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rig May 15
so: now the weird, the sad, the h.
then the heroes of greece; nobel prize;
my life in eleven words; a growth magazine, summer;
the best title ever; black hardback epic old;
a familiar feeling; a not-movie; lost heritage;
an alt-reality sequel; the other alt-reality sequel;
someone died; books to ash;
illustrated recommendation; norse gods;
bread; hybrid; i think of iris;
boss; co-worker; co-worker;
i still don’t know if dutch or croatian; never had one;
the power of tv, three, plus two, for now; double book;
back to greece, or america, one two three four five;
a mystery, genre and otherwise; a blue brick;
and
a little bit of music…
books to read
lua Apr 29
my words
might wash up
against your shore
in torn up shreds
each scribbled letter faded
obscured by time
obscured by rippling waves
that thrash and tear
each piece left vague
dowsed in mystery
and a lingering
a longing
to be read

soon
maybe
next time
i'll be mature enough
to put them in a bottle.
Mel Apr 26
Behind a van
Off a lit-up city street
Two dying forces meet
To read the drowning words of
Faceless man
23-04-2021
Kirsty Taylor Apr 17
You hear the thud.
Put on your dressing gown, rub your eyes.
And wearily approach the door, wondering what it could be.
Another bill, another promotion in a cunning disguise?

But there it is, dressed elegantly in plain white,
With the stamp placed perfectly on the right.
You see the swirls in the handwriting,
The way they flick the k’s and how they curl their c’s.

You try to guess who sent this wonderful surprise
You pick it up with care and, for an instant, freeze
Then you abandon all restraint, and rip it apart
Desperate to read what’s at its heart.

It takes thought and love to write.
In a world full of texts, facetimes and calls.
A letter hits the spot just right.

A short story, addressed to you
And only you
A little piece of history lies in your hand
Keep these letters

Store them safely away
For they will fill your heart with joy
When you re-read them on a melancholy day
Next time you are at a loss  for something to do
I beg of you, put down that phone
Take out a pen and write a letter or two.
I am afraid that you are falling in love with the expectations you have of me

While you ignore the toxic version of me
The loud, broken, desperate version of me

You don’t really see me, you see job offers
a few kids, a wedding ring, new homes, new cars  
While you ignore my deep scars

I am afraid you are falling in love with who you want me to be

While ignoring the real me, the trauma suffering, addict struggling, broken soul, who is afraid to love

You are ignoring the angry man who needs therapy but decides it’s better to feed his anger and throw his emotions at the end of liquor bottles

The man who your mother warned you would break your heart.
I am a victim of my pain, but you ignore that because you see something within. You want me to be that perfect man of your dreams, that you forget to face your nightmares

You hide my scars, feed me compliments while preaching to me about your biological timeline, lying and telling me everything will turn out fine if I find a job that makes a lot of money, bought a new car, a new home with a picket fence, change my accent, dress and act a certain way   

Please don’t try to save me
Save your imagination for thinking it can transform me to meet your expectations
Sometimes those we love to forget to love the real version of us. They think about all the great things and forget to address the warning signs early due to their need to make you their "one and only". Expectations destroy relationships and **** any hope for change. We need to do better at truly loving each other.
Nicole Apr 12
He was known for a puzzling idée fixe
for literature in an array of topics;
Not a citizen of particular themes.
Given to a pursuit of this literary ENTERPRISE,
he would hermit away and ravenously read,
which left him with a pale VISAGE.
He'd dealt with comments of its PERNICIOUS effects,
putting a BLEMISH on his social standing.
Yet, it didn't DAMPEN his spirit.
He didn't shy from upgrading to a learned man.
A mixture of books granted him entrance to
TRAVERSE an ever transforming road,
for which weather had no dampener on.
He was a SENTRY of his own mind,  
following the ASTRAL bodies in the night sky,
to channel knowledge into dreams.
Wrote this for a poetry contest last year. Had to include the words: dampen, blemish, pernicious, traverse, sentry, visage, astral, enterprise The poem won 3rd place.
Please notice what I've done
My pride is hurting from the things that
I spent hours on
Instead the ones I barely think of
are liked more above the rest
In fact the ones I barely think on
to me are just grotesque
See what I can really do
'A river is a thought of defiance
A flower the hated love between the two'
See what I can say, draw, and write
What I hear and know
Please tell me that you love them and me
Please do not let me go
Nicole Mar 27
In a garden filled by inky night
she reads by fairy firelight
with dreams of magic and of cheer,
in a land when fantasy draws near.

Where unicorns flutter in mid-air,
and fairies shimmer with stardust hair.
Dragons twirl brazenly in a silky clouded sky,
while knights suited on horseback stoutly ride by.

Grinning trolls armored with riddles creep
to divert from their overgrown castle's keep.
The moon princess softly trills a serenade,
and frolics in an open cornflower filled glade.

Flaxen mermaids with encrusted combs of stone
sit on tufts of a verdant seaweed throne
whispering tales of prized treasures aglow
buried deep beneath in the sea below.

Stars blanket in the velvet overhead
as she sits and savors the legends read.
The sights found in writings all retold
are worth more to her than pirate's gold.
Brett Mar 24
As I step slowly off the edge
My thoughts descend
To an endless field colored many shades of red
There’s a woman
Standing still
The sun-bathing her ocean-colored dress
She speaks with her eyes, but
I am deaf to her thoughts
Though I feel she hears mine
Her face, I cannot recognize
Yet her scent radiates
Of sunflowers and the freeing smell of pine
She motions forward
As our fingers interlace like vines
The sun sits stoic, its throne upon the sky
I am led on
Through places I remember as a child
This world seems manifested
Forgotten moments
Excavated from some locked door in the dungeons of my mind
As if the beating of my heart was painted
On a canvas frozen forever in this time
She glances over her exposed shoulder
Something stirs
As we approach a river that screams De-Nile
Anxiously I approach the banks
Her emerald eyes illuminate
The perfect crooked symmetry
Of her calming smile
Her lips hover just one step away from mine
But I move no closer
For I know hers is not a love
That I am ever meant to find
Just a passing dream
Written for the thousandth time
rig Mar 20
stroke my spine. pick me up
(please, don’t hesitate). feel
my cover. look into
my index. like me. take
me home (fast). breathe me in.
knife my pages open.
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