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The cold sense of a
Dreamy deja-vu;
I feel the shadows
Crowd around me
And I’m p
                  u
                     l
                       l
                        e
                          d
Into a familiar darkness.

I roam the dreamscape
In search of an exit.
Although I already know
What lies ahead,
I’m still distressed.

A constant reincarnation
Of the same faceless
Figure, waiting for me
At the end of
My dreaded ascension.

Chilled to my soul,
I face my indistinctive
Nightmare. The ghosts
Of the past seen so alive
From behind closed eyes.
Johnny walker Nov 2018
When I was just a kid
I would have this recurring dream where
I'd be falling but would have a terrible agonising pain In my stomach as I was falling, but I couldn't wake up I'd just have this terrible pain then suddenly
I would see the ground coming up fast and I
would hit hard, there was
a thick layer of snow that would cushion the Impact and I'd still be alive, but couldn't move anything other than my
head
In doing so I could see my surroundings, It was like
something out of the Victorian days, shops with bullseye window quaint
little streets, ladies with long dresses and
bonnets
Then all of a sudden I'd wake up but still remembering my dream this would continue
right throughout my childhood,! never ever found out what the dream meant, but remember that pain was as If It were
real
A recurring dream as a kid never found out the reason for the dream but the terrible pain was as If real
Umi Jun 2018
When everything has been said,
What is left to speak, but recurrance in my speach, over and over..
Alike a painting, drawn within a single colour which fades into darkness, as there is nothing left the sweet, majestic ink could cover.
What is the sense for me to write if the message stays the very same?
Verily, I have forgotten the answer for this question a long time ago.
Perhaps it is, but the sign that the message can be conveyed in many possibilities, ways and forms, such as stories what makes them uniqe.
So even if a painting looks all the same at some point or another,
It is still art, brought from the depths of thoughts, from within a heart
A painting is a world of it's own, but so is a poem, or a simple novel.
Because each contains the hopes and wishes, the effort and care of the person, who made it their passion to create a wonderful piece of art.
Return to the same old place, with the same old pace and you might find  joy in what you came to see yet again, before your tired eyes.
Alike an imaginated landscape drawn within your heart, the memories of a happier time might paint you a world in your head.

~ Umi
I want to give up, I really do
Peter Bonvoisin Nov 2017
I've wasted time not kissing you
But that thought is not new.
Your being truly captivates me;
Your lips, your hips,
Your thighs, your eyes.
Lost in a sea of our activity
My mind losing grip on reality
In the face of your intoxicating personality.

I've not wasted time in kissing you.
A thought that spins around in my head, when I see you and didn't say anything. Time that could have been better spent
unsxfe Nov 2017
There’s this dream I’ve been getting ever since I was a baby.


                                                         ­                                      with each jump
                                                            ­                                  going higher
                               on the horison.                                           i keep
                  of rolling hills      theres mountains with         jumping but
         landscape                         no trees in sight.            i try
im in this                        i   try    to   walk   but  i keep gettingfaster


         i jump too high
      finally                i
until
                       ­            p
                                     l
                                      u
                       ­                m
                                         m
                                           e
                                            t
                 ­                     i try to stop


                                     but i cant

                                     i brace



                                       then i hit the ground




And then I wake up.
[Welp, that was Reoccurring Dream. It originally extended horizontally and it was read L to R,  but i ended up having to make a new line for the helloetry version, so I could cram the whole poem in.. I think it turned out even better than the original, now that I think about it.]
Ashlea Mar 2017
I literally can’t go to the mall
Without doing my homework first.
And I literally can’t take my money
Without carrying a purse.
I literally can’t text my friends
Without having my parents see.
I literally can’t leave the house
Without having my annoying brother with me.

I literally can’t do this and that.
I literally can’t own a cat.
There are literally so many things I want to do,
But I LITERALLY can’t do those, too.
This is a poem where I embraced my inner middle school girl. The assignment for one of my methods courses was to create a poem with a recurring word or phrase.
Sally A Bayan Dec 2015
(Recurring Reflections And Beliefs)

Birthday after birthday
i keep looking back...
and find five girls always on my tail,
i see them as my regular paparazzi
when i am in my busiest moments,
when things work out adversely,
against all my best efforts
i find them still tagging along with me...

And then,
i look back at my most trying times
i recall those epiphanies that came to light my way,
how they guided me through,
until i was out of the dark tunnel...
.....until that MOMENT came
when i could hear with just one ear,
i have no regrets, though, or anger within,
for, i could still hear the leaves rustle
when a light breeze blows...
i hear even the dry oak leaves
as they hit the ground,
or when an empty plastic cup
is blown by the wind
from corner to corner of the street...
these days, i am more aware
of the bees buzzing on top of the flowers,
the birds, scattering seeds, helping
create new lives on the ground.....
i still clearly hear the hummingbird flapping its wings,
hovering, as it drinks from the bird feeder,
even as dusk sets in...
i hear the mockingbird...as it closes its wings
and roosts on a pine twig.....

One vital truth keeps me going-
i still have my one good ear
my eyes, my arms, my feet...
always, i am reminded of this question:
why did God endow us with two eyes,
two ears, two hands, two feet?
we lose one, there is still the other
in our daily lives, the same thing applies
among our loved ones and friends,
we lose some, we gain some....
some doors close, another one opens...
second, even third chances are ever waiting,
a fresh start is always there to be claimed...

In this stretch of my life,
i still am faced with choices on paths to take,
those once transitory thoughts
still visit and within me, they stir..
but, reason and good judgment
rise above all...

.....these things, i have realized---
most of what i wanted then...and didn't get,
i have now let go....
selflessness is inevitable,
there are people...things...to be prioritized
over  our own happiness
understanding is important
.....seeing myself here, now,
.....i am happy,
.....i am no longer there
still, i am glad to have been there...

When asked the most puzzling questions,
i have learned to turn
to the wisdom of the children,
i always, always have but one answer....
"...just because...".

At this point and time,
life, still is not perfect...
but i have known how to be calm,
as i face each new day...
perfect, or imperfect,
it doesn't matter anymore,
heart and mind have been honed,
for this knowledge overrules all others:

God is beside me, He is behind me...
He leads me,
He's got me covered...
i have nothing to fear...

(November 13, 2013)


Sally

Copyright November 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***sorry, guys, i couldn't make this one shorter...***
Kevin Lee Mar 2015
The wounds of separation constantly weeping. Never healing properly because you keep picking and reopening the scars.
Biting and chewing until there's nothing left. Your self destructive, emotionally cannibalistic nature is apparent.
Everybody cares, right?
Why else would the constant lies and condescending suggestions be bombarded upon your already weary mind.
Even in theses recurring dreams you find no relief. For others dreams are fantastic things of beauty. For you they're as dangerous as yellow cake in the hands of the despot.
Constantly changing, pushing and detaching now. Starring into the mirror. Who is this?
Things we don't talk about.
Akemi Jun 2014
Swore I felt your flesh
Push through my dreams
Your gums soft against my tongue
Metal braces tearing through me

A phantom residue
From the crawlspace of my mind
An unconsciously yearning
For love
No longer mine

How the **** can I move on?
With the scent of your breath
Lingering in morning mist

How the **** can I move on?
With the sweat of your skin
Soaking my fingertips

This ache is unbearable
11:21pm, June 22nd 2014

A recurring dream of mine,
or maybe a memory.

— The End —