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Old souls burn out young.
We've been here before,
the wasted youth,
AKA- the recycled material
Yeah you know who I'm talking about right?
The once upon a time obedient souls
that never disobeyed orders and followed the rules.
They died and live through us-
The wasted youth.
We are their second chances,
Their opportunity of another life-
where they don't give a care in the world
but to live recklessly.
Being rebellious with no direction.
Wasted lives,
like Lotto money that was won
and spent reckless because it isn't really 'YOURS'
isn't it?
You just won that money,
just like you won that second life.
The 'you' that held back when you were alive
about a century ago is living through the new age:
Now all that you are is the wasted youth.
You live in me
The Tinkerer Nov 30
From the word,
I've been away,
Creating rhymes,
Had taken a break.

A conversation, just yesterday,
Got me thinking
for the written word,
I still do crave.

To write about love,
To write about fear.
To write about life,
Or this field right here.

With every word I write,
I seem to remember,
The wall's not down,
Though the ladder is near.

Thought I'd grown up,
Left behind my poetic years.
Now I realise,
I stopped out of fear.

But all the while,
I was blessed with an ear.

For now  I can hear,
A rhyme within a smile,
Entire ballads in her eyes,
And the beauty of a tear.
This it the second poem of mine in the better part of a year. I just want to be able to write as eloquently as I used to about the many things that have been a major part of me in the last few months.

I have realised that this is one form of release. And it seems to work.
Thanks to the world.
Toxic yeti Nov 19
I am neither the past present nor future
I am a love lorn ghost
I am cursed to find true love
As I get reborn and reborn
Finding the lover
Who I lost centries ago
In a land of hills
In a land of mountains
In a land of deserts
An exotic place
Where the curse started
When he died.
The bright blue bottle hit me like a hint of death
on the breath of Spring.
I imagined it being tossed out a truck window,
by underage teens fancying themselves clever
and mature and immortal.

As if the earth had willed upon them that her stolen treasure, Aluminum,
be returned or she’d cause their truck keys disappear for all eternity.
I picked up the blue bottle,

tried to feel resurrection in a recycling sort of way,
felt instead only the hollow emptiness of mindless eternal reincarnation.
Winter had been long this year and lately I fantasized resurrection more than usual

at a field where I stopped to listen to meadowlark and field sparrow calling for mates or alerting everyone to the sin of the blue bottle.
Several deer grazed the unseen first greens of Spring near skunk cabbage and coltsfoot.

At a small stream, I cupped my hand into the icy fast water and raised it to my lips, then splashed my face, then splashed some more, more,
then knelt, both knees at the streambed and submersed my face and head,

in self-inflicted baptism for my own blue bottle sins,
opened my eyes, exhaled all my blue bubbles, for the longest of repentant moments.  Pulled out of the water gasping the holy Spring air for dear life

and thereafter walked each step in the garden of resurrection.
Published in The Watershed Journal
EP Robles Oct 24
No longer a thought
within my brain,
the mortician lay me
down to sleep

a scream i refrained
surfaced as white
within my eyes
that none had bought

my vitals he checked
and thumped my nose
as a creep

a bath and massage
no dance but song
two strong hands
then set my face

arterial embalming
then drain/eject
it's all the same
the cavity --
aspirate and concentrate

The humming thrumming
burning desire
escaped as soon as with
a pop I fled my skin
and faced the choice
to do it once again.

:: 10-23-2018 ::
It's October so why not write a poem about the mortician's work?  Wrap it up in the concept of reincarnation.
Sindi Kay Oct 22
With the moon glancing into my window
And a quilt hugging my body
The wind moaning
And whistling
I become a ghost
From one world
To another
into a
new ****
Ready to be again.

-Sindi K.

Bragi Oct 19
2018 - I see you smiling at me while we’re watching a play. I get this feeling I’ll never know your name.
1918 - Returning home from war to find you with another man. A story in a story, a sadness in the sad...
1818 - Now I’m a Frankenstein tormented by a monster.
1718 - I arrive in a New Orleans where soon I forgot her.
1618 - The execution of one of the greatest explorers makes my heart afraid to find a new lover.
1518 - I’m in Italy now admiring a Michelangelo, passions are burning and you’re my new antidote.
1418 - In Florence there’s talks of a new cathedral, competition in design yet to you there’s no equal.
1318 - From the English the Scottish fight for independence but I would sell my soul just to be in her presence.
1218 - From Acre I leave for Egypt, a crusade of the soul, but I gave that to you not too long ago.
1118 - A new pope on the throne holding a king like he’s owned but you’re a free spirit and your name... I won’t know...
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