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Rhea Sheilah Oct 13
PDA
Hold me in public
As much as you do in bed.
I survive on PDA
Hold my hand. Kiss my forehead. Give me random hugs and if you are strong enough [Coz I am a +size :) ]carry me. In other words, mark your territory.
Amber K Sep 17
I realized yesterday,
that I've written many poems,
but only shared a few.
I think it's because I've convinced myself,
that my words are too much,
and that no one wants to read another tragic tale.

No one wants to hear about me,
my messed up emotions,
or my dead friends.
No one wants to read about,
the days I felt like I was drowning.
There's no point in sharing what others find boring.

But then again,
it helps when I share.
I feel like even when no one seems to care,
at least I got my thoughts out there.
At least there's a chance that someone who's struggling,
will see that they aren't struggling alone.

So from this day forth,
I won't hold back.
I will pour my soul out for the poor and unfortunate.
I will tell you the stories of heartbreak,
I will tell you about the one's I've lost.
Even if you don't care to listen.
My only goal is to make everyone realize they have purpose here and that we all struggle and we all have heartbreaks, but we aren't alone and we can make it through together.
LeV3e Sep 8
I'm afraid
Of
Eyes
Seeing me for
Who I truly am
That "they" might
Hate me
Because
I'm different.

I'm afraid
Of
Ears
That "they" might
Hear what I have to say
But
No one will want to
Listen

I'm afraid of
Hands
That "they" might
Make a fist or
Worst
Point a finger at me and
Single me
Out

I'm afraid
Of
You
The public is
Dangerous and
THEY have no time
To care about
My opinion
Only
"Theirs"
Mark Toney Jul 7
My twenty poetry collections
divided into subsections
listed below as follows:
Eleven are public
the rest are private
but the total
showing is
zero
Why?



© 2020 Mark Toney.  All rights reserved.
7/7/2020 - Poetry form: Nonet - I have 20 poetry collections on hellopoetry. Eleven are public, nine are private, but the number showing is zero. Does anyone know why? - 7/10/2020 - I FINALLY FIGURED IT OUT! I had originally set up 20 Private collections. When I changed 11 of them to Public collections, the total public still showed zero. Today when I added a NEW Public collection, the actual total  was finally revealed. Yippie Skippy!!! - © 2020 Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Pizacas23 Jun 29
When we are in public:
I was like riding at the back of the tricycle as I was looking at you , walking forward.
Lucy Houbart Jun 18
Mary Seacole
Black nurse sculpture
Your determination points
To injustice. Your struggle
To serve, be accepted.
Why were you shamed and denied?
This is the broken land where we live.
Your courage, your stride
Takes me to our weakness

To the ache in my chest like a
broken blood vessel.
And trace the lines in my hand
To a bad rotting root.
How many wounds did your hand with compassion soothe?

Behind your certitude
I imagine pain.
Did your hurting
Search out injury and loss?

And as you nursed those violent lacerations,
Patiently waiting whilst the pathway beat its course,
Did you see as if through a veil,
Your own fractured self,
Fusing with your patient’s,
Both your Injuries restore back together
All the way towards their good health?
This poem is inspired by the sculpture by Michael Jennings which is of Mary Seacole which stands outside St Thomas's hospital looking over the river Thames and towards the House of Parliament.
To clap, or not to clap, that is the question
Whether it’s nobler in the mind to give
Undying love to those who save us
Or by opposing, expose those
Who have systematically underfunded
A public fed service with malice
It dies, we die, there’s the rub
Chatter and cheer will rightly raise from
Many whose hearts are true and proud
Whose hearts must be hardened
Next at the ballot box to lift us:
There is no country without unity
No unity without truth, no economy
Without each and every soul, always
never knew how blinding the
sun could be before I hid from it.

the dark is a dangerously
safe place to be isn’t it?


I think I found a new emotion
it comes from experiencing
the beauty of things I find
repulsive

all the dream house
developments nestled
like cheap toys

sun glinting off the bumper
to bumper traffic
arcing above the horizon
semis blocking out the sun

parking lots
fractals of shiny beetle shell
car bodies disappearing into the glare

countless things
somewhere between awe and loathing
it’s kind of like a scream
stuck in your chest.


also,  I think I keep seeing people
who aren’t real.
they exist. other people see them too.
but they just seem out of place.
or maybe too in it.
too predictable

I say I hate public transit
but ya know
I think half the time
I like sitting on bart
more than doing
whatever the **** I left
the house to do

my mind wanders best when
my body is hurdling through
space at high speeds
it’s been weird
going thru an old journal
I sit with intravenous headphones
             a dopamine drip          
my dress pants are torn at the inner knee
my hair smells of yeast
my face itches
my eyes wander

we screech to a halt
and it hisses like a feral cat
the platform then filled with bodies
that funnel in
              shuffling        
bright as the undead

one seat from me
              he's balding        
and in the absense of hair, scabs
polka dotted,
uneavendly.
He barks to a younger man about his dog
but the younger man just stares straight forward

In the disabled seating, sits
a woman
who is not pregnant
             or crippled        
             or elderly        
her toenails are a browny-yellow, and curled like the petals of an uprooted daffodil
her breath is audible, from the tenth row back
            even over the bald man        
            even over the chugging motor        

At the front
a boy sits with his older brother -
who points at pictures in a tattered laminate book
and grunts
           yes        
and makes sounds
          yes, thats right, bus        
and groans
         it's okay, you'll see mum soon      
in discomfort,
snot seeping from his nose, spit
falling to the floor

Again, we screech to a halt
the alley cat hisses
only one at this platform

Her hair is neck length
her slip is long, silky and sky-blue
          as are her eyes        
fingers fiddle at the purse
         pursed lipped, she smiles      
... at the bus driver

Her boots sound the isle
they watch like its a runway
finding her way
Next to the boy
with the greasy hair
and the torn pants
and the sauce stained uniform
and the wandering eyes
and the inability to start a conversation

          and she sits      
          and they sit
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