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Cecil Miller May 2020
A tremble in the stillness
Disturbs the reflecting glows
Presages a message from the gently
   disturbed surface,There is comedy in the tragic.
There is dignity in human shame.
There is irony in mundane normality.
We just have to find it.
That's how we'll make it through
A peaceful song upon my life.
Almost called Natural Symphony, but I love the thought of nature personified.
Cecil Miller May 2020
There is comedy in the tragic.
There is dignity in human shame.
There is irony in mundane normality.
We just have to find it.
That's how we'll make it through
I hope it reaches some people in  sentimental places
Cecil Miller May 2020
His name escapes me.
We were getting just about
As high as we could ever be.
In my heart I had a longing,
I was missing what was my own.
I was thinking how I loved you,
So I asked to use the phone.

I said, "Hello."
You said, Good-bye."
I asked, "What's wrong?"
You told me not to cry.
You said you met him,
And you couldn't stand to wait
Til I was home again,
You'd been alone,
My phone call was too late.

You had given all yourself away,
Except the part that was for me.
There is a secret part inside
That no-one knows for us will always be.
No matter what you think or what I say,
Inside your light could be my only home.
The days and nights last endlessly,
Winding on forever since I called you on the phone.

I said, "Hello."
You said, Good-bye."
I asked, "What's wrong?"
You told me not to cry.
You said you met him,
And you couldn't stand to wait
Til I was home again,
You'd been alone,
My phone call was too late.

The years roll on, and I'm still alone
I stand alone, I have no home.
I have no love, but for the love
I save it up, I can't give it up.
I'll never know another's touch,
The cold inside, it hurts so much.
I meet you passing by in life.
I hold it in, and I tell a lie.

I said, "Hello."
You said, Good-bye."
I asked, "What's wrong?"
You told me not to cry.
You said you met him,
And you couldn't stand to wait
Til I was home again,
You'd been alone,
My phone call was too late.
I wrote this the other night.  I've been busy with other projects and don't write poetry as often as I did before. I have been working on a novel. I submit first draft in brief chapters to my facebook timeline. Pm me if you are interested in looking them over. The genres are serial melodrama(think telenovella)mystery and horror.
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.
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