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Poetic T May 2018
a finite moment of time,
stings under garments

dies happy knowing life had purpose.
Shadow Dragon May 2018
How come no one really know
what they are doing with their life?

The sun and moon have purpose.
So why don't you?
eleanor prince May 2018
same sketch
cloned day
sundown station
schema

office workers
signed off
shuffle
numb

curbed chaos
train clatter
shifting gears
clashing sound

noise assaults
savaged senses
lulls into
stupor's rhythm

cardboard sentinels
stare blind
frames fixed on
blanched orbits

disjointed huddle
inciting life's
vapid
echo
scenes from an urban station at rush-hour...
AW Gray May 2018
Tried to find it at the dregs of the poison,
          Only lead to momentary pain,
Searched for it flying high as a kite,
          But that only left me bored again,
Hunted down the thin, white line,
          The euphoria quickly faded away,
                              Only in love
                              Can i feel it,
                              Yet love never
                              Finds it's way
Arcassin B May 2018
By Arcassin Burnham


I'm saving myself , I'm saving myself for a new day,
The time flies by so fast its like I don't even wanna stay,
you say things , it makes sense , in this life , you better hit em' with the price you pay,
the world and the people in it will run over you better use your words today,
sometimes love and hate comes in one or the other.
we fight for the free with your sisters and brothers.
From your mother, your daddy , your grandma , your lover.
this is what it takes just to fight for the future.

But I digress,
And for all the people with so much stress,
I should know this first hand cause I'm 20,
Put in check,
But please be the one with the good mind set,
your too smart to be obsessing over money,
or the fly cars and the jewelry,
or the honeys,
its not given to you like a gift from God that thinks that every
brother deserves those things,
should be worried about the right things,
should be worried about the wedding rings,
shouldn't about the hateful and mean things your peers would bring.
But me , I always stay the same,
If you could recreate your world then there is no more pain.

I think we just need air.
i think we just need air.

If I call will you ever get the phone?
will the wars start to tear apart our home?
will I be the one to die all alone?
Or maybe I just like being on my own, i just need..

If I call will you ever get the phone?
will the wars start to tear apart our home?
will I be the one to die all alone?

Or maybe I just like being on my own, i just need..
©abpoetry2018


http://abpvalley.blogspot.com/2018/05/no-guns-in-valley-lp.html
Bleurose May 2018
While I may act as many, I am merely one just trying to fight for those who I see as defenceless.

I am not a shining example and
Many mock me and portray me as foolish, but I am not your scapegoat for hatred or ignorance - though if I must be, I will.

I know I'm worth more.

Filled with rage, hatred and passion, I march with my banner;  proud, scarred, strong.

I speak with the voices that chose to add theirs to mine so that others might hear. I amplify the quietest souls - and I learn from them.

I shine with their power, I've given myself over.

My purpose now, is them.
I wrote this when I was Welfare,Equality and Diversity officer at my college. I fought for what I could fiercely.

This fire isn't as constant any more, but it very easily flares up. This isn't my purpose anymore but, I will always do what I can for this community.
eleanor prince Apr 2018
what is a poet
but a stymied wind
stamping the same soil
seen through polished lens

firing the bugle sound
to reach across some
distant mountain pass
not echo the same

ignite fire
stand strong
find north
refresh

for old paths yield
grey packages
more stale
subterfuge

but honed
solidity is found
in structures
built sound

a new song of old notes
rearranged to yield
perspective
deep
at times we all need to see what is to be kept and what will be discarded, to reinvent ourselves, our lives, whilst retaining solid ground
Jo Barber Apr 2018
Like a dried out pen,
you lay before me.
    Perhaps you served a purpose once,
    back in the days
    where leaves still blew
    through these Cadillac-filled streets.
Vanished and forgotten,
like a goldfish
in a bowl without food.
      You'll starve eventually
      from the poverty of your mood.
Like a torn photograph,
the image of you is scratched, incomplete,
a deflated soccer ball
lying somewhere in the street.
      
      A dried out pen
        can write no more,
           but it does not negate
             the works it wrote
                      once before.
Feedback? Comments? I had trouble finding a good ending.
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