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Poetic T Apr 2020
I wasn't the one, you weren't alone,
You were just in need of a friend.
But I was there when you needed
someone to listen, I wasn't your
friend but unbiased ears never
            tell you false lies..

I'll tell you what you don't want to hear.

I'm car when you crossed the road,
         hit and run on your road
of potholed truths that others
                                         filled in.

I wasn't a friend, you weren't alone,
you were just in need of a voice.
But I was there when you needed
someone's truth. I wasn't your
friend we'd only just met.
I'll tell you what you don't want to hear.

I'm the car when you crossed the road,
         hit and run on your tarmac
of potholed truths that others
                                         filled in.
With false gratitude cos they charged
you for the air they filled you with.

I was a friend, new off the press no secrets
    no lies to hold back. filling you with
the honesty you had missed.
           Not your bestie, just a new face
in your reflection with no need to be

                              two faced....
Amanda Kay Burke Feb 2020
I love you more than I did long ago
Bond growing stronger with time
Cemented deeply throughout the years
Closer each step of the journey we climb

Some days fall backwards
Opposite way of our goals
We can succeed if we work together
No matter depth of life's holes
Today has been ****
John Lane Jan 2020
We deny our flesh, then, give into
the path of least resistance
and after falling in every pothole
from roads we travelled before,
we wonder why guilt and shame
win out as mocking spectators
while we mindlessly repeat
the same painful journey.
Inspired by others' journeys.
Anthony Mayfield Jul 2018
Enough of “no more”
It’s a street unknown
Filled with potholes
To dodge your low blows
Enough of “no more”
Enough is enough is enough
harlon rivers Jun 2018
There’s an ancient duct tape patched
roller suitcase still up in the attic,
scarred by sky miles and undiscerning
indifference;  it came to rest like a final breath
exhaled at the end of the long road ―

In the dusty rafters of silent repose  
the death of an alter-ego comes to life
and jars and jogs the  sleeping dogs 
that lay benign as a pothole riddled road

Holding onto memories buried alive,
hidden away remembered ― 
      sans wings to fly away
laid bare unweighed with the weight
of everything else garnered and saved
      subsisting in a shallow grave;
hoarded and hidden away breathing
locked up with the other baggage borne
       behind tired eyes

Feeling the ache of blood stained knees
falling down sullied at the side of the road
Hindsight and a roll of duct taped memories
linger;   stuck to the  grey bandage scars,
second guessing should have thrown out
with the permanently temporary
fading plasticized luggage name-tags
back when I was still close enough to care;
too many miles to reconsider  ago

Some say: "it's the journey not the destination"                                    .
Some day when its too late we'll know
Some day it will be too late to make amends
        for everything i could not be ...

           harlon rivers ... 07  06  2018
apologies for the inconsistent reading, posts and replies.  Internet access comes and goes up here off the grid

To anyone interested, this is a piece from a collection from the summer called TRAVELOGUE:
Seema Aug 2017
Slippery potholes
Muddy pool, caramal top
Hungers the swamp frogs.
Dirt road on rainy evenings,
Creatures crawl in the dim light.

5-7-5-7-7 syllables
axr Jun 2016
the rain drowns the city's noise,
all you can hear is the storm knocking on your door.
potholes filled with muddy water,
traffic officers standing without umbrellas.
the poor stand outside and wonder
if they'll get some sleep tonight.
the rich pose for another picture
with a fake smile.
commuters cursing the rain gods and the government
for not using their taxes to fill holes with more cement.
the storm has been knocking on our doors
we've been too busy to answer it's call
but now it has let itself go
and the city has drowned before dawn.
R Dickson Mar 2015
Hey ****** ******,
The cars do a twiddle,
They twist and turn on the road,
Dodging the *** holes,
Some with broken controls,
I've even seen some being towed,

Hey ****** ******,
The road in the middle,
Needs a little repair,
If you can swing by,
And give it a try,
And pretend you're a council that care,

Hey ****** ******,
Thanks for the repair in the middle,
But the road needs a whole new coat,
Take care when crossing,
Cause the road's all rutting,
You'll need to be a mountain goat.

Hey ****** ******,
Is the council on the fiddle,
Just like Nero did in Rome,
Please come and fix it,
You'll need to bring a tar pit,
Cause it's shaking the walls in my home.
A poem to the council about road repair that doesn't go right.
Mel Harcum Mar 2015
All I can remember is that time in Wal-Mart
when your older sister came to me and asked:
“Is it true that Payton went to the ****** bin?”

I wonder where she heard that lie and how many
more were threaded among Honesdale locals,
weaved into their perceptions of my family--

their shoulders betrayed them when they turned
away as if we were the diseased ones rotting
inside-out--maybe we were, in a way--but at least

swallowing all this salt healed our wounds
faster than your actions would fade from memory.
I punched you the day I found out even as you

scoffed, laughed, you hadn’t ever taken me seriously.
At 17, I had learned not many people would--but
my revenge came after I moved three hours south,

when your father died of cancer, your best friend
crashed your mother’s car, your sister fled
all the way to England to escape the mistakes

eating at her shadow, and I got out of our hellish
town. You became rooted among manure, ***-
holes too deep to outgrow--I’m sure you’re choking

on worms by now. And when I finally reach
the lofty sky, I’ll hold the sun between green hands.
I’ll hide its light and warmth from you.
Silence Screamz Oct 2014
If we are supposed to take the road least traveled, then, why does mine have so many **** potholes?
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