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Duckie Apr 10
I see you in the drunken man on the bus, singing hits
from the 60s,
I hear you when a man near your age belittles me, over a
job he knows nothing about,
I feel you when that initial rejection from someone hits, craving
validation you failed to gift me,
craving to be enough,
I smell you as friends open bottles of cheap ale, a scent
embedded into my bloodstream,
I miss you when I see a father and his child playfully race in the
park over the road,
I'm always wanting what I don't have.
Jason Jan 10
I'll never see it's like again;
The springtime coming to life
In my grandmothers back yard,
The birds singing, insects humming,
Sun dappled camouflage on the pond.
One mid-morning, mid-mourning,
Dreaming of love lost,
Hoping for hope.
It's funny, how young love is like childhood,
Gone before you truly value it,
Only cherished after the fact.
Only, cherish that fact,
Value it, before it's gone.
Humor your heart, like a child,
Hope for hope,
Dream of love!
And some mid-morning, quit mourning,
Let your camouflage fall, feel the sun,
Let the birdsong bring you back
To the wonder of childhood!
Love the autumn of life,
You'll never feel it's like again.
© 01/10/2021 Jason R. Michie All Rights Reserved

Written about one of the most beautiful mornings I have experienced, wishing that a certain person were there to share it.  It was one of those moments where you don't really know whether you should go on. I decided that morning, that instead of ruining every beautiful moment mourning, Instead I would imagine she was there with me, sharing every beautiful moment. That I would take her with me in my heart forever. And that's what I did.
Dave Robertson Dec 2020
With overflowing hearts
a man and a woman
younger than I am now
watch their kids’ fascination grow
opening a paper square to show a busy sleigh.
For now, they can avoid the fact
that the thing that keeps
the young girl’s hands warm in the picture
is called a ****.
Zac Shawhan Sep 2020
Is it another year so soon?
My little man, my dear big boy
as time goes on it begins to wound
yet still there remains a lasting joy.
Surprise hugs and silly kisses
shrink my world to you and I
and time’s wounding power decreases
as you teach me to deny
all I have and all I desire
to give it up, to self forget.
This is a truth that reaches higher,
to become content as vignette
Son’s third birthday
thomezzz Aug 2020
As a woman, I have always
felt the pressure to procreate.
And if I succeed,
well, I better be the best mother I can be.
But what if, I’m scared
Of the pressures of social media.
That the moms that populate the page
will always be better than me.
That I may spread
my infected genes.
That maybe, right now, the world is
just a scary place to be.
But what if, I decide
to do things for me?
Does that deserve
to be guilty?
Jade Jul 2020
You ask me if I’m okay
And I want to yell at you,

To tell you how I sat up at night
And counted the lights in other buildings,
Just to know I wasn’t the only one alive.
To tell you that sometimes when I see you
I want to punch you in the face
Since we’re starting to look so similar.
To tell you how when my mind wants to hurt me
It uses your voice.
To tell you how you peeled off my skin
And made me dance through flames.

And of course I don’t.

Because I know you did your best.
Maybe not my best poem, but I guess I needed to get it off my chest.
TJ King Jun 2020
"Metaphors are Dangerous"
is something my mother said
To me recently while hovering breathless above
her calendar; waiting carefully between the spaces of functions, appointments, and birthdays. Blank.

I asked her why she had me.
What became of my first calendar,
my genesis, the foretelling of my arrival?

What was "god's plan" for that lifeless heap of events she threw away in an afternoon, after everything within it either happened or didnt? Was it whisked away to trash island, with the other spent husks that had the audacity of limited use?

Does it still exist?
Stained and useless, wretched paper
sprawled out in the sun. Has it been completely reformed? Sent out as several paper cups, a newspaper,  a birthday cap, a kite?

What would god think of "used" calendars? Would he? When he reached our day of being in the cosmos, did he look at us and say "you will be used or you will be nothing" and pin us to the wall? A useful but temporary tool?

Why do we begin something at all? Why must we blow the balloon up just to let it go? Is it still a "balloon" when it's lying limp in a stranger's field a mile away?

In my mother's silence I knew she had no answer for me, except that "metaphors are dangerous" as her hands full of paper-cuts flattened the page.
Carlo C Gomez May 2020
to be your
all webs
and legs
and tasty things
in the parlor
and then when
the eggs
hatch away
it's curtains for
you and me
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