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Jay Pike Feb 2017
I used to know people very well, simply because I would photograph them every day.
But its different now. My photographs are different, we're different.
Is it dispair? Confusion? Rage? Fear?
Everything's changed. Maybe forever.
And thats only though the way I, look at the world. It could be completely different for you, the person sitting across from you, or even someone the other side of the world.
We view things through the eyes we want to use, and see what we want to see.
but I don't want to view the world this way. So why do I see it so broken?
Most people see a beautiful landscape but I see a husk of what the world used to be.
The second golden hour
Of the day is divine
This time of the day
Is a favorite of mine

Shadows grow darker
Edges become blurred
All day and all night is ours
All we have is words
Luka D Dec 2016
details slip through busy fingers
but still warm the wistful touch
and time over-exposes memory
like a photograph left in the sun

so I don't recall what you wore
or the music we played that day
or where we were driving from
or the photographer counting down...

but I remember the flashbulbs when you held me:
the way they spun your hair gold
and star-bursted my vision
like we were the models of love

and this is picture proof
that the sunlight captured our moment
and I haven't forgotten what you said,
"write a poem about this."
Crimsyy Nov 2016
I deleted all the pictures,
if you can't be here,
I don't want you to linger,
suggesting I deserve more
but you don't deem
me important enough,
suggesting love does not know time,
suggesting love does not make time,
I know the way you are
presenting things is a lie.

The stars loved me before
I became aware of your existence,
before you taught me
an invisible way to die,
and so why would I
want to lock our moments in history
when I know life could tear us apart
because you are not
holding onto my heart?

I could hoard memories of you,
paint the sky in constellations
of your bright eyes,
but how would that be fair to me?
Your love is a lukewarm affirmation,
lacking evidence and testimony,
scarce and rare,
barely there,
and now you understand why I cannot
give you my love as a weapon
you can use to destroy me.
E Townsend Nov 2016
Didn’t I ever think to be authentic
collecting words, snapping photographs
exclaiming I am enamored with language and art

when honestly, I am merely a fraud
to what I love. My hands aren’t stained with ink,
my eyes aren’t trained to learn new techniques
paper is not my friend nor is a roll of film
tossing around in my bag of nonexistent records that
I actually love my hobbies.

I feel that I am not quite
an owner of my interests,
stealing passion from others and wishing
they were my own.
tamia Oct 2016
i got a second hand film camera
a pentax k-1000
already it was slightly rusted
and stained in some parts
but i didn't mind
it made me think about its story
and the stories of the ones who've owned it before—
where has this camera gone?
what has it seen?
did the previous photographers behind it
love it as much as i do now?
whose very hands have twisted the lens,
fixed the camera's focus,
and pressed the shutter button?
who else has meticulously loaded and unloaded film into it,
time and time again?

and more importantly,
will i be able to capture wonders of life
through its lenses
in the same way others might have done before me?
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