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Kassan Jahmal May 29
Trodden puddles; muddy waters of cattles laiden on the
path of a dry river bed. The surrounding being ever present
of one's land loss. It's love (like many hearts) so bare to the
humid air, under these heated moments. Skins have broken
out, in my rash decisions.

Don't butter me up, to spread the falseness of a left hand.
Though it's right isn't always holding onto doing right.

Shall I tend the field—once after the herd passes? Let no puddle
be open on where you walk.
Isabella Feb 15
i want the storm to dissolve me
i want to melt into a puddle on the broken concrete
i want ripples to fall on my surface
i want to tremble when cars drive by
people to step in me without a care
children to splash
and dogs to drink
i want to be a puddle on a winter afternoon
i want the raindrops to expand me
until i trickle down the sidewalk
through that cracks in the pavement
and down the curb
i want to fall onto the street
and let the wind push me far, far away
Timothy Jun 2021
the pigeon in the puddle is a reminder
that words are a waste of time
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
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