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you are not someone i can bury myself beneath.
you are someone i am meant to forget.
disappearing like dew in the morning,
you are not art, as much as i say you are.
Skyward Jan 20
I’ve seen some things and learned some things;
Listened to what I’ve been told.
Memories made of a world since changed
And the sum of all that I’ve known.
All of these things from my mind they will fade,
This in my heart I do know;
But it is those things I could never explain
That I hope to forever hold.
Robby Dec 2019
The pen is unforgiving of mistakes
Its marks are long lasting
I can’t erase you... only scratch through parts
This story of us will always be there
Written in ink as a complete work

When I draw a beautiful picture though
I use a pencil so that I can change it as I go
Erase this part and add my shading there
Pencil on paper is fragile it smudges easily
You are art... not perfect but gorgeous to me

I appreciate both for what they are
And what they mean to me
Steve Page Dec 2019
I sit thinking a little faster than the speed of penning, thereby having to repeatedly press pause on my thoughts to let the ball of blue catch up with the image / the sound of the phrase in my mind / on my quiet tongue that flows fast down my right arm into my slow fingers and out into the ball point that hits the page with part-satisfied impatience

And in that pause, resisting the urge to edit / to revise / to reform the original thought that is crying out to become embedded in the page / begging to be seen / to be loved and so to sit and to stare back at its origin, safe in the curated space to stay / to settle and perhaps to become part of something bigger / longer / older, something of possibly permanent beauty.

And having gotten over that feint-ruled line, my first thoughts face the risk of being transposed / transformed by typing thumbs before becoming something that will last on a plain white screen and later be posted at the speed of competing broad bands into a world wide cloud of words.

Later, having hovered / waited, my wet words just might find a place to soak / to stain / to marinate and later be memorised perchance recitied at a more appropriate speed within a crowd of like-minded minds and perhaps for a phrase to lodge / to be recalled / to form part of something that fate redirects through a ball of blue, back out into the flow.
(On the cycle of thoughts and articulated phrases that make up the writers ecosystem. )
CarolineSD Nov 2019
“Til the rocks melt with the sun;”
Is that how long love goes on,
Beyond the trappings of time and the outer contours of the mind?

I learned of love within the cadence of Celtic songs.
Daddy played them on an old piano
And mommy sang along.
The walls they rang with something that wasn’t
Really so hard to understand;

The aching of one heart for another,
Always swept apart by the sea
And the way a lifetime
Can make it too far to reach
The other, distant shore.

But the sorrow at the core of Highland songs,
I understand better now;  
Now that every tangible thing from those years
Is gone,
Their voices silenced and a home knocked down,
Lullabies buried in the ground.
The piano sold and gravestones too far away for me to hold,

But love, love is the Moorland in my soul

And it is wide and open
And the purple heather grows
Forever and descends to a churning sea,
And melodies, on the wind, they whip between the rocks and disappear.

And though I can no more grasp voices from the air
Than hold love here,
I will stand on this shore and I will sing these

Forgotten refrains

And though they drift across the sea,
This love has been worth it all the while,
Even if time carries it away,

Like music,

And it never comes back to me,
"Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
   And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
   While the sands o’ life shall run."
-Robert Burns
Depression does not have object permanence,
Or it would know
That happiness is merely
Dante Sep 2019
I’m always grasping. Trying to retain some form. Painfully and desperately, I try to keep it, shape it, define it into permanence.

This longing for certainty, this anxiety and desire to be— like the statues unmoving, named and certain— to be something I know, forever, and ever and ever.

But our splendor is in our changing, in our ever shifting consciousness. The heart floods and becomes empty again. The breeze of autumn. The hot of summer. My blood on the rocks. The wound tender in infection. The scar I touch like a feather.

We are made in God’s knowing of ephemera, ever changing, ever fleeting. Undefined, and ephemeral forever, ever and ever.
Mehek May 2019
Words are what I try to decipher
Permanence is what I try to leer
Love is what strikes me
But only emptiness is what abides with me
Ironic I think, the one thing that abides with me is also the the thing I hate the most.
Miss Luna May 2019
I thought I met the one.
That one you want to love
for the rest of your life,
that one
you would never change
with anyone else.
I thought I met the one.
That one who is able to love you
despite everything.

I know I met the one
I'll never be able
to forget.
chitragupta Mar 2019
I am usually an amnesiac
Which is why there is always
cheap stationery in my pockets

- "An inexpensive set from Faber-Castell"

I look to my scribbles when I'm lost
unless an unexpected shower
has been tasked to ruin them

- "Pages stuck together, smudged and stained"

Three monsoons have come and went
I don't carry an umbrella or run for cover anymore
I stand in the middle of the downpour, drenched
But I guess some inks are just too hard to wash away
Use the sharpie on the whiteboard at your own peril, fans of irony.
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