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Cecil Miller May 2020
The blanket of night
Covers the land.
The silky smooth flesh
Covets the hand.
The sound of trumpets
Plays from afar
In the twinkling light
Of a falling star.

I hear a name.
It sounds like my own,
And my voice that beckons,
Though I am alone.
The coursing of blood
Inside my veins
Is my only companion,
My only companion.

Who moves within my mind?
Who is with me, not all of the time?
Who is sheltered inside of my thoughts?
Come speak to me, speak to me now.

I sit up in bed.
I reach for the lamp.
I've sweat so much.
The sheets are damp.
Do I hear laughter
Out in the hall?
Is something else coming
When the darkness falls?

The crackling thunder
Rips through the sky.
A roaring of wind,
Like my nerves, on high.
Nobody can hear,
But I this voice in my head.
It shakes to my core.
It's heavy like lead.

Who moves within my mind?
Who is with me, not all of the time?
Who is sheltered inside of my thoughts?
Come speak to me, speak to me now.


Who moves within my mind?
Who is with me, not all of the time?
Who is sheltered inside of my thoughts?
Come speak to me, speak to me now.
I was bored, so I regressed. The results were these lyrics.
Kaylee D Mackey Apr 2020
your enigma is
draped over every part of me
as if the perception through your lens
a handbook to my darkness
prose installed into the mainframe
applying solace and wisdom to
the futility of existence

so how curious it is
how suddenly
that reality ceases to exist
i am adequate when i am not enough
i am whole when i am incomplete
i am valuable when i am worthless
i am complex when i am nothing
October 19, 2019, 1147a
Solange Apr 2020
INK
Before  
the world was born
what lay
between the skies?
Did the bridge of
Unknown
cross over  
into the great horizon?

When the first  
blot of ink 
was crafted,
what was the first
of its many creations?

Did it know that
from mere blots,
entire worlds have been spawned?

Did it know
with its spiraling, expanding,
pearly-darkness,
with its natural proneness to accidents,  
the art and knowledge  
it would found?

Be careful not to shake,
or deplete it in wasteful splatters
You should know,
with the ink of a pen
you hold
the very universe
and all its entity
between your fingertips

And between your ears,
the capacity to truly create it all.
Entire worlds…
and even more.
An underappreciated glory.
Shipley Mar 2020
Against the current,
I swam to the edge of possibility;
and I found myself.
As a copy, I find it difficult
To the chase such expectations
Every action is closely dictated
To mimic the original's intentions

Limiting precision and accuracy
Leaves no freedom of expression
I am only an embodiment
Of some product imitation

Every movement I call my own
Only causes more frustration
Because it strays from what is known
Like a phrase lost in translation

What if I was the original?
No longer seen as a mutation
To be the focus and not forgotten
To be the object of admiration

But I am merely just a shadow
A silhouette born into submission
Lost in darkness, behind the light
Cursed with a muted motivation
Elisabetta Fato Apr 2020
Sometimes I just
think I should  
be the
flow,
not the
girl
lost into
it.
Antionicia Mar 2020
words drip from my lips like honey,
thick and sweet
they make my paper their own. I hold no claim
i have learned to be obedient to my words
what Word says goes, I obey.
Original Entertainment 1357
Original Entertainment 1357
Original Entertainment 1357
Original Entertainment 1357
Original Entertainment 1357
Original Entertainment 1357
Original Entertainment 1357

Written by: Original Entertainment 1357
Original Entertainment 1357
riley minteer Feb 2020
in the midst of an easy, northern-bound rain
from one shore,
a gust,
another’s clear day

in the midst of the courtyard,
a brick-laid patio
igniting an hearth,
who’s embers dampened long ago

igniting the fire which therein warms my heart;
a simple red peony that rose from the yard
it rose and was nurtured by delicate words,
then brushed during night,
by the sensual rough of a scourge
oh the power of words...

but alas, the easy rain soon starts to harden
as nothing is safe from the truth’s vacant burden
and my courtyard, once blooming, peonies, red
is wilted, long-shot, and over-spent.
-riley minteer
“courtyard hearth”
(from “mind soul heart”)
Sunday, February 23, 2020
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