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Matterhorn Apr 4
A lone plastic bag
Of unknown, mysterious origin,
Now floats, heaven-bound.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Pallavi Jan 26
Hazy night
Still Stars are bright
Clouds are in queue
disturbing my view
Dogs are barking
My pen is in parking
But my words can't wait
Compelling me to create
To close my eyes,
a sweet lullaby.
awknight Jul 2018
the concrete beneath our feet
turned to **** rugs peeking between
our toes.

headlights from a passing car
illuminate what is already clear
as you pull my waist in closer.

music drifts in the background
as words unspoken
spark creation under the soft
sounds of our eyes meeting.
have you ever wanted someone to stay so badly that simple goodbyes make you ache?
Temporal Fugue Jan 2018
My parking space
even though
it doesn't have my name

My place in the fridge
front shelf
it's always been, the same

My trash can
in the corner
furthest from the door

You parking in my place
you get
the evil eye, and more

You move my food
with your own
pushing it, way back

You relocate my wastebasket
because of laziness
manners, that you lack

Why O Why is regiment
disrupted by random fools
trespassing all controls

Foiling my process', and procedure's
punching small, but leaky
Really, I mean really! I've put my car, food, and trash in the same place for over 2 years! All it takes is some yahoo, who thinks it should be otherwise too throw off your whole day (I realize I'm being ****).
****, I'll get over it ;D
Jason Cirkovic Dec 2017
When I saw you walking around,
I really wanted to say something,
Something that would make you turn around
So I can see your intruded red face
Jack frost seemed to be only thing
Touching your lips tonight
As I say something
So I can hear you say something
Yet you wanted to hear nothing
Said nothing
So now I feel like Nothing
As you turn around
Kick up the dust
Inviting the hounds
Of this parking lot
To swallow me whole
Yet I wont think of anyone else
But you
JR Rhine Sep 2017
Hey everyone!
I just wanted to let you all know about the release of my self-published book of poems, "Parking Lot Poems"! Thank you all for your support; this website has been instrumental in shaping me into the poet I am today. If you have ever read a single word or line from one of my works, thank you. If you are interested in purchasing a copy, you can do so here:

Thank you!
KKM Mar 2017
the shore washed up and fell right into your rose filled bones and all that your said was that you're changing your heart again, i dont understand why your favourite flowers are daisies but your hair smells like lemons and i guess yellow burns in your eyes, every time the sun sets to golden tones you pack your bags to run again but nighttime will come faster than that 9:07 train and you'll remember your date with the moon's craters and spray paint cans that hurt your back with the weight, except that graffiti doesn't have much weight to you anymore, paint over the scars, under the bruises, and lick your lips in the light of a streetlamp; there's a ripped up parking ticket in your back pocket & 19 ways out of that burning silver feeling that you can solve in this city by noon tomorrow
Wes Noneya Feb 2017
A survivor still grows
I came upon it by chance
A survivor that arouse
I wonder if it was design, desire or happenstance?

That it found it's way
To that strange spot
What keeps the cars and tires at bay?
I know not

Wonder it is will?
Or perhaps spite?
Either way seeing it gives me a little thrill
I speak to it now and then to encourage it's fight

As you can see
I got a picture back then
Should it be gone on the morrow, it would sadden me
But the parking lot is not exactly a secluded glen

~Wes Noneya
-- a flower grows... from the edge of a wheel stop in a parking lot... standing all by itself purple and green contrast with the yellow painted concrete block and the paved lot...
effie ebbtide Aug 2016
If parking lots aren't art, they are at least a gallery,
cars as the masterpieces which we gawk at, pretending
to be smart -- "ah, a famous Lamborghini piece."
And if that still isn't art, then call it something else -- a form of beauty beyond our comprehension, made by no one and everyone in this town.
Those construction workers who made this are ghostly sculptors of asphalt.
The yellow lines on the road are delicate brushstrokes, laid down by the most careful of craftsmen.
One day this parking lot will turn to dust,
and that is where the beauty comes from.
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