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Rosmary Penn Oct 16
Waking up before dawn
The air seems to be made of
g l a s s
Satin curtains hang from a window,
Wind seeping in through the
c r a c k
Memories stick like honey
Resonating in my head, a
d r e a m
Wondering what might've become of those things,
As I lay there half
a s l e e p
But the world seemed so different
Dull things were changed to
a r t
So I concluded, it is quite an odd feeling
To wake up with a stranger's
h e a r t
Sydney Oct 6
Everyone always had a perspective
The very same one
That said,
"We are safe, the danger none"
"But the real danger is fantasy."
But I was brave, the only one different
I believed that this was wrong
So I sang a song
Did you think I was going to say "So long?"
No. This needed to change
But it was a bit strange...
Your voice is strong.
Sydney ©2020
RAO Oct 6
Turn your dreams to goals.
Now you're bleeding gold.
This music makes my spirit float.
Like I'm He-li-um.
Like I'm He-li-um.
Like I'm He-li-um.

(Pop)
I watch the face on the clock like it talks.
Knock on the gate keepers door like it's locked.
Then I walk on the ocean floor until I'm lost.

Turn your dreams to goals.
Now you're bleeding gold.
This music makes my spirit float.
Like I'm He-li-um.
Like I'm He-li-um.
Like I'm He-li-um.

(Ha)
Got the last laugh, It's all I really want.
Like Ponce De Leon, I need every drop.
See the last man standing aint enough.

Turn your dreams to goals.
Now you're bleeding gold.
This music makes my spirit float.
Like I'm He-li-um.
Like I'm He-li-um.
Like I'm He-li-um.
64646
J J Oct 6
Always keep in mind--
You are your own worst enemy to somebody else
The eyes through which
I looked at you
were colored by
my own prism.
The colors that
I cast you in
were not your
own.
Norman Crane Oct 3
Not all light has a source. Some streets travel
in freight cars city to city to be
extra-urbanistically unravelled,
oppidan rugs unrolled for you and me,
Only upon close inspection we see
that the perspective lines fail to meet,
A top shadow has spilled. Tread carefully,
Although a flag blows, the street is empty,
What lives in all these abandoned buildings?
you may ask but no one will answer. I
wander here searching for who pulls the strings
of this, our cleverly falsified world,
But quick look now how the light breaks the rules,
They already roll up the street—the fools!
Inspired by Chirico's painting of the same name from 1914.
Is it just another perspective?
Or is it a much broader lie?
Is it what makes you fly into the sky?
Or is it that something that helps you through the night?

Is it just an expression of thoughts?
Is it just some feelings that you bought?
For someone, from someone?
Or is it everything that you sought?

Is it like writing your life script?
Or yet another piece of paper that you ripped?
Is it just some words you could gather?
Or is it out there forever,
Once you pieced those words together?

Is it just a combination of phrases and words?
Or is it expounding on a fairy tale that you heard?
Is it just a mysterious experience?
Or is it something more serious?

Is it an escape from this cruel world?
Or is it a declaration of truth with a banner unfurled?
Is it like God speaking through you?
Or is it always within you?
Maybe in different forms and styles,
Something that makes you stop and stay awhile?

Is it a catharsis of a tragedy?
Or something to help you keep steady?
Is it ever hostile?
Or does it always makes you smile?
What is poetry for you?
-

i want to reach up into a clear
night's sky and gently pick the
moon out from the darkness
between forefinger and thumb

but when ?
and what shape ??
such a chameleon !!!

shall i do this in a crescent
phase to see if the contour will
fit atop the periphery of my thumbnail

or perhaps wait for the full glory of
its radiance, to roll it between the
palms of my hands and feel the
illumination of it upon
the skin of my
cheeks
?

Yes

to feel the coarsen texture
of tiny mountains

and to see for myself
what lies upon its shy
hidden face

but as i reach skyward,
my intellection hesitates

watching how it confidently
sails with the stars—

having pulled it down from
its heavenly perch,

and

not knowing for certain
how to put it back...



"to hold a celestial being"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved
Iska Sep 19
Life is all about perception. The people we meet, the memories we create, the chances we take. Every story is a thread. And every thread is, in some way or another, attached to a different string of threads. This goes on and on until it all weaves together into a massive tapestry that is our reality. Therefore, to you, I am only as you perceive me to be. no more, no less.

I’ve met many a person who picked up my threads and twirled them around, claiming to recognize the colors and the feeling of the strings in their hands, only to realize what they thought was purple, was green all along and they simply felt cotton when it was actually a mess of silks and twine. All those threads they believed were theirs to hold through out all of time, belonged to no one at all, because they were mine.

And so too have I met, the quiet few, who glanced at the threads we weave with our lives and instantly knew, there was no “mine” or “theirs” or “you” because perception is blind and we are all new. Not one story is the same, and yet not one is unique, for we are all the same tapestry
and I am the you, that you seek.
I am only as to perceive me to be.
Who are you?
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