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Jaxey Sep 2019
Not
Plucking the sun from the sky
Is not a sunset

Pulling a leaf from a tree
Is not autumn

Pushing me off a cliff
Doesn't mean I'm falling for you

And kissing me
Doesn't mean I love you
You can't force it
Anne J May 2019
I pluck you out to
Be free from my sorrows but
You somehow grow back
More poems for my art project
Plick,
Pluck,

the tiny little strings in my mind.

dancing to a different tune each and every day,
the world plays my songs.

eyes wandering around the room while I play with my thoughts,
like the child I never won't be.

cross-legged and slumped over as the heated droplets dribble down my spine,
and fall from my weary lips,
that which are worn from the words I never got used to saying,
singing the songs of my each and every day,

coalesce the thinkings that have somehow let me dance to where I sit today,
forlorn petals fall from my branches in beautiful pastels, cursed to live in the winding winds.

Aday to each and every day that I sing and prance within my tiny little heart,
washing my pains away.

ill-weighed upon my shoulders,
as yet i dance some more,
beneath the turbid downpours engulfed in shades of red.

i wish't to see the blue,
the green,
the steam, arising from my skin.

narrowly weeping within my little box of horrors i keep by my side,
in remembrance of each and every day i have and will yet shed a tear.

haunted lullabies revel on and on,
each and every day,

i crave the pieces of the peaces i'd once known.
to here,
today,

i shut my eyes,
and into the blackness bursts forth colors i've never seen,
and will never see again.
to see that which i've never seen.
silent shapes shaping away falling through my fields of vision,
and inform themselves to the visions I write today,
so here,

i simply continue,
to plick,
and pluck,
the tiny strings inside my mind,

each,
and every day.

~Robert van Lingen
Euphie Dec 2018
What began as an innocent little bush
turned into a garden that became
untenable.

Weeds began to grow inside me
since you left me alone.
And I've been attempting to pluck
out them out.

What once began as pure innocence,
became stems of weeds wrapped tightly
around my ribs and lungs.

Making it hard for me to breathe,
like a seed, you planted yourself in me...
a **** I could never take out.
stopdoopy Dec 2018
Pluck one
Then two
Drag them out
As long as you want
Play the song of their hearts
Feelings as tight as you tuned them
Draw them in
So taunt
Until the chord breaks
Played me like a fiddle.
stopdoopy Oct 2018
The air, saturated with a putrid smell.

Foul, like a dumpster in summertime.

They're monsters, skulking around in the Dead of Night.

Leaving, a sickness in their wake.

You're revolting.

The way you take.

Gnashing your teeth.

Trying, to pluck out little hearts.

Attempting, to creep up thighs.

Don't touch me, with those slimy fingers.

Go before you die, rotting beast.

We are not a cemetery.
A piece about how horrible men can be, also partially based off the Depeche Mode song "The Dead of Night" because I absolutely love it and thought it was about something completely different than what it's actually about.
Rachel C Jan 2018
You love me.
Pluck.
You love me not.
Pluck.
You loved me.
Pluck.
But then you didn’t.
Pluck.
Why didn’t you love me?
Pluck.
I still did.
Pluck.
And piece of me always will.
Pluck.
Brooke P Aug 2017
I crawled under the door, with none in hand
sitting in the backseat waiting
I’d wish it all away, if I could
high noon; the world sighs
over the railroad tracks ruined my day.
the little thing whose bones got rearranged
We make up stories to feel safe at night
and the Parisian streets under unbearable heat.

But they won’t let me,
handing out promises I can’t keep
broken heart strings
plucked and snapped
here I am,
still stuck in between.
Shane Leigh May 2017
I could reach out and touch
your most delicate petal;
Oh you,
the whitest lily.
So strong is the urge
to be ravished by your sweet aromas,
and to believe your promises
of delicacy and purity.

You do not hide behind thorns –
like the reddest of roses –
but instead,
you let me pluck you freely,
with ease;
but in the end,
you were the one that craftily
plucked me.
© Shane Leigh
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