Styles 1h

He felt
great pleasure
watching her
his desires bloom
staring at her two lips
the rarest of all flowers
pedals spread
breathing life into his desires
stiffening a hard stem
as their bodies take root
folding together like a hem
pumping seed into her cavity
baring the juices of a fruit
into a fountain
that will never end

unnamed 3h

Bury my soul in autumn leaves
So that the wind might blow away
Memories of mistakes I made
That breaks my heart today

Sticks and stones may break the bones
But words can crush the spirit
Raise the bar but once again
And I’ll still try to clear it

In this foreign city there are no camouflaged men.
Too soon I am returning to the land of camo hats,
work boots that track mud over
my heart, little white carpet.

In Vermont, you either blend in with the mountains
or look like you’ve just walked in from shooting Bambi’s mom.
We smell like autumn leaves and fresh air -
embodied natural sugar.

Pale, like the clouds in my coffee.
We brave the cold and enjoy the thaw,
melting all through August.
That’s when the river is ripe for skinny dipping.

At night we hear the rush, flow, rush
of water someplace.
All we hear are tree frogs, and both sides of the pillow
are always cold.

We like sweet, chill, crisp:
moonshine cherries
passed among friends
like the flu.  

Our words flow sweeter
fueled by gasoline rainbows
like 2 a.m. speeding
down I-89.

Laugh
and we’ll laugh too
even if we didn’t get the joke.
It just feels good.

And! I almost forgot tire swings,
our barefeet on ripped trampolines;
those screen doors our mothers always told us not to slam,
and citronella candles on front porch coffee tables;

that one white plate with pink/green framing vines
all our grandmas had;
eating rhubarb pie with plastic forks;
wiping our hands on our jeans.

Never afraid to get a little Earth on us.
It’s the soil we started from,
the dirt beneath our fingernails,
the mud across my heart, little white carpet.

Ryan Kane 3h

You and I were miles apart,
but connected through the stars.
I guess their lights must've burnt out
because now you're nothing but a memory
I sing to a empathetic tune on my guitars.

(c) Ryan J. Kane 2017
unnamed 4h

When my winds cease to blow
And the glow of daylight
To no longer show
Will past digressions be visited upon?
Or be decided the forgiveness
That my heart has longed?
When I am laid to my final rest
Will hurts abscond from my weary breast?
Or will heartbreaks follow me
And linger for, all eternity?

When your heart is the ocean
it feels like every tide is ready to break,
bloom bruises along the coastline
and send tsunamis through my veins.
There’s so many secrets in my chest
that it hurts to breathe sometimes,
I choke on all that hurt, and I need more
than the salt in my lungs.
Truth be told, it’s lonely on the edge
where everything is green and
you’re just another shade of blue,
so ready to destroy (but not
in the way they want you to).

rhi 6h

it has been so long
since my fingers fashioned fury
and misery
into poetry.

you see,
my sadness has been gnawing at my skin,
begging
pleading
crying for a way in.
my sorrow has dissolved
into my lungs
like salt
in my wounds.

i have been drowning for so long;
my iron limbs
that once acted as armour
have started to rust
and left me immobile.
so forgive me
if the oil takes a while to work
again.

I apologise if my work isn't as beautiful as it could be. It's been a very long time since I've been able to write.
ViiHunniD 6h

You know...
If you never been amorphous,
It's going to be hard to feel me...

In this Verser, it's just a message
To get you baffled.
The "Apple" of their (I) eye,
Has got manipulation on the "Monopoly..."
That's why he's unorthodox,
He move's in sinuous paths...

Just some thoughts for the mind...

I never understood poetry in school,
could never comprehend how words
made themselves join into sentences
that rhymed deep inside your brain
making you wonder how the English language
worked, for every word I read flew way over my head.
I could never see past initial meanings
and wondered often how hyperbole worked
as I stayed up late at night
wishing I knew the difference
between metaphors and similes
until the night drained over
and dawn threatened to show.
I didn’t know why Frost
spoke of diverging roads
or why Keats
wrote about love lost.
Until I came to Grade 11
and the reality of the world
with all its hidden secrets
was born bare.
I understood
how roads seeming so straight
could be crooked in all sorts of ways
and how promises made
to be loved forever
could disintegrate into ashes and dust.
I never understood poetry in school,
and I do not understand it now.
For, everything is poetic,
the same way everything is not.

Ma Cherie 9h

Your love is like,
beautiful bands
of moving light,
undulating emotions,
through your big beating heart,
forcing chaotic
an intriguing energy,
outward to the skin,
pulsing through your fingertips,
emanating from your spirit,
piercing me those eyes,
connecting deeper
than I have ever known,
my soul to soul connection,
one deep look-
so hauntingly familiar
our eyes meet,
an we tie the moment,
creating the most exotic
and wonderful,
parallel universe of our own,
right in each others arms.

Ma Cherie © 2017

Still want the new guy we connect in every way but
....idk. ;/ hoping I'm not stupid.
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