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Samara May 2020
There it lays,
my tear soaked
pillow case.

In clouds unseen
where they visit me
every night since thirteen

What am I to do
with no avenue to pursue
when they deny my inhibitions
and tell them they're forgiven?

I see what I can't change and
I can't change what I see

I want to want their vision
of tender, loving, harmony
but it feels like swallowing poison
treating my actions remorsefully.

I take each day
one at a time
unyielding to divulge
what comes to me as I lay
every night
on my tear soaked pillow case.
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
by Michael R. Burch

In a dream I saw boys lying
under banners gaily flying
and I heard their mothers sighing
from some dark distant shore.

For I saw their sons essaying
into fields—gleeful, braying—
their bright armaments displaying;
such manly oaths they swore!

From their playfields, boys returning
full of honor’s white-hot burning
and desire’s restless yearning
sired new kids for the corps.

In a dream I saw boys dying
under banners gaily lying
and I heard their mothers crying
from some dark distant shore.

Keywords/Tags: war, recursion, recurring, repetition, cycle, violence, banners, guns, oaths, mothers, tears, sighs
The cold sense of a
Dreamy deja-vu;
I feel the shadows
Crowd around me
And I’m p
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.
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
harlon rivers Mar 2018
A moment recurring
does wash away
like a river rock
The smooth surface
of an eroded stone
is just as hard
as the abraded silence
that  rivers
through  loneliness

Sometimes terrified
of this foolish
blue moon heart;
of its constant
for  whatever
it is it wants;
the way it stops
  and starts ,..
like a revenant whisper
smoldering embers
of  fallen  stars
buried deeply
in  the  catacombs
of an unrequited heart

out  of  reach,
just a step away,
but close enough
to touch the crumbs
of some other's love
       bestrewn sanguinely ―
marking the footprints
calling down
an unshorn pathway
never  found

At a deserted crossroads,
many a moon
tiptoe past
unnoticed fallen stars
stagnate lightless
in a flash of darkness,
moving back in time
just  standing  still

harlon rivers ... March 2018
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
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