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Thomas Harvey May 16
He wakes in the morning
Sore from all the years before
But he's still strong at his core
As life always proceeds without warning

This morning's no different
He gets his coffee and sits at the table
Looking out the window, admiring the horses in the stable
Though he's at the age where he feels indifferent

Later on in the day he gets moving
For a dead man is a lazy man
He knows long ago he would have ran
But these days he’s bound to keep improving

A man that should be full of sorrow
He finds a way to enjoy the moment
Grief to him is a worthy opponent
As he looks forward to each tomorrow

The trick is locked away in his mind
He figured it out long ago
Back when he let go of his ego
The trick is to start with what you want to find
She had of the prettiest smiles I’ve ever seen
It felt like a reflection of all things bright
As if the world had no darkness, only light
I never seen anything so serene

I was late to lunch today
She had already taken a seat in a corner booth
By the look on her face, she couldn’t hide the truth
Yet she didn’t know what words to say

Her eyes glisten when she talked
It seemed the nervous feelings were gone
And so, the feelings continue to feed on
With feelings of love now locked

I remember a time like that, to be brave
She reminded me of you and your glow
He reminded me of myself, before you had to go
For I wish there was more than flowers on a grave
Ken Pepiton May 7
George Washington never saw a funny movie.

Culture had not knitted lightning into now, yet,

when the leaven in my bread was just a ******
beasty idea attempting to pass Jesus is Lord testing

half-way through today, right now, middle
of everything that's going on in and
around the whole internet connected reality,

right now,
we have magic in our qwerty trained brains,
we can recall the music, baddabumbaddabum
baddadabadah bump, p-ting

college prep

learning to type, mechanically, like a machine,

some one far more famous than me,
told me in print that no real poet types.

I found him poetically unqualified to prophecy.

Freud means joy, but he really guessed wrong about some Victorian Secrets.
Critically inspired by Civilization and its discontents, as seen from this future.
My old cat
asleep in the sun
he knows his summer
is almost done
Nat Lipstadt Apr 17
the good old nights^

roam the recesses and the abscess of
our too small apartment in the the very
large, very long, very inescapable wee wee
hours of the dark session of the day, lifting
my tablet to inscribe/ reorder/ recorder her/
this one more in my personal history, with
rant, word elixir, a note to our plural selves,
thinking of English gardens drinking up my
water freshly flowing and flying to you, via
nighty nite storm clouds, or your rural falls

and white clouds cumulus do  not return, and I too,
as my mind ***** and slugs but all attempts to
pierce the walled in somber slumber FAIL.

The creative comes besty beast like when I am driven from my dreams to wakealate (dream+speculate with eyes open)
dream of our realities and the tv (she never
remembers to program to shut down), drones
on about some product with XL in the name
that will make the unsleeping walkers feel
so much-better.

but not, not us, for we turn exploratory and
listen to the humming, beeping, tiny little diodes
of Joseph’s colored coat, all the mini stimuli,
the lights that mark the modern blacker hours
of rhythm, even those who can’t dance, can sleep,
‘cept for me, for I am a tune disturbed, needful of
minding, all these a rhythm busters ghosting me,
as a prelude to a poem vision now freshly etched
on my mind and now upon your flesh, an animation,
of reanimated images of ancient statues, ancient
advertisements for fertility, the dream continuum
of our lives, beyond our clearly demarcated time
line, the human, gene based need to outlive our
bodies in-the bodies of our progeny are a recurring
motif…female fecundity,  statues, many cracked or
missing limbs, come to life and move around, wailing
with grief and anger and hope and desire

alas, alas, another ole good time night ramble,
amidst familiar places and new abscesses,
and I wonder, how am I writing this when both
hands cover my face, and yet I still envision?

Tuesday Apr 16
(the year escapes me,
for notions of big times
are measured in multiples
of I can’t remember)
^ there was a time in my life that many years I woke in the middle of the night and wrote furiously. Less often these days, but nonetheless, the Devil *** angel ***  Genie comes, to remind me, who is the boss of me
Stalwart Dull Apr 16
You were full of thoughts deep inside you that was kept for a long time,
And I was constantly amazed the way  your feelings was confessed
Something that's inside your heart makes the people got impressed
But I wasn't so sure, and I think that a one false move would constitute a crime

I hate you, the way I hate other people
And that bothers me, for I should be the person who doesn't care at all
I do. In a short span of time I did stop caring
But most of the time I never think about mine

You will never be the first person who did something for me, either good or bad
But you're the only person who told me something that I forgot but can still feel it,  and its makin' me mad

This should be sweet, a message that could make your heart beat
But I don't know how to compose something
It's full of confusion, I only write because of grief
Still, I wanna write for you, for someone special that I should treat
Piotr Balkus Apr 14
In a mirror, we always look older
and we believe that it lies.
We blame it for every wrinkle:
Okay then, you lie, but why?!

How rude of mirror to do so,
like literally in the face!?
We give it so much attention
and what in return? Disgrace!

Or perhaps we do look older
indeed, and it doesn't lie.
Perhaps we lie to ourselves
and maybe we know well why.
el Mar 20
i have never loved anybody the way i loved you
i’m afraid that i never will
i know not all love is the same
but must you be the one i never forget
must you be the one i compare to all the rest
maybe it’s not you
yeah, you weren’t perfect
perhaps you were just the first time
i put my all into somebody
maybe it's the distance
Rosie Mar 19
At fifteen, the reaper came, silent in the night,
Stealing me from youth's warm, calming delight.
****** into a world where heartbreak resides,
Where innocence withers and hope slowly dies.

No more laughter, just echoes of pain,
Sorrow's lament, a relentless refrain.
Gone are the dreams that once danced in our sight,
Replaced by storm clouds, obscuring the light.

Now, I linger by your grave,
With flowers wilted, their colors all grey.
I mourn the loss of innocence, the childhood's decay,
In the quiet, I kneel, with so much left to say.

Grief marks the end of youth, a bitter pill to swallow,
and builds a home for loneliness to wallow.
It's been almost ten years now, and I still can't move on from losing you.
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