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J Dec 2020
it's raining again.
It's been raining a lot lately.
I rush outside with jars usually,
tonight I sit under
and I fill myself up.
my hair clings to my neck
my face
my soul.
I close my eyes,
dipping myself in and out of
the sky's tears
in hopes that she'll never recognize
the difference if I were
to be extracting tears of my own.
There will soon be no distinction
between me and the wet.
catching a breath, I peer up
I blink so much I'm surprised I can find the clouds
They shield Gaia from the cold
I count the stars, though I mistake
the majority of raindrops for the plasma.
So I tilt down,
face to Hell
my hair curtains around me
as if a cat had torn them into nothing but
clumpy pieces of string,
and recognize the puddle of a person,
through blurry sockets,
that I can no longer hide from.
I'm in a weird writing mood. I don't write many long things anymore, though, as we see
Betty Nov 2020
Oil on the water

Gentle spilling colours

Tumbled greens and inky blues

Fade to yellow and pinky hues

Filling the puddle

A requiem for rainbows
Even rainbows have to die sometime
Giovanna Sep 2020
When the arrow of overthinking strikes,
feels like have my head on spikes.
Thinking a lot these days.
isabella Jul 2020
i hate the way i love you.

i hate the way you smile,
i hate the way you laugh.

i hate how i know you have a dimple,
there, right there, on the side of your cheek.

i hate how you are like sunlight hitting a shimmering puddle,
as if you had the power to lift clouds and calm storms.

you don't have that power.
part 1 in a series
mothwasher Jul 2020
I am a French horn, a bottle neckless hourglass and butterscotch tape

You're a red harp with veins painted on the side

When I come home, you see me as an acrylic heap with chips of lead and belly aching homing words

Scotch sticks and smoke smells and the stitches are uncomfortable on my neck where you often warm your hands

I am a masquerade of shellfish clamoring on about the epitome of burlesque humor

You’re alien to anything other than sourdough and design

I have structured my thesis around burlesque and you fail to see the humor

When I fear the apologists

You fear the escapists

I am the tigers of the world, borrowing viciousness

You’re a long pause, loved and disquieted, painting my stripes as veins

I’m freaked out now because the apologists are escaping and the escapists are apologizing

At this clear impasse, you pity and press on until my fingers at the French horn drain to my sides

I am an island in a puddle of sand
FloydBrandon May 2020
Fistful of **** and I don’t give a ****
what it takes
to get it the **** out of my hands
Sit over the edge if I have to
and land
in a fat ******* puddle of ****
fistful of ****
Solaces Feb 2020
I can view the places of rain memory..
Where the puddles gather ready to be taken by to the sky..
The sun calls to the waters...
And slowly takes it back to the clouds..
You had to kiss the earth before you become and Ocean..
And soon you will become a tide to greet the Earth again..
Only this time the moon will call to you to do so..
The puddles and tides..
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