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Rayma Sep 16
Paint is never quite the shade we imagined.
The lines are never straight enough.
The page always looks a little too blank.

There are perfections in every imperfection,
Buried under crossed out lines and
crumpled pieces of paper.
Every eraser-stained, college ruled notebook
full of half-baked ideas and smudged words that
just don’t quite feel right.

The final product is in there somewhere,
like black-out poetry stitched together,
patched up,
and transformed into something beautiful.

   -   x marks the spot
written for my second prompt in Creative Writing - an ars poetica
JustJune Sep 14
Constant stillness to push me past precedent markers.

               You do refine with fire.
Annie Sep 7
leave no trace upon my mind
but fingerprints inside my heart
till I can feel your touch inside
falling straightaway apart

leave me here, but not alone
cause I can´t stand the silence
piercing deep into my bone
losing unrestrained my sense

leave no marks upon my skin
but scent and taste thereon
till I can treat you as my kin
till all my fear is gone
M e l l o Sep 7
At 25,
you'll read old conversations
at night
while having coffee
you'll think about your life,
how you never get enough sleep
and
thinking ways how to survive
work days until weekend
it feels like kind of a routine
but that's okay,
you'll get out of it someday.
Adulting under construction.
Early morning icicles hitching a ride on a chilled wind
                                  ....so cold

My thoughts tread-milling to the memory of a  faded history of continued decay and chaos
                                  ......so old

My cards stacked with life's hate, i heard it whisper, it despises me
                                     .....I fold

These words spinning in my head, luminescent colors cloaks the fiber of it's being, unaware of it's true power
                                     ....so bold


As we exchange the words of wisdom with our tongues entwined as one, selling my soul to you willingly
                                 ..........i'm sold

advise of old wisdom, told by the ageing pillars of all our
communities, conveyed the colorful lives lived
                                   .......i'm  told

i scribble and tear these pages, words screaming for me to release them from the cages within my mind, seeping onto these pages,
line by line
                                   ......it unfolds
this is how the artist gets to where he needs to be, word by word. Line by line
Faizel Farzee Aug 18
As a dark cloud surrounds my heart, it's tear drops fall like rain
The vision of you still lingers
Embedded in every part of my soul
your laughter rings as angels get their wings…
I reach out to only a figment of you
A raging storm of emotions floods me
My fist hits the ground with all the might of eternal despair
How?
A question my mind refuses to compute, erring as answers refuse to be questioned
Do I live with this dark hole of continued destruction?
As bright as the sun ever constant, a feeling of a love had rises from my demons conquered
The love we eternally shared…
Winged words flow through me, lifting me to new soaring highs
The cloak of eternal damnation lifted
a new world yet explored stands before me
The future, a pure oasis I can truly touch
A smile creeps across my face, as that of a new era prosperous smile backs at me
And these words echo through a ****** soul........
               I will live!!
I know what I get from this from this poem, this is poetry....so please or I hope it can bring a real sense of emotions or thought
A Simillacrum Aug 15
Come, voice, back from the original black
Ness, Foot, Yankee Jim
I need a sign from a quasi mind not my own
Fiefallu dendress mazaiyato

Call.
Answer.

All
my answers
lead to nothing
absolute.

Call. Answer me.
I'll
answer you.

Not a compulsion
Never intended, just

Fiefallu dendress true.
Brad post Jul 29
How do you transform,
emotions into words?
How do you describe despair,
without sounding absurd?

How can you paint,
using just text?
Trying your best to show hell,
through memories so convex.

It’s distorted, and ******,
and makes no ******* sense.
So you simply stop trying,
and let the pen run hence.

It’s like a highway,
from your head to your hand,
and the words simply flow,
into pictures you understand.

Vivid details,
melted to the core.
Simplistic observations,
into complicated lore.

It’s a rush, and insane,
like a dictated fever.
Like Frankenstein’s monster,
after pulling the lever.

When it’s done, and you’re empty,
re-reading your prose,
you can feel that channel,
starting to close.

Those are the times,
when I’m most at peace.
When the poison is gone,
and I’ve fed the beast.

I’ll never know how,
I get rid of the pain,
but thank God I can,
or I’d go insane.
Manuel Jul 25
Your hands are the bandages,
And your look is the antidepressant.

Your words are my therapy,
Your smile is my charity.

Your laugh is my prescription,
Your touch is my injection.

Your stare is my remedy,
Your love is my recovery.
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