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If thou perchance hast longed for my embrace;
thou felt its spectre linger on thy skin,
thou must unearth a paradise wherein
abundant is the fruit that thou shall taste.
     Its sweetness and perfume will thus invade
thyself, who art perplexed by strident din,
(which one mistakes to be the medicine)
and shall be cured of solitude's malaise.
     And thou may wonder where doth one procure
this nectar so sublime that guarantees
escaping from the claws of loneliness?
    In silence, these empyreal orchards endure
the perturbations of the fleeting years,
and in the fruits they bear - thither I rest.
James Feb 14
Some people say that poetry has died.
No point to put on paper poesy bold,
No longer needing sonnets - rhymes of old
Which one inside can softer feelings hide.
To Netflix, Insta, Amazon they run
And dull their brains with shows of Island’s Love.
No thoughts of flowers, nightingales or doves;
Minds choked with wealth and *** and hate, and guns.
But never they’ve seen your smile in morning’s light
And wished to catch it – tangled, held in rhyme.
They’ve never placed their head upon your lap
And felt the need to jar the safe delight
Of looking into eyes so warm, sublime,
And thought of methods, forms: eternal traps.
A Valentine's Day Petrarchan sonnet with a Crybin rhyme scheme.
Lucas Hilliard Apr 2019
My heart is blackening, day after day.
The cold of your fingertips has numbed me.
I suppose dark is the new way to be.
I’m but a shell of myself, one could say.
“For what, do you pray?“ “Well, for death”, I say.
I am meaningless. It’s easy to see.
When I decease, I will truly be free.
A tragedy, if my life were a play.
“Wait!” You might say, “You mustn’t take your life!”
But I am too far gone to hear your cry.
I have suffered more than any would like.
What else am I to do with this white knife?
After tonight, I will no longer have to try.
The stairway to hell should be quite a hike.
RJ Days Dec 2018
Desde un rascacielo miro
fijamente las luces brillantes
pero soy ciego, un infante
aparte del mundo de abajo
Desde las montañas, y sus picos
vientos suenan al horizonte
tocando el sol invariante
estar sólo, tan magnificado
Pero todo lo que ve no es nada
¿Qué es esta luz del cielo?
¡Un resol! El sol es tu sonrisa,
¿O la música de la tierra?
Las aves solo cantan ruido
Solo quiero oír tu risa
Para Guillermo
When we first met I told you just how beautiful you were.
Like the pale lavender sky rewarding me for getting up.
Like a diner in the distance drinking each distasteful cup.
You blinked twice and told me that you weren’t so sure.
Your disarray was perfect, repulsive with allure.
You were fighting through the crowd like a nectar drop through moths.
Everything was terrible, your good was just enough.
And I loved every little quirk that others just endured.

On the day you broke the glamour I was lying in my bed.
You were sending me letters saying all the things that I have done
The sudden rush of inputs started streaming through my head.
My world was dark already, with you as the sun.
And as the sun did set that evening, sinking down like lead,
the brightness of my colors dulled with everything I've done.
Ooh a petrarchan sonnet, how fancy. TBH we’re learning about Petrarchan sonnets at school and I was inspired by that. What can I do to get better?
SMS Jul 2018
The first draft is always hard.
The hardest, if I were to be honest.
When writing, you don’t want to hold back the best
No, not even a shard
Don’t let your story be scarred
Or be darkened like onyx
If you write freely, you’ll be astonished.
But don’t let your idea be charred.
If you don’t want to spend the time

Because you don’t think you have talent
And because you don’t like rhymes
Or want to have a popular valent
To keep your writing in its prime
You must share and be gallant
This was something I had to do for class. It's in the style of a Petrarchan Sonnet.
Breon Mar 2018
The bitter sting of winter's singing howl
Drives me to seek some deep and darkling place
Far from the blizzard's scorn, the wind's embrace,
Far from the beasts who bear its brunt to prowl
In search of prey. I'll clutch close to my cowl
And cloak, beneath which hides a younger face
Than most foresee. The forecast yields no trace
Of hope for safety 'pon the road. No foul,
My fellow traveler, don't fear from me.
I'll lay my knife down well before we meet,
Before we each choke down a share of ***
Or what would pass to warm camaraderie;
I know not where I've passed, to where I've come;
I simply beg a place to warm my feet.
Once, I was asked to introduce myself.
Breon Mar 2018
Another dram of "philosophic wine."
For all the tumbler saps my fingers' heat,
Its glass holds little, now. Let me entreat:
I'll recollect the tremble down my spine
And spin my little web with every line
To catch your gaze, to bid you take a seat,
To bide my time until the next we meet,
When next we close, we kiss, we intertwine -
I fear it so. I fear I'll be transfixed,
All stunned and muted, stricken by your touch,
Or worse, the web won't draw a moment's gaze.
It must be offered, though it isn't much -
All love and lusts, desires intermixed -
On this, of all the ****** romantic days.
Penned first as an offering for Valentine's Day, I wonder if perhaps there's too much  blatantly predatory language here.
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