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The onyx of my eye confesses on this page:
soft and torn with a leaking edge,
My breath sinks into creamy lines:
a fusion of cursive, print,
and shallows of wine,
My lashes accumulate dust
from love-dazed writing,
My hands grow skeletal
under crinkled lighting.
Poets, in a sense, can be writings skeletons. Writing poetry can be hard, and consume a lot of our energy. Though what comes from it can be tranquil, magnificent, relative, or even beautifully chaotic.

eccentric in their special ways
they prefer the path unclear
the trail unmarked

fond of stumbling in
fumbling through
finding the way that's theirs

engaged by the obtuse
the uneven
the asymmetric
they see grace and form
in brilliant imbalance

seduced by the clue
drawn to the fog
they seek the wonder
it withholds

where they long to go
is always 'round the bend
over the hill
behind the closed door

their ears prick
to the distant sound
that arises
just beyond clarity

to all these things
their souls are pulled


down the trail
in the mist
around the curve
over the crest
shut away
comes the clarion call


rob kistner © 2018
Contemplation on the poet's wonderfully special traits.
Grey 4d
My heart aches for your love
That smile full of all joy in this world
Pity my mere broken soul
A longing lover with worn hands
My love, time is a villain
My mind races with dreams of us
You've taught me to smile when I am low
Ridicule me as I realize that time is not fair
I see you and you see me
Pray tell was there a future?
I beg for your sweet voice
Grant me your laughter
Beauty is you, and I wish for your love
I plead for your love
Away my eyes from that fair smile
Quivering I know it is love
I would live a thousand times to find you once
And break my own heart longing for you
Am I but invisible to you
Your eyes wander to those who do not know what love is
Come to my senses for I know in my heart
My joy it is doomed from the start.
Warn me my mind as my heart soars
Would you love me?
Would you dare?
I bleed

not blood;

so if you hurt me,

I'll scar

not wounds.

Repost from a while ago. ♥
found myself again,
amongst the faceless crowd.

and i saw you ahead,
persistent sunlights your hair.

i'd go after you...,
but cold feet is my middle name.
That morning i awoke.
I felt the rising sun.
A glimpse of true restoration,
with kings crying, emperors imploring mercy, world living,
earth within.

The light of the rays
throughout magnificent pieces
of hollow stone.
I'm happy.
I'm happy.
The sun it did shine.

The sunrise, it was beautiful,
sitting in between the vast open crests of the mountains.
The sky's color orange.
The mountains a deep pink.

This view was a sensation of the universal language.
And the best part had to be the sun's
Where the glory of this moment,
this sunrise,

What a bountiful moment.
It was filled with glory and strength.
The firefly lighting
inescapable and somewhat inexpressive.
Because of this, all insecurities melted away.

There was something comforting about this rise.
It was as if it was a message from God.
It had the energy of a new day.

No, not a new day.
Not another day to wake up.

No, this was a "new day".
The beginning of a new era.
That's what this sunlight told me.
Situations will now explode and dissolve.
In a benevolent way.

It said,
Feel the warmth of the sun.
Let it's warm welcoming waves of light
surround and caress your being.
Feel its care and courage.

Connect and let its power become yours.
Once i connected i no longer reflected.
The time for reflection ended.
And being pushed aside,
the time or immortality began.

The invincible
nature of the sun brought a new wave.

The nine waves of the sun,
They touched me on that sunrise.
They touched my heart.
Just as they mixed and breed with
the unusually blue but now pink mountains.

The loving amalgamation of sunrise and environment.
It was truly a spectacle to behold.
This was a true sunrise.
The first true sunrise of my life.

Sunrise hope poetryofwitness spirit self infinitewaters poetry poetryoflight micropoetry love
EP Robles Sep 4
A new day. When i buried you.
i found love within me by
the warmest touch Of my heart
i have grown. By the things
over ‘there’ there now.

AND Largest walls hide
hammered nails so lost.

A new shape from the deepest
inkwell || well now ||
we are on our own.

And Poets never grow up


:: 07-10-2018 ::
In the quietest of moments on rare occasion we meet our true self.
or anyone,
or someone;
who tries too hard
   to achieve the abstract
     ideas of perfection;
     who takes too much pride
   in hiding behind facades
of forced adaptations;
who relies most of the time
   on the unnecessary
     (...words, lines
       line breaks
     and the like...)
   poetic presentations;
who is anyone
because a poem
  is neither something
    nor anything;
      a poem is a part
        of a person's being
          as a poet,
        as a writer,
      or as anyone
    for that matter
  because a poem
is that person
        in words more than
and creative conotations;
        it's what encapsulates
        and transcends
        a person into being more
        than a being of oneself.
-poets, poems, and what transcend each other
Forget pre-Madonnas
We want to get away from all the self-proposed Shakespeares that think their opinions matter more here
Humanity should rid itself from elitism and stop being insincere
It would put our contributions in the clear.
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