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M Mar 17
I have six of them buried deep inside my head
I could just pull them out one by one if I wanted to

But I tell myself "don't dig up the dead!"
"It's for the best!" they echo..
Might continue I'm not sure yet
Radhika Krishna Oct 2020
The door in the attic is peculiar
Sometimes I am lucky enough to find it cold
And I will stumble inside and fall
Far away from here
It's like a dream, a new life
You must look around and above you
And then you will see it
Above, up there, high, far away
There it was, I saw the hole
Through my fluttering eyelids it was always grey
But when I say so
Mother starts to weep uncontrollably
From here I can only sit and watch and ponder
Where it starts and where it ends
And if there is a castle of wonder
I'd like to see it one day
Even if I am old and empty
And I have lived forever
Even if I am all bones and dust and dead
But I'm still alive and my pulse is fascinating
I stand up and run, maybe if I run fast enough
I will start to fly
Yet all that comes of it is a dizzy heart and burning eyes
Sometimes, the Big Grey will ask me,
"What are you searching for?"
I don't know yet, I just want to see past the shadow
What is it like, where dreams are told,
Where dreams are sold?
On the days that she sits me down
And tells me what's real and what's not real
I wish I could give Mother a dream too
Because the lines on her face make her look so tired
And that's when they start fluttering again
Open. Close. Open. Close. Open. Close.
Open.
When will I know what dreams are like?
Silverflame Nov 2019
You brighten up my day
in such a peculiar way.
My usual blue feeling
morph into a smile which the
familiar tears can't wash away.
Anthony Pierre Nov 2019
In the weirdest turn of events that day
As a cop toting guns and pepper spray
I gathered an urge to pen my first ode
In my lunch hour, before hitting the road

To sirens and light of my precinct's space
not a stanza wrote, yet my mind's apace
the pen's the problem; confidence recede
Pondered a visit to a friend, indeed

Thoughtful I'm moving, this old clue I'd act
on Brooklyn's pen thief; kleptomaniac
acquired from him, an ink dipping quill
of Huia birds, still boxed with its bill

Case solved; on the back of the bill it hints
"Dear Mayor, pen's for poems; lead's for thugs."
A Peculiar Pen's Poem...still beating the street
N.B. Huia (pronounced HOO EE UH) birds feathers cost $10,000 a single pluck
Puzzling and cryptic
Quite an unpredictability
Bizarre and eccentric
This is such a mystery
Filled with suspense and darkness
Such an unclear scenery
A clouded situation appears
That is a peculiarity
K Balachandran Mar 2019
Out of the blue, she blurted out,
"Peculiar stuff, I want to assert"
I had no guess what was her find.
(More like many a times one sees onself
in turns of life, unexpected, I presumed)
"Oh! is it? tell me all about it " I enthused,
And woke up at the very same moment
in to a dream, of different kind, half progressed,
There was no trace of a 'her' in this dream I wormed in!
What is 'real' what is 'imagined'?
Where ends the 'real' we imagine.
And what we think dream starts?
Andrea Mar 2019
Idk
Confused,

I don't know what this is, it is new and peculiar,
Is it love? or am I just getting used to the feeling?

You are always beside me, You make me so happy
Yet you give me so much pain.

You're in my head,
in every direction i turn,
in every route i take,
it is you, always you,
always coming to you.

I closed my eyes,
I see no dark cos' there was you i see.
The light in my dark.
You are the moon and I'm the wolf.

I don't know what this is,
but all i'm sure of is that im half a heart without you.
Tori Mar 2019
There lived an old woman
In a tumbled old cottage
In the midst of the silent wood.
She kept figurines
And the most peculiar things
In her little old cottage in the wood.

Her vases were chipped
Her tapestries ripped
And her silverware bent like her back,
But beautiful was she
And her beloved oddities
In that little old cottage in the wood.
Blade Maiden Oct 2018
I don't think I know
where to begin or
where to go
How to leave chance behind
how to change perceptions
how to treat my own mind

I don't know
why I have this need
to share and to show
Exactly where I stand
ever spilling heart in hand

I don't know why
I keep asking for truth
from strangers only passing by
Same old retreat
numbing sadness on repeat

I have no idea
what to tell you now
how to make myself more clear
How to leave and how to save
how to make my feet behave

I'm a glass full of shards
a peculiar collection
lots of shiny unknown parts
I don't know who I am anymore
I don't think I knew before
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