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newpoetica Feb 13
i'm in too deep
so maybe i should just take a leap,
a leap of faith in which i let go.
and maybe take control,
speak through my heart and soul.
speak through my heart and soul to say three words back to you,
i want you.
this is inspired by a song by the band, why don't we.
Lynnia Jul 2018
Eight is the number we share in years
A quiet plea, she hardly hears
This is where the magic ends
Giggling with her other friends
Eight is the number we share in years
Alone, I’m drowning in my tears.
The climactic ****** of this series.
Meg B Oct 2017
I've scrapped the first
fifteen versions of a poem
I don't want to write or
maybe I want to write it but I'm
afraid I won't like it or
am I just afraid of what I might
say,
of what my subconscious will
convey?

Ink drying up like dried blood
while the blood in my veins
pulsates and my
head throbs as I try to decipher
how much of what has happened
to me is actually because
of me.

Is it me?
Are my experiences mine because
I made them so,
or did I happen to just
stumble into the darkness?

A sour mashup of
self-love and self-loathing,
it's like I have two minds intertwined
double-analyzing double helix
radioactive brain DNA

Am I great? Am I awful?
Am I even worthy of such extremes?
Where are all the adjectives to
describe me?
Can I write about it if
it changes daily?
Is it possible to know yourself perfectly and
also not at all?

Questions generating more
questions,
hypothesizing Eye
must seek before
I find.
maxime Dec 2016
Deer leap clear across the field
Elegant and graceful,
Beautiful and limber.
The beauty of the open grass,
the feeling of freedom,
outweighs the threat of danger.

The hunter stalks his prey,
hidden by the the grasses.
The very grass that lures the deer to freedom,
also leads the deer to it's death.
The hunter is filled with power,
arrogance filling the hole virtues left.

He takes his aim.
He shoots.

The once limber deer is dead.
Sam Dec 2016
She represents this,
He represents that,
They represent it.

All tied together in one binding,
All connected under the same symbol.

Nobody knows the stories within,
Representing each figure with a flower or a stone.

The symbols outstretch wildly,
and nobody sees the connection.

No, not the relationship of words,
Those are as clear as day.

But, the representations we speak of,
the ones that travel through the actions of time.
Those are as dark as night.

If not me, it's her.
If not her, it's you.
If not you, it's them.

The web is infinite,
the links are endless.

•Known are the associations of few•
•Unknown are the ties between the non-corresponding•
Liam C Calhoun Nov 2016
"Will you marry me?”
     whispered her sly slivers of purple,
          prestige and occasional lie five years later.

And had we not been asunder
     that very same altar we’d sought fallen stars on
          several days prior, I’d have said, “no.”

Sure, she’d brought a bounty oranges,
     but could he, if ever, answer with the hand
          that’d waived like the incense before?

He said “yes.”
Sunshine Girl Oct 2016
To hold a candle in one's palm
And let the wax drop into a soul that yearns for brightness;
To polish off a set of silverware
That is set in the back of the china cabinet;
To these actions does one owe the breadth of sincerity
Reached only by the mobile and task-less mind.
When I was a young child,
Cloud scanning was naught but a foolish game
That only the sloth did chance to play.
Yet white pirate ships and marshmallow fantasies
Would still laugh and dance just out of my stunted reach
Until my tangled shoelaces tripped my idleness into
An emerald green oblivion as my knees met ground.
Parallels exist when one matures;
It's just as easy to trip over a pair of high heels.
To what end, then, do we owe the dusting off
Of the old mahogany boxes of memories?
To which source do we credit the rolling film
That replays childlike nostalgia through a sepia tinted lens?
To the wonders of the mind and the memories within,
We owe our deigning to produce and beginning to dream.
just a poem I had to write for a class I'm enrolled in
Coraline Hatter Jul 2016
Different as day and night,
summer and winter,
light and darkness
and yet so much in common.
Emily Snow Apr 2016
Trees; uprooting arteries
From a garden growing
In destiny’s sterile womb,

I walk inside
The frame of crime—TIME
A desolate dusty-green capsule.  

And I walk outside
The frame of time—CRIME
A burning slate-red lake.

Arteries, rooted like trees
Form this heaving orb-corpse of mud,
Birthing fleshy despairs.
Liam C Calhoun Feb 2016
I’d imagined twilight
Dripping like gentle strokes
Atop a canvas we’d thrown out,
Out window hours ancient – a, “light’s off,”
And shadow’s play,
Bitten lips and muffled pant;
The secret that’d eat, masticate,
*****, gorge atop more
And add to the first eternity knowing "end."

So the stars fell, “twinkle-tap-tap,”
For planets break, dust and tear
Atop our pillow post-ecstasy,
An only accomplishment and still
Breathing this only and
Remaining lonely’d thought,
“The other’s still right;”
Could I be so very wrong?

And she leaves with part of me upon back,
An ink wrought celebration of years later,
And imagined, the pour, not poor,
But immortal retreat
Born my buying one ticket
And later romp awry Reynosa;
The rattle of tequila, pool-***** and pockets,
Sweet, sweet, “Lenore,”
And the home she’d promised,

The home we eventually abandoned.
Lenore, as gentle as the wind, as light as a feather; I wonder where it was the breeze delivered her. I imagine her smile in the morning sun, her son, playing in the yard. I smile in reminiscence whilst pondering this new shore I've happened upon; guilty, come fear and echoes of gallantry. The world would never let me go.
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