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Parker Vance Feb 14
Birds of a feather flock together in the sultry atmosphere, whirring in and out of crepuscular clouds as if it were nothing special. feathers more like needles blacked under the godless face of the wind. The cliff's voice clings to their sun-smeared backs, reminds them of his own position on an empty, red planet and they sing back that gravity lament. The sky goes on about the lovely morning air and sunlight marches when all birds want is a place to lie down from that brittle flight, to rest their hollow bones filled with a lost longing.
I wonder what it would be like for birds under a red sun.
I'm drowning.
The waves crash around me
And the storm rages,
The rabid sea pulls me under,
Foaming in its fury.
And in the darkness, I cling to a lone rock,
A coral reef? A whisper of an island?
I'm deaf to whispers of comfort -
The wind and waves howl and crash,
Outside of me, and in.
Diamonds are also rocks.
This could be one, but I'm blind to see.
The night is black and the current strong,
I gasp for breath and clench my fingers,
Cutting myself, but I can't let go.
It's all that keeps me afloat,
This bit of stone, a lone companion.
I'm still drowning.
The feel of a small salvation,
The solice of solidity
Under my fingers,
Isn't actually a rescue.
The waves are merciless;
I breath in salt,
Gasp, and cough and heave,
And my rock can't stop that.
There's no defeating the storm.
It crumbles under my fingers,
Weathered by the ocean,
As am I.
The deep dark blue
Whips against us both,
But is it not my hands that break it faster?
I'm beyond saving,
Yet I cling, selfishly, taking it with me as I sink.
For the small comfort,
The solice of solidity under my fingers.
As I cough, and heave, and gasp,
Losing sensation in my limbs.
It's too much effort, holding on,
And I am tired, faded, worn.
Cold, and numb,
I feel the thrum through me now:
I'm one with the sea.
As I let go, and silence covers me,
Like a blanket against the water,
Lulling me, slowly,
To the deep dark blue embrace.
There’s peace in giving up,
Relinquishing the fight.
The ocean hums now,
So far beneath the surface,
It's quiet here, away from thoughts.
(for P.)
Blackenedfigs Dec 2020
The local convenience store dealers lean on glass windows with ****** pupils scanning the parking lot for any takers. I pump my gas on station four and spy from afar. Don’t make eye contact or that means you’re interested. No buyers yet. What do you suppose is on the menu for today? Judging from the amount of zombies I’ve seen pushing stolen shopping carts a block away from here, I’d say smack. Tar. Black. ******. Whatever they call it where you’re from. Welfare bodies withered down to just flesh hanging from bone, wandering around aimlessly for their next fix. I’ve only ever tried it once; I was curious and sad and it was there—in Violet’s hand and then in my lungs. Do you think my mother would cry out in those disgusting sobs of snot and heaves of not-being-able-to-breathe-tears if she knew? Do you think my sister would look at me with that glare of judgmental disapproval because yet again, here’s an example of why I’m the family ****-up? Do you think my father would smack me upside the head and call me a *******? Probably. And do you think my third and sixth grade teachers who told me I should one day do something with my writing would be gasping in disappointment? Definitely. The gas pump clicks off. A potential customer staggers across asphalt to meet his makers and I am no better than he is at this very moment.
A lesson in prose poems.
Dawn Nov 2020
coffee may taste bitter and sweet. sometimes it's a combination of both, bittersweet. just like love, there are days that we would find it sweet, filled with joy and times we could feel these butterflies in our stomach. sometimes it's bitter, feeling pain, getting hurt, and tired eyes because of crying.

but often times with our coffee, we tend to get our tongues burned by its heat. sometimes we have tasted the unpleasant flavor of it. but have you thought of it? it takes time in getting the coffee's perfect taste, the perfect mixture and blend. just like love again, we pass through bitter pasts and heartaches. we experience different situations and hurdles when it comes to love. these matters that nurtures and guides us until we could finally meet our perfect one. the perfect mix. that blend that we would always come to love.
Dawn Nov 2020
i’ve done count back from 10, remembering how we used to spend all of our times together. in 9, which you always whisper that loving me was the best thing you’ve ever made in your life. 8 in the morning where you cuddle me first before getting up from our little love nest. in 7, i saw those gorgeous pair of blue eyes staring back at me. when i’ve counted back at 6, we shared the common goals and dreams at life. for 5, that i was already standing five meters away from you. with 4, i heard that someone was calling your name. in 3, that wrecked and ripped my heart into three then into bits of tiny pieces. within 2, warm liquids fell and roll down my cheeks— i was already crying because of you. and lastly i stopped at 1, and realized that everything doesn’t lasts if you’re still not the person that was meant for me. with there, 𝘪 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦.
Dawn Nov 2020
"i can't have her close so i become a ghost." he said.

with him and his words i never imagined i would perhaps find a way, scribbling my pen wishing to write him a letter with my thoughts and heart's content.

he said that he became a ghost and now i want to fulfill him with my words, words that'll make his soul come back to his body.

i wished for him to be whole, put those shattered pieces of him as i want him to know that even if she was the reason why he has become to what he is right now, i am more than willing enough to take her part and share my soul and flesh to him. more than willing enough to risk pieces of me and share the love i've built for myself through words and poetry when he hasn't came back to his own.

and maybe, i hoped that at the very least, i could make him feel whole again.
Dawn Nov 2020
like yesterday you told me that you were a fan of books and stories. with there i tried to write a book about us.

lately i have realized that even if the book is about us, it's like the whole book is just dedicated for you.

i read almost every page of my creation and you on the other hand was reading a book about two people who fell in love with each other because of their fondness in reading books and writing.

i conclude that with the book that you read is you think about us. but i saw no thrill in your eyes after you've read it.

and then a thought dawned over my head, i assumed too much. i thought we were on the same page. but then it hits me and i remembered.

i remembered that both of us were reading different books.
Derrek Estrella Apr 2020
Remember: no pen will cure that shaky hand of yours, nor that uncomfortable disposition. Steel yourself on your own terms, hapless and rankless hoplite. Carry your tools with their appropriate weight. Be the stone child of many a previous dream. When the vain and physical body fails you, don't fret, for you have designed it to do so. Such a moment is a call to arms, to seek derangement in all else: the soul and the brain! Dream them electric! Follow them into their demise, and be ready to pull them from the womb!
fray narte Feb 2020
My 11:11s were made for sleepless nights
playing back all these scenes
when your heartbeat still melted against my ears,
every sigh that lingered on my temple,
every touch that lingered on my skin
11:11s were made for asking
this dimmed wall sconces what it would be like
to feel your body close the spaces,
to feel it next to mine once more,
of what it would be like to kiss you in the dark,
with complete abandonment,
like a wolf howling its heart out
to the moon after a sunset that lasted forever

It was 11:11, and now, I know
I should’ve closed my eyes
and kissed you that drunken April night,
and melted in your arms when I still had the chance.
Now, I close them, without you around,
wrestling with these fixations
trying to convince myself
that one more recall of the memories would be the last;
one more make-believe,
one more fantasy wouldn't hurt.
One more,

and one more,
and one more,
I said,

and it was 11:12
and suddenly,

it did.
jack cariad leon Feb 2020
Universal trans experiences:
I don’t think there are any.

But when I reach for my camouflage underwear in the
half sincere hope
that my junk will just kind of,
I like to think I’m in good company.

But, again,
there can’t be many.
i saw one or two trans related poems recently so i thought i might as well try.
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