Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jade C Oct 5
we are not tethered;
not bound in a binary way

nor are we separate
two pins on a map distinctly apart

picture how letter lights bleed together
how they blur when your eyes are tired

or how oil and vinegar touch
but do not mix

we are compatible
but not absorbed into one another

significantly outside of
the other
but close nevertheless
not really sure where im going with this, will be revisiting and revising.
Poetic T Sep 26
You were  my cross,
    stigmatised for loving


  But I'm crucified
for loving him.
daffodil Aug 19
A crack in my mirror, right in the centre
splits my image into a thousand pieces
versions of myself never quite realised
all that I am and all that I could be
each fragment a glimpse into a path not chosen
fingers reaching out to touch the glass
dipping into the reflection, a pool of possibility
if only I could crawl through the looking glass
or break on through to the other side
would I miss this place
am I happier there
Our world passes another at close range
we can see the inhabitants of the other world
waving to us—planning on passing through
but our gravitational fields switch
and we fall into each other's worlds
seeing the beauty of what the other has experienced
before we hit the ground.
Bhill Aug 4
with fiery and attentive steps, our love remembers
remembers all the hours of living without
living without each other to balance life
life inhabited in the eyes of each other
other lives are covetous, of our balance.....

Brian Hill - 2020 # 213
Find your balance...
On one side of me lies one
on the other side of me lies the other.

The one is the one
the other is the other.

The one separates me from one another
the other turns the one into just another one.

There is no other one
so all the others are ones.

Stay with the one
or be the other.

One or the other
pick one.
Ken Pepiton Jun 19
Old and satisfied, seven decades been plenty atime,
to live well, enough to tell,
some of what you wisht you'd done,

its prob'bly better thisaway.

That song never sung, when you were young,
you know
you still know
you had to know the whole story,
before you could tell it at all, just as well

nobody could know you were lying, about
all being well
'til the end.

They would have believed and followed me home,
had they heard me sing,
my wandering song
and known i live under stars as free as the breeze,

come and see, come and see, see it live on the air,
as if you were there
at the time.

Now, pick a flower, put it in your hair,
pretend you were there
at the time.
Some stories told in vain
remain told,
never growing older than that first bright idea,
imagine you were there
at the time.

Child of mine, our kind,
we were born to survive the hard rain,
we waited fifty years for the ice all to melt,

and we laugh at fools who find
our broken radio silence
silent in times of great woe. I don't know but
as a spirit haunting liars,
I coulda been a contender, had I known.
I coulda lied,
and said I knew the reason for a thing,
proverbially as well as Solomon ever could have
at the time.
Nobody woulda known, but then, I mighta died.
What if it ended other wise, HA! No chance. My side won, death never had a chance, life goes on and on, or seems so, at the time.
Next page