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Sushnata Aug 2017
I am not scared of the darkness anymore,
it arrives to fight me daily.
Perhaps it's the darkness,
that's scared of me.  
It is parallel, undiluted &
unwavering & I'm somewhere blended in between.  
We aren't foes but competitors!
We don't die  but battle
till one of us passes out and sleeps.
We don't end but merge into each other each night. 

You may not know  that somewhere between being lonely & loving solitude,
neither me nor my ally
could become friends or make any. 
We meet, we do so daily,
to fight & survive some more
till we exist.  
But oh!
It's far than an illusion of  happiness that the bewitched heart creates...
For the illusion ends  but
The alliance doesn't.  

Its a poem where a person's life has been metaphorically compared with the grim role of darkness.
TheRiverStyx Jul 2017
I'm a warrior.
I'm a warrior.
I'm going across the rooftops with my possé.

I'm gonna be okay.
I'm gonna be with them in the end.
There will be no rifts between us.

There will be life and sugar abound.
Star BG Jul 2017
Here’s to all poets that unite in the catechisms of a vellum page.
In the mountains of letters that beg for attention
In the sun and rain that radiate enhancing our gifts.

Here’s to all poets who feel the energies and write from heart.
Who go to places people dare not go planting seeds of light.
Who illuminate the world with their intention and sacred text.

Here’s to all poets that know their power to dance with words.
To share their visions with a world that waits.
To move in the magic of a thousand dreams.

Here’s to all poets that breath deep finding the riches buried within.
Finding they are anointed with divine phases to change the world.
Finding out that inside our jargon of phases we are one.

StarBG © 2017
In celebration of us..... poets for a future. That has a nice ring to it poets of future I will have to use it somewhere. LOL
Devin Ortiz Jul 2017
The shrill cackle of dusk set herself
Upon the waning summer heat.

Low lit purple haze on the horizon
Painted wild in the cresent Moon smile.

Bear out the harvest, sacrifice all fortune,
Be full and join the evening on the morrow.

As the Sun exhanged his twilight gaze
Darkness drew itself into the shadows

Slave away for offering, the Night is near
As Day fades, the dark blue sky is empty.

Screams, despair is upon the fools
Lambs to the slaughter until she rises.
Maria Etre Mar 2017
Find what you can't express
and pin it down in words

Find what you can't see
and fabricate it in fantasies

Find what you can't feel
and embody it in adventures

Find what you can't speak
and let your eyes vocalize

Find what you "can't"
and challenge yourself

Find what you "never"
and take it a step further
Lunar Jan 2017
A little grin peeks out almost unnoticeable; an introduction, as the letters wax and take shape. Slippery from the thoughts, dripping and solidifying on paper. The wonderland of words has been entered.

2. A silver half of a plate, a yellow half of the nocturnal sun, an inked half of the paper. Imbalanced but semi-complete, words written halfway were still wholely thought of.

3. Midnight's peak is the best time to write. The full moon rises as the keyword is written. Clear as a mirror to reflect the emotion desired.

4. The ink is now running out, with the poem waning. It's coming to a close, growing into farewell's small smile. The process may be ending but the life of the product has just begun.

5. With the final curtain call of clouded skies and emptied minds, the poem is finished. The new moon take its place in the lives of people, invisible to the eye but fully felt with their hearts.
My moments of being an insomniac birth to such thoughts
Apollo Hayden Jan 2017
Days go by

You'd think I'd be doing fine
but I'm missing you more and more

Still I try and carry on
yet wonder if you'll ever reopen your door
and let me return
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
Her novelty has faded.
The stars hang back, distant ladies-in-waiting.
The night sky, their palace, is eclipsed by cities
Exploding with neon lights and grotesque trees.
She is too romantic.
Inch by inch, the black sheath is drawn back,
Revealing her smiling crescent.
She keeps a faithful orbit, and stirs
Blue oceans with long white fingers.

In her full sphere
She is a perfect spotlight,
Turning quiet snowy fields into
Illuminated empty stages.
She plays peek-a-boo, uncovering lovers
Gleaming whitely in the mouths
Of beds.
The beauty of entwined limbs
Exposed in her milky radiance.

She is the sun’s soft reflection.
He is never dim, and the black
Silk bag, a sort of corset,
Is ready to devour her again.
The wine is drained from the glass.
Her smile has become a slit.
The single pearl
Cloaked in shadow again.
"The Moon" is a poem from my poetry book, "Blood for Honey", available at and Amazon.
Hannah Oct 2016
When it comes
to loving you,
my heart wades,
and fills,
like the phases of the moon.
Chris Thomas Sep 2016
Stars are out
A few too many for a one track mind
To count
The scenery is like a matte painting
Where the artist
Simply forgot to finish

This December moon
Hangs a bit lower in the sky
Than I remember
Your hands feel icy
But if I turned my head
Your gaze would be colder still

My desires are self-evident
While yours flutter
And flitter in the winter breeze
There are no shooting stars left
They've all been shot down
Leaving dust to fall around us

Our lips used to crash
Along this horizon line
Saturated by a fountain of youth
But this phase has ended
We are waning like the moon
Waiting to be made new again
Everything, love and pain alike, is subject to phases.
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