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Ajuda!

O que é meu propósito de vida?
Eu tenho um medo enorme por não ter um destino.

Ajuda Deus!
Eu preciso de ti!

Eu não sei o que é meu razão de viver.
O que é meu chamado?
On this very spot,
I thought I re
co-knew, we
two, were meant to
become compleat, once,
each breeding pair
preselected,
to harmonize, meet,
certainly, we may say,
we can believe we know,
we bear fruit for seasons,
time after time, as ware we
are apt to rethink how clouds

without rain dismay some minds,
hot, midsummer working winds,

efforting effectually pulling power
out of perpetual ice now known not
perpetual but not precisely predictable/

here, in mind,
not a wit behind, Dequincy, a leap beyond
Elon, in mind adventured intelflux basic acid
tested will to meet after ever leaves Earthian,

alienation situations some say we all pass through,
some small percentage still carry coins, for our passage,
and to hold our eyes closed through the viewing, proving

s-sure,
strange just
suddenly, no life, just
surity, good credit, then

he is dead, that body, there's no sense in the embalming,
the earth shall eventually break down the royal sarcophagus,
even the satin lined, ultra deep tucked, for eternal rest assured,
and the triple hermetic seal… micro metal flake pearlescent lid,

shall crumble, under the weight of final rest and return to dirt.

But, rest, really assured, all you ever are, never was but
the stuff stars become when they go molecular.
Peer test experience, ***** wars and memories shared with a friend who knew Dennis Conti, a victim worth exposing poets to, as with Coleridge, the licensed madness is an added perq, not a curse, honest.
Eli Jun 26
Faint, feather, fierce, followers,
fill me with pretty words, and your heart won't break.
Hold me tighter, and I promise I won't shake.
Force is a sharp word, don't say...
Fall, fake, fail in your love, I stay, gliding through decay.
No end to your name, cause you're fitter without a daybreak, heartache?
A moment of thought. Messy and unsure, with no clear ending.
Maria Etre Jun 10
Poets are emotional rockstars
causing rokkus
getting ****-drunk off of anything
that moves them
wrecking rooms
of highs after falling
grabbing the "feels"
and smashing them
on the stage of their life
fearless and loud
Now, that's adrenaline
I chewed on a pencil for tea
an unpleasant splinter of graphite 2B,
my head machine purrs, but cogs do not whir
nothing stirs,  
no word flowers grow,
I need some more seeds,
are they herbs are they verbs or irritating weeds  
I don't know,
how this could be so,
I will make me a garden for rhymes to bloom,
poems only flower if you give them some room
Srishti Jun 1
Just pen and paper,
Tells millions of feelings,
Heals millions of souls.

Just pen and paper,
The best couple without any doubt.
This combination is utopia.

Just pen and paper,
Where every word from the heart
is on paper by pen.
The art they make is priceless.
the thing which heals me is pen and paper
Peter Balkus Sep 2020
Full time poets
don't exist.
In this world
at least.

There is plenty of them
on the other side.
It’s only for us
it seems that they have died.
Crow May 24
a poet's heart
is a thing of ink

pigmented with equal parts
hubris and anxiety
rage and hope
passion
and tears

narcissists filled with self loathing

composed of shouts inarticulate
and whispers of intricate craft

our thoughts and words rushing
through us
barely legible

defining our days
with explosions of fathomless obscurity
or flashes of visceral clarity

our nights consumed
in communion with paradise
while teasing secrets from the abyss

couplets and quatrains
providing us the space
to live
or to die

running breathless in free verse
we grasp at perpetuity
yet find ourselves doomed
to ephemeron

like the sky
we are rewritten each day

yet as the sky remains the sky
so do we remain
what we are

pages
in a book we can barely read

remaking and trimming

editing ourselves

to fit within the margins
of our paper souls
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