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Jaylen Vella Aug 2016
if a picture is worth a thousand words,
let me be still
and silent
like a portrait, a photograph, a frozen moment in time
unless my actions and words can outweigh a thousand in their importance.
Jaylen Vella Aug 2016
there's a colorful mystery in silence
in quietness
the question of whether the mute portrait of a human is lost in a daydream
engulfed by sadness
or running from madness
or have they been caught
Trash can, wastebasket;
the place we throw it all away.
Used tissues--soggy mascara, dried *****,
or the babies that would never be,
and the heaps of food waste, human waste.

Wasted human.

Why do we take ourselves and the people we used to love,
toss people and our person deep within a hole of shame,
darkness, misery, guilt, worry, frustration, fear?

If someone only said to you, or to me, when we dig deep
into the ground and find the place no one will find us
or them, the people we are burying--
if they only said,
"You are not trash."

Our emotions refuse to become refuse, the remains of
being unwanted, as we perceive ourselves to be.

But we is just me, and even though I can't hear the voice
I long to hear above my own, the sounds reverberate in my chest,
next to my heart, where I heard them last.

The last time we spoke your fingers did not reach for mine.
Your jeans did not rip in the same one spot.
The dog that I picked that you picked after you went back,
his tail wagging all the way on the ride back to his new home,
did not kiss my face and my eyes and ears like he loves to do.
Even though you didn't still love me, you did before,
now thrown hastily, yet decidedly in the trash can outside your door.

I dropped off the last remnant of your physical being,
an old rabbit-eared antennae.
I didn't, couldn't look in your trash can,
or stand in the driveway longer than was needed to drop and run
the hell away from crumbling gravel, a window newly aluminum foiled, and the motorcycle kept under surveillance at all times.

I hope he looked on his camera screen and saw walking,
talking, feeling, breathing human trash gliding
down the sidewalk, feet pattering into a jog.
The grass licked my feet and tangled in my toes on the way
to the one place my sighs could sink lower than my feet,
deep into the warm upholstery of my car seat, the grandma car,
the dented, imperfect, but mostly reliable car

away, far away, to a place where someone would look curiously,
pick up the trash, my trash, me, and say,
"It's beautiful."
Ana S May 2016
There's a panda in my backpack
A panda in my backpack.
Yes there is a panda in my backpack.
A very interesting panda.
Very interesting panda.
There's a panda in my backpack...
Pandas
K Balachandran Mar 2016
Amanda, a crazy collector of Vanda
had such an intense dislike for Aranda
she detested the ******,
when making out in tandem
her outdoor escapade once scared a Panda



(C) K.Balachandran
balaprimus@gmail.com
Vanda and Aranda are genuses of Orchids
I was confused
Everything was so confusing
All was painted in grey or gray ?

Hoo ?

Hey ! I asked the gorilla
What ? He answered back
Will you scratch my back ?

Okay !

Then I came across the Zebra
I said it's all so simple
Here it is in black and white

But he's not read all over
Mimi Lynn Kelly Sep 2015
Sometimes we all have our dreams and childish feelings,
I know we do,
I had two where I had the ears and a tail of a Panda,
Now I feel I currently have them,
If I had the ears of a Panda,
If had the tail too,
I must do
What I must do,
If I had the ears of a Panda,
I'd want you to have them too...
Wow! Another April 30, 2013 7th grade poem! I really loved pandas then, and do now.

— The End —