
"Counting is in its very essence magical, if any human practice is at all.
      For numbers are things no one has ever seen or heard or touched."
      As are words.

Joan Didion thought the scariest stanza in all of poetry
begins Row, row, row your boat gently
down the stream. The elements, the material penumbra,
irresolvable for the mortal, readily dissolve in words and numbers.
--Kristof, Nicholas, "Gifts That Say You Care", New York Times, December 3, 2011.
--Moravia, Alberto, "Poetry and the Novel", Threepenny Review, Summer, 1987
--Harris, Roy, The Origin of Writing, Open Court Publishing Co., 1986

www.ronnowpoetry.com
writer Jul 2015
to be written
what we have brought
to an end
in the middle of the novel
Vivian Jun 2015
Red
In the dullness of the day
There comes a flood of red.
The color showers down
Pumping life into the dead.

Within seconds they embrace the red.
The red drives them quite insane.
So much red all at one time!
But the red will come again.

The red will show no mercy.
The red will be feared.
The raging red will feast on even
The innocent while it's here.

But still, the red will bring them laughter.
Red's brought them joy from the start.
This very red reverberates
In their violent, ****** hearts.

The red will be forgotten.
The red will be ignored.
The ruthless red will ruin some
While others go on as before.

To those who prance around
And join in on the rumble,
Know that when you play with red
You're also playing with the devil.
My poetic response to a scene in Charles Dickens's "A Tale of Two Cities."

If you read the novel, you may remember the scene where a cart of wine tips over and spills onto the street, and people flock over to taste the wine and celebrate it. This poem draws a parallel between the French citizens' thirst for wine and their later thirst for blood when the guillotine is brought about. It's shocking how eager and willing the citizens become to witness the beheading of another. I tried my best to portray the dark nature of the French during the French Revolution,  as depicted in "A Tale of Two Cities," in this poem.

Published by Poetic Power in a young poets anthology.
Devashish Kumar May 2015
“Repetition", he said, "bores me.
I like things new and fresh.
That’s why I never get committed.”
“No", she said, "that’s not the reason.
Don’t you enjoy every time you watch a sunrise?
Don’t you enjoy listening to your favourite music on repeat mode?
Don’t you like reading novels?”
“I do listen to my favourite music over and over again. After a few repetitions, I will change it certainly.
I do enjoy reading novels. But every time I read, it is new one.”
And there she stood clueless,
Looking for right reasons for him,
As he walked away,
Probably thinking he won a battle,
Without even considering
That he may be losing the war-
A war within himself.
“He didn't mention sunrise though.
Did he forget to mention it or
Did he leave it purposely?”
She wondered as she watched him blend in the crowd.
Repetition is often perceived as boring, But beauty lies in repetitions. Someone people find it difficult to commit to someone. If it is so, you, probably, haven't found the one.
Marisa Lu Makil May 2015
My name
Is used by 2 people whom I love
Other than myself

I made this name.
When I was 13,
I began a novel.
The main character's name was Marisa Lu Makil.

She was everything I ever wanted to be
Wrapped up into one lost girl.
She had matured by the end of the book
And so have I.

I made my name
So can you.
Make your name
You can be whoever and whatever you want to be.

So live long
Laugh hard
And love ferociously.

Make your name
A name that others wish they could live up to,

And enjoy the story along the way.
Marisa is a pseudoname. It is used by a couple other people with my permission, but when I claim the name of my childhood hero, I feel like I have lived as she did: long, laughing hard, and loving ferociously.
sanch kay May 2015
i am a writer of fiction,
not a writer who tells you how to write fiction.
it's a weird feeling, this emptiness. this feeling of existing, but not living. just walking, wandering. lost in life, with no destination in sight. I had one once, but now it seems that a goal that was once at my fingertips has moved miles and miles away from me. I feel like my mind has been tortured by words of negativity— my existence has been threatened by my own hands due to people voicing their "opinions". This Generation has turned the amendment 'freedom of speech' into 'freedom to destroy the soul of a human being.'
Words hurt just as much as being physically beaten, think twice before speaking your mind. Will your words build that person up, or crush their minimum amount of joy left in their frail bodies?
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