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Xaela San Jan 2019
Reminiscing
to the moment
our path intertwined
my heart skip beats
as I vividly picture
our arms brushed
as two strangers
momentarily capture
each others gaze
on the elegantly
curved bridge
above a body of water
swiftly in summer's air
like a beautiful
drawn sketch
in an artist pad

thereupon,
we realized that was
a new beginning,
a new journey
for our story to be
though we were
from across
oceans and lands
our meeting
was predestined
a destiny where
fate brought us
together to that day
in the same blue sky
like a perfectly
fited puzzle pieces
called "you and me"

somewhere
in far-off memory,
even to this day
still this love
I possess is
powerful than
any temptation
then until the sun
cease to shine,
and the time
stopped for me
Let me treasure
this story of
you and me.
A random poem my friend ask me to write so that I can practice more on my writing skills...
Lily Jan 2019
Please practice the art of giving up on giving up.
Yuki Jan 2019
I’ve never loved myself enough
to love another human being.
Love is practice and I’ve
only practiced hate.
I’m a mixture of
fear and boredom.
Never understood what
could make other people
happy.
My favorite hobby
has always been guessing
what could hurt me
the most.
And then do it.
How am I supposed to know
joy and gift it?
#
Cause f*cking up takes practice
&
I feel I’m well rehearsed
Breanna evans Dec 2018
A comment and a couple likes
is something, but it won’t suffice
there’s fruit down here, it’s free to take
but it’s too ripe to suit my tastes

this ain’t the place that I wanna be
at the bottom of this poet tree
as they all ripen, heavy fruits
come down and knock me for a loop

but still I sit, knots on my skull
can’t find a branch to get a hold
the bark’s too smooth to get a grip
so every time I try, I slip

a couple scrapes, some minor cuts
they sting, but I don’t give a ****
because the place I wanna be
is further up this poet tree
Joy Nov 2018
Today I practice gratitude.
Little children practice writing
by repeating letters
on creamy paper
over
over  and
over again
until the page
is filled to the rim
like an overflowing bottle.
I lay in bed
in the morning
turn my eyes to the ceiling
and repeat
a list
of things
I am grateful for.
The sun shining
on the windows
making them seem like mirrors.
Wet soil
which is going to grow
new crops in summer.
The skin which covers me
and keeps me intact.
The promise
of the morning
that I might get it right today.
I lay down
in silence
obedient as a piece
of furniture
and embroid
gratitude
on my static body
in all the colors I cannot see.
I embroid it until it covers me whole.
Until it gulps up any shadow
whispering nightmares.
I practice gratitude
thought by thought
until it becomes
instinctive
immediate
like blinking
like swallowing
like thinking.
BlackSwanSings Nov 2018
Blues blows through
and players drift
with seasons
marianne Oct 2018
If love is a dovetail drawer
I will turn my curious eye to the
dark inside
under ancient flowered paper
dust bits and lockets, or my mother’s
twelve-piece china
doesn’t matter
nor whether Shaker or Bauhaus
retro or rustic
how wide, weighty
or improbable

No, the corners hold secrets—
fingers that catch
the places that touch

And require practiced hands, sober skill
and a bit of glue—
to build a join of tensile strength  
to bear love’s blow
An absence reversed
Beheld
Belonging
Fuming lush greenery seemingly
Between the frothing
Soup and lather twinkling
Speaking
"Tradition may act dishonestly"
All and sundry
Trails along merrily
For traditionally
All is how it should be
Belonging to one and only.

Binding
A trade between the thin lines
A baking sheet made sprayed messy
Artists in threes
Shakers of mountains for invisible ease
The truth is simply
Things done traditionally
All-in consuming historically.

Flesh
Released
Is fresh
Relief
Hidden in the fabric's sleeve
A gaping passage of air and breeze
Racing electricity
Breathtaking silk from worms
And worms eaten by birds
Tradition
Sewing the dresses of Empress the third.
Halt
Her plea worth salt and sugar
Still
Like the skater's
Minted odour
Hope
Distances the valleys low dipped to the everlasted rivers
Where a time arrives for eternal celebration.
The embellishments of
Unwavered tradition.
© Teri Darlene Basallote Yeo
What is your tradition?
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