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In my hour of distress
I find solace in your steadiness
Every tear you repurpose
When my mind is a furnace
You are the mouth I use most eloquently
Without you, I fear I could not speak
An open window when I have no doors
You rest in my hands, and I in yours
A poetry to my dearest friend
who love sunflowers and hate cancelled plan.

This might not be as aesthetic as you
but I know your favourite color is blue

We used to fight over a boy
now it all turn into soil.

And you left the hostel when we're thirteen
but now we stop hating.

I miss your mother's pulut ayam
bet that your life better than I am.

How is you sister?
sorry for not being a good influencer.

I hope that your father always well
and anything that rhythm with sell.

If you feel misfit and don't belong call me
share with me even if it just a cup of tea.
A world for you, a world for me
No one else dwells
To sing in the rain

A world for you, for your comfort
Shut your apartment
Sleeping away the day

A world for me, no one has seen
To hide and be free
And I’ll sing as much as I want
Take advantage and weep
Because no one here will ask why
With no one to see

A world for me, it’s what exists for me
Perpetual rain
Chilly warmth but I’m with my coat
And while I weep
I’ll sing myself a song
Walking in the rain

A world for me, not for you
No space left, I’m afraid
All reservations filled
Can’t wait
I got to
Sing in the rain

A world for me, another for you

I’ll weep because of the rain
Because the love of life it’s too much to contain
I’ll let it all out
And I’ll
In a world for me
Karen M 7d
Boys are like tissues. -unnamed Twitter follower

If they're soft, they usually have two sides.
Both sides, so smooth and delicate, easy
To rip apart and expose the inner roughness.
It's fun to tilt her head back and gently lay
One of the halves on her lips and blow
Firm enough to get them soaring
High on endorphins and ******
Them out of the air, crumple,
And toss into the trash with the rest.

If they're rough, they're good
For one use only. They may be irritating,
But they get the job done. It's cheap,
They come in bulk, and always
Fail to clean up the streaky mess
Left behind for her hand
To finish.

If she's lucky, they'll have aloe
And lotion and designer brands
Made for those who are hard
To please. She'll be spoiled
By the silky smooth shine
On her face, but not one
Can keep up with the wear
And tear of being used
Over and over and over.

Once they're damaged, they're done.
She can't use them anymore. They know
The tricks. They know how they've been torn
Apart and crumpled and disposed without thought.
The smaller the pieces, the harder they are to manipulate
And bend to her every will. With one gone, what does it matter?
There's still the rest of the box, or the pack, or the cylinder.
Fifty. Maybe a hundred. All the more to her disposal.
Yes, yes. She knows what they think of her.
They all throw and shout and spit
Those filthy labels at her face.
But it's just another
Tissue used.
Amy Borton Nov 2018
Impulsivity, I am hopelessly in love with you.

Buy the shoes.
Ditch school.

Kiss her.

Drive 30 minutes
for french fries

Kiss him.

Buy 18 pet snails.
Eat the octopus tacos.

In acting class they told me
to follow my impulses.
At home they told me not to.

A blessing and a curse
might land me in a hearse
But I’m living

Today I wrote a letter to someone I love and I’m going to send it

Tomorrow I might stay home and cook pasta,
or maybe I’ll drive to Portland.
Pack only a few T-shirts and my terrifying
overabundance of freedom

Are you proud?

I’ve been told not to be so impulsive.
To think more rationally.
To weigh the consequences.
“You’ll regret it!”

But the greatest regret I’ve ever felt
is having not done anything
about something that is my everything.

I know I’m not an idiot.

I’ve told myself this for years and I’ll stick to it,
but there will never be a day
when my mind defeats my gut.
Sometimes it means I’m


“Who are you anyway?”

I have a secret
-I don’t know who I am

And if I’m lucky, I never will.

You, my impulsivity, are to blame and to thank for that.
maggie W Feb 12
It almost feels like summer,
breeze at the dusk, killing mosquitoes.
It feels like
Taking a stroll on National Mall,
On a summer night in front of Lincoln Memorial.
Playing Frisbee riding bike
On the meadow in front of the Capitol.

My summer in the capital
With you, him and her and them and myself alone

It feels like the humidity in the swamp, with jazz playing in the background
It smells like crab cake and french toast, out from the diners I frequent
It looks like the summer sky, cloudless, your eyes

The meadow the ducks, summer dress and birkenstock.
Brunch, breeze and bike, followed by more bike rides along the riverfront.

Sitting on the marble stairs of the Supreme Court
Dipping toes in Reflection Pool

Summer in D.C. oh how I much do I miss you and adore
Summer is a state of mind and so does love
But you never fail to give me the feelings of those above.xxoo
love letter to dc, ode to summer
Seanathon Feb 8
Did you know?

That those shimmering shining reflective lines
Are from the deepest puddles man has yet to know?

And yet we call them ghosts
Out of limelight fear
Not of London made
But no less below

For beneath every living thing there is this
A shadow
A shadow
Yuki Feb 5
In my heart a
marching band
is playing
“Ode to Joy”
and I can’t help
but sing along.
s Willow Feb 4
My up coming death,
you inspire me to write.
Never satisfied even after me last breath.
I hate the way you roar, slither and scan.
Invade me mind day and through the night.
waiting, dreaming ‘bout your cunning plan.
I Idle at your foul play.
You are more able, violent, and deep.
Ice bites the debris of may,
and wintertime has the eternal sleep.
Oh who I hate you and your ways.
I adore and hate your personality.
Your stage style fills my days.
The way you destroy my mentality.
My hate for you is the sarcastic ties.
Now I must away with a stunning heart.
You get us in the end.
how are you so smart?
You’re taken my best friend,
my brother,
and my health.
Once I leave
The works I’ve weaved on the paper will grieve.
Ian Robinson Jan 29
Oh, Love
How creative be you
bring me up when I feel blue
bring me to me knees
give me a clue

Oh, Life!
Joyous as thou might be
i propose to you on one knee
to no avail
somehow filled with glee

my first ode
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