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High above this

I can see your private

Mechanical wasp controls
the hive

Its sensors are buzzing and about
to go live

Over the shoulder, around
the bend

The naked you is about
to trend
Jessica Oct 3
The cipher knows what to say
He decodes us all of our days
Sitting in a dark room eating poisonous mushrooms
And remembering a virtue
that he lost
But he never misplaces the key
The one that opens all things
And in the place of empathy he has costs and pay outs
He smokes a pack a day of lies
And tears he never appears to cry
But in the blackness of his heart
He careens into the white walls of the populace
He sees a thousand patterns
In place of moral standards
And who needs common decency
When you leave your window open
SerenaDuru Jun 16
Can we just let the whole world disappear?
And all that is is us right now,
We’ll shut them out so that they can’t even breathe our atmosphere,
How beautiful we are together.

Don’t love me too loud,
They will taint our love with their thoughts,
Let’s just love in this quiet place,
Where only the beauty of us exists.
Sh Mar 31
Don't ask me for more that I can give,
I can only guess the consequences.

My heart and soul push against my mouth every time you analyze my answers,
sealing it shut with empty humor and nervous glances at the clock.

Your eyes scan me as an intrigued scientist would a lab rat.

Dismissing it as curiosity doesn't make me feel less of an open skull,
brain laid out on a table before your intrusive fingers.

Our languages got fixed up, I said one day.
You believe in unrestrained openness and I believe in boundaries.

A dog and a cat play together in different speeds.

I understand you feel like I'm not giving you enough,
but I don't want to pay for our friendship with every passing thought that crosses my mind, every emotion my heart has ever felt.

Sharing is like giving you blood.
Each drop drains me more and more until my heart is left empty, my vains running dry.

I know they don't exist, but sometimes I can't help but see you as a vampire.

When I say I don't want to talk about it you interpret it as an invitation to probe farther.

Telling you that it's none of your business would only turn you against me and I do not feel like running circles around my apologetic lies.

You said that the cracks you make in me will deepen our friendship, I'm afraid of falling down the endless void they create.

When I told you of the blood and the cracks,
you pitied me and said you'd wait for another moment to search into my psyche.

A venomous snake hiding in a fruitful bush, my privacy is not a level to forcefully unlock.

I appreciate what you have shared with me, I have shared planty with you as well.
Don't weigh them against each other, the percentages are nothing but a false debt.

And after you hear this poem, don't run to me with glistening tears and ask me for more that I can give, I don't owe you my life.
n jacob Nov 2019
Silence is an art, and agenda is a science.

That's why I paint pictures of life, from this lonesome knoll,
Think thoughts of privacy in this holy state,

And keep them

For the soul, and soul of those in the right time.
Isaac Nov 2019
we draw the curtains as if
no one can see us
but the shadows imprinted
onto the fabric thinner than
your lies
tells us the whole story

we shut the doors as if
no one can get in
but really, all it takes
is one soft knock
and the walls come crumbling

we lock the gates as if
no one can climb over
but the seemingly sharp
spines are as blunt
as your cheap words,
cheaper than that
metal gate you bought

we pull the blinds as if
no one can pull them apart
but it’s us that’s blinded
to the purpose
of windows

we think we’re keeping them out
we’re just locking ourselves in
Watch as they tear down your brick walls of lies.
Carlo C Gomez Oct 2019
Within the nook of a dell,
a good distance
from obloquy
and inhibition,
floating on water,
listening to birdsong
descend down
the stream
of a musical scale.
Don’t need to believe
or even consent to
any critique,
any look-see,
you are free and light
on the surface,
buoyant and supple

Languid movements,
of a weir,
and trickle,
springing forth
to orchestrate an overture.
This feeling is
the moment one of
objet d’art,
and these transports
are yours only
to involuntarily
succumb to and relive:

Rhythmic waves
upon your shore,
as your limbs and spine camber.
It’s no wonder
you often lift
your voice in song.
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