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hazem al jaber Apr 2020
The heart's regular ...

You are ...
Remember sweetheart ...
And do not keep your thoughts in doubt ...
Remember and don't forget ...
You are always in the heart ...
Inside it s deep ...
A piece of it ..
The beat for it ...
And all life to my heart ...
Without you, there is no heart ...
Like a solid stone ...
So cold ...
Dead ...
With no life ...

Remember my love ...
My sweetheart ...
And do not forget ...
Please ...
That , this heart ...
Seated into my body ...
In every corners of me ...
It motionless ...
like a stone ...
With no soul ...
No blood in it ...
And no warmth ...
If it weren't you ...
The all pulse for it  ...
And no one ...
Can gives it a life ...
Than other you ...
Yes sweetheart ...
Just you are ...
The regular ...
Of my heart ...
The pleasure ...
The real love ...
To my heart ...
And i will keep ...
With this love ...
Into my heart ...
As a covenant ...
As i always ...
Promised myself ...
And you ...
That , ...
Never ever ...
To love anyone ...
Just only you ...

Love you ...
O ...
My regular's heart ...

hazem al ...
Nylee Sep 2019
Out doing regular business
going around with the natural finesse,
forgetting all the achievements and less
starting this morning a fresh.
neha yamba May 2019
when the world was cruel
and you impair

you were alone
and had no give back

when you were bulldozed
for aims you never had

your personality was rescind
and disguised to regular

when you had no choice to
leave and move ahead
you bore the odium of nugatory pack

when you were so good
and gave all your best

you were loathed
and clepe as bad

times when heartbroken you cried to sleep
your head under pillow
words unavowed bide

You turned cold with FIRE inside
it would have been better
thyreez-thy Feb 2019
the pain feels so good
just like it should
the only feeling you have left
your happiness gone by theft
no need to pretend, you can take the mask off
all you hear is but the sound of your cough
another day of being a ghost
cause for fools attention you'd never be a host
the world looks the same
the people still brings them to shame
you see no light only people
you grow stiff, like you've been glued with treacle
and just as you've truly lost contact of the world
a random greeting is hurled
politely saying "oh...hi" to avoid being rude
but to you everyone is just crude
and the best part is leaving the crowd
you've avoided contact, you feel so proud
so why feel lost in a random place
when loneliness is what you'll always face
just another day
Justus Aug 2018
Personality is few and far in between nowadays
The same star-shaped sugar cookie cut into tens of thousands, millions
Baked in a nice, cozy oven
350 degrees... eight to ten minutes per batch
Sprinkles, cinnamon, lemon zest
The works
Sheltered in a well stocked cupboard
They sell out almost immediately after they’re put on display
Only to be devoured by the malnourished
(If you take the cookie too early, you’ll get sent to the pokey)
I could never eat them
Sugar cookies taste like ****
i could stare at your very photogenic (albeit invisible) countenance all day, all week, the entire month, this remaining year, at least one additional decade, boot no more than a century21!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Looking for a best friend, or...a wurst (liver) re: enemy.

brief bio Matthew Scott Harris doth briefly sketch
almost two win a half score years since me being:
Born January 13th, 1959

I shake my shaggy hirsute hair
in utter disbelief, when the cocked arrow
begat thine conception,
when meal ate mum and octogenarian papa

begat their second offspring and only son,
what now seems to be a stepped-up pace,
where father time doth affix another candle to blow
where the passage of life measured

in swiftly tailored decades
denoting another birthday,
when with the blink of an eye,
I vividly recall crow

wing like a Lil whippersnapper of a boy
leisurely playing monopoly
for make-believe dough...
nothing ranks as the greatest gift
since being a father twenty-one years ago
then bearing witness to grow
increasing autonomy

of my two precious daughters
whereby each will become master
of their domain, and meet a loving beau
(actually thy eldest dates
a delightful young man
from Puerto Re Coe),

whom intuition discerns would be
a near perfect match –
and this papa intuits dough
nuts to dollars – that such an
em man hint gentle, humble,

intelligent lad – doth ***
pa fully become the future groom
of said firstborn, (which outcome I know
wing couched in a couple of poems

sent his way, and no doubt his smarts lo'
and behold revealed the slightly obscure wish),
where love doth most obviously abound mo'
then prevailed between myself and bride o'

mine these last deuce score
plus (21+) years, but now this Poe
whit aspires to recognize the worthiness of she,
whose chose thyself as a lifetime
groom cuz peaceful status quo

avoiding animosity –
as thyself and spouse gently row
our quiet quite rickety craft
which oft times in the past needed a tow
off the craggy shoals of constant woe.
As photographers we see the world differently
We look around and see a beautiful picture
As a “regular” person we see drudging task of life
Photographers see a glistening meadow full of white
“Regular” people see a biter cold with biting wind
Photographers see the world through lenses that act as eyes
“Regular” people think all philosophically and scientifically
Photographers think what would look best
A black and white photograph
A sketch that looks like a picture
Photographers are artist and nothing less
So don’t mistake them for “regular” people
Cecelia Francis Dec 2015
"Regular-sized Rudy?
Why do they call you that?"
"Just look at me,"

A touch of incongruity,
like a rogue ****** in
the parking lot of Rite Aid
that's like really close to the entrance

He said: "I want us to
be happy, and normal,
and I want to treat you better,"
Just look at me.
JR Rhine Nov 2015
Be a regular somewhere.
Ask for the usual.
Turn head up from the facade
of reading the by now memorized menu
to the smell of peppermint chewing gum
and a voice like old rubber treading gravel.
Notice that she did something different with her hair,
asking about how her kid's soccer game was
over the weekend.
Blonde curls--as opposed to waves--streaked with white dangle and bounce restlessly
encroached on an oval face
movement synchronized with fast and tight lips dark wrinkles formed around a bad habit swore to quit after her second child
but conversations and routine keep her body
and mind moving
their weakness frozen in place.
Nod to the chef, a dark-mustached thick-skinned and coarsely-coated fellow;
he tips his hat in greeting, smiling mostly
to himself as he looks down half consciously to chop the tomatoes.
You catch in the air the familiar scent
of coffee brewing, your ears perk up
to the sizzle of bacon as it
slaps into the pan.
The chatter of dishes and silverware
clinking together as they're
scrubbed scrupulously by an oily ambulant adolescent in the kitchen.
You look around, spotting the elderly man
enshrouded in the brown overcoat
patches at the elbows
on the stool, hunched over
the counter, orders coffee black
and graces hot sauce on meals like an elixir.
The lines on his face
seemingly not from the assumed winces
one would have from eating such a spicy meal
in the waking hours.
Wiry fingers coated in aging spots
reach out shakily to the coffee
like a saving grace
thin lipped breaks formation
solely for the formulaic
meal to be consumed.
You watch him now
as you're prone to do
His eyes look forward
and beyond
the kitchen's outer walls
where to in time
you wonder,
and think better of it all.
There's an atmosphere of peace,
not so much the calm before the storm
but the walk before a trot
to a jog and then a sprint.
This is the moment
before the preparation
for the moment,
frozen in time before
the blink of an eye
or the exhale of breath,
before the stretching of muscles
or the cracking of stiff bones,
as the eyes open from sleep
still carrying a few seconds
of the dream
before awakening to reality.
To have this moment all to yourself,
in the presence of others.
To share an atmosphere,
dense with the allusion of dreams
It's in the appreciation
of the mundane
as a sign of life,
in the shared atmosphere as a
sign of community.
To see less blurry faces,
and maybe just a few good ones.
To see the imperfections
of others patiently,
or in awe,
perhaps at the work of a creator,
or of nature,
or to wander between
fact and fiction
unlike two sides of a coin,
but more alike two bodies of water
on opposite sides of an endless isle;
currents break onto the shore
with crashes full of yearning,
as if a call to the other side.
You walk amidst the cacophony
interpreted as a symphony
the sizzle of pig meat
the clinking of dishes
the monotonous yet
harmonious chatter of
ritualized conversations
with nuances you've interpreted
and analyzed, memorized;
you could sing it like the refrain
of an old folk tune.
This is your song
this is your orchestra
clinking dishes
sizzling bacon
chewing gum between yellowing teeth
you write this symphony
and rehearse it everyday
before it fades into the world
of chaos and conundrum.
But for now
you are on the shore,
with the coffee wind
carrying the sizzling and clinking
breaks awash white foam like milk
with a peppermint gum-
flavored saltwater mist that
kisses your face as it asks
about a refill.
Of course you say yes,
sitting upon worn leather upholstery
on the beach side,
feeling yourself settle
into a familiar crease
you sigh with relief.
Tucking away the urge
to anxiously wait
for the moment to cease.
I am a fan of routine on a (sub)conscious level. Something about going to the same place, sitting in the same seat, and analyzing your environment to take note of any changes from your last visit is... intoxicating.
Serenity Elliot Sep 2014
There she was, standing on the train
Drops in her hair from the outside rain
She had rough holes in her shoes,
A small tear up her tights,
Beneath her ruffled hair her eyes shone bright.

Reading her book in just a sweater,
Moving her lips with each glorious letter
Not wearing a coat,
Saving up for the right one,
Heading home to laugh and have fun.

The same skirt that has been worn each day this week,
Beneath her blouse sleeves delicate wrists do peak,
A curl behind her ear and
Regular earrings worn without fail,
Behind her she leaves a positive trail.

— The End —