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Kimberly Lore Apr 2017
Just remember that it's ok to feel out of place sometimes
Afterall, even Earth's orbit is naturally askew
yet it still turns and we are still here
and life goes on
"askew" from A Daughter of Smoke and Bone
Isabelle Apr 2017
Don't hurry up things
For there is definitely
a time for everything

Grow your wings,
Wait for the rain to stop
Wait for your beauty to glow

Not too early, never too late
Just in the perfect time
You will shine
Entry for day 8. Super late post.
"What's the hurry?" line from page 8 of Colleen Hoovers' Point of Retreat. The word hurry caught my attention. And also, those lines were an excerpt from my old poem- A Time For Everything.
Scarlet Keiller Apr 2017
Somehow it's possible
to go from the pretty girl
to absolutely nothing
at the opening of a mirror.
~~ Strange how self esteem can tarnish a simple word chosen from a book. ~~
- Apr 2017
I bet your favorite toy is now somewhere hidden, sitting by itself with none of its arms attached to its body. I bet if it's a toy car, its wheels are now nowhere to be found, or if it remains intact I bet wax from crayons has replaced its original paint. Yet, I bet your favorite toy remains special nonetheless. *Because that's what we do to the things we love - we destroy them, and still call that love.
LaNita Apr 2017
Amazon like air
Moist, warm and enveloping
Taste ancient knowings
Narcissistic Statements! Omens!
Obligations! Requests! Confessions!
Are these not what makes our conversation?
Words slipped efficiently - arching, stopping though gloriously standing.
Praying for death,  when walking on the roads of apprehension.
Screaming in rage a time, whimpering-
The other, best when singing a Lullaby in anticipation!
Come all thou words - for you are what my soul is craving!

*******! Back-biting! Gossiping!
Judging! Attacking! Preying!
Are these not what makes our conversation?
Her bra strap! His Gait! Her Lipstick!
His feminine laugh!
All these go under the pitiful scrutiny  of our abbreviation.
Why is she hiding her face with the pale scarf?
What is the truth of her face and liaison?
Dive deep down in the gut of our intestines- as thou are the words of craft!

Apologies! Appreciations! Puns!
Wordplays! Poems! Love - letters!
Are these not what makes our conversation?
Leafing through pages to find a suitable metaphor for our beloved only to wring -
Spending all night in the prime of our love and sensation!
Hitting the beloved back for we are the modern lovers like Chandler Bing.
Like Ross - claiming "we were on a break!" on our stupid deeds of love nullification.
Swearing - smitten in our eternal summer love - that one day we will exchange rings!

Are these not what makes our conversation?
david mitchell Apr 2017
I'm living in squalor.
It'll be summer again soon,
And I wish that I could call her,
But I've gone from prince to pauper.
With every silently warm night,
Her memory fades red,
Like a doppler.

I can't write poetry anymore.
I'm not much pride to swallow.
I'm a mended heart gone sour,
A paper maché shell, now hollow.

She can't really be blamed.
Lovelessly alone with my bones,
Blood long gone, long drained,
That fault is my own.

I can't really be blamed.
Now she's all alone,
With our bones.
That fault is her own.

Your constructive corruption,
Wrapped me in, like a soft cocoon.
And with every day without prosper,
Your memory grows blue,
Like a doppler.
red shift, blue shift,
one wish, two cliffs.
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