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The Spring
detests the girl
with the ivory complexion,
dollops of rosy flesh
sunk against her face
like discarded peach pits
(and discarded
is she.
is she).

Mother Nature's
Alabaster *******,
they've dubbed her.

And tried Mother Nature
to preach tranquillity
to her daughter,
a reminder to always keep
amidst any tempest
****** into her path.  

But mother,
I am the tempest.

Come tomorrow morning,
the spring snow
will have melted,
but frigid I shall remain.

Dissonant and
I shall remain.

All the world begins to thaw
as I loll about in
the tundra of this loneliness.

When dawn arrives,
I will draw the curtains
before the rising sun
shoots me that beam
of apocalyptic grin.

The world is not ending,
you will tell me
(but mine is).

I have always existed
from the rest,
you see.

The bright evenings and the even brighter mornings.

The unmistakably poignant scent of freshly-cut grass.

Marmalade sunsets that descend effortlessly into their celestial counterparts.

Flowers blossoming to profound vibrancy.

I wish I could tell the flowers
it is only a matter of time
before some wandering child
will rip apart their petals
in a ruthless game of
“He Loves Me
He Loves Me Not.”

I Know this game
all too well—
the perils of picking
an even number
of petals).

And it is only a matter of time
before autumn dolls out
its wiltings.

I am also well accustomed
to the art of wilting,
you know.

The only difference
between me
and the sunflowers
is that the spring
belongs to them.

It is the epoch
of renewal,
of second chances
in spite of their inevitable
both past and future.

But the present--
the spring--
it will always belong to them.

I know not
how it feels
to heal alongside
the sunflowers.

I know not
what it means
to shed the prospect of
even if it is only

My heart is caught
in an impenetrable limbo.

Tell me
Mother Nature,
how do I move on?

For letting go
seems a foreign enigma
to me.

what else am I to do
but draw the curtains
each sunrise?

As I am left to weather
the deluge
while all the world blooms,
as I am left to
I desperately
await the

For it is only
in the rain
that I shall return home.
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(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
I can hardly wait
to rise anew from ashes.
Set alight by love.
eva-mae Apr 10
measure the midway, that cavernous kiss
torment of the raging waves
commentates angelical bliss
softly in those criminous caves.

endure and wail with the whispering wind
the tyrannous acid lash
twice the insidious harmony
of foamy thunder ****.

crawl and curl into turbulant annex
antagonistic reverie
thrice the slaving metroplex
of every elder tree.
Tori Mar 25
Fuel of the all-consuming fire
which illumines the forest green
Renewing the heart and life of the soil
through the ache of its searing heat
and without it?suffocation.
Which strangles the life of the wood
leaving in its wake a blank and barren earth
Thera Lance Apr 2
We will begin anew,

In this world we have made

Life shall bloom in our shadows

And the sun shall rain light upon our paths again.
This is one of the possible intro poems for a small poetry collection that I will, hopefully, soon be able to publish on wattpad. It will also show up entirely on here, but wattpad' version will have cover art for those interested.
HSH Mar 30
Pastels/interlude of spring
Rememories in pattern&gene
Soft-hues emulate the air breaking/defrosting/shedding from chilled atmospheric flingending

Warm-risal of color saturation
In tune-time for renewal plant life
Budding/blossoming/bussing into vibrant splashes all can hear with their eyes/feel & read on their skin
Proof of life in us flooding back in

Pastels/complimentary of spring
Inches away from primaries
Setting a balance/calming glee
ing effervescence

Mel Williams Mar 16
I am being made new.
The egg, cracked in half.
Taped together with scotch tape and super glue.
The yolk entirely devoid of its once-consistant home.

This is emptiness.
This is being renewed.
This is what it is to feel and not feel.
To be and not be.

The hand dips me.
Reaches for me.
Dunks me in a solvent of cement and tissue paper.

I am rock.
I am eggshell.
I am tissue paper.
I am two parts vulnerable,
one part entirely indestructible.

I weigh 1000 tons.

I would sink in a river.

I miss the yolk that once inhabited me.
Golden yellow:
So much promise. So much desire.

A gray mallet cracks me open.
It ecavates me.

I miss my terrible weight.

A hot glue gun binds me back together.
I am neither egg nor rock nor air nor yolk.
I am all and none at all.
I am egg soup.
Egg solid.
Egg squared and solidified.
Egg smashed and built again.
        ...The limitless persistance of life.
Jo Barber Feb 22
As her final breaths escaped her,
she felt calmed by the epiphany
that peace would follow her.
Not right away, but it would come.
Sleepy Sunday afternoons,
and days spent without thought.
Her pain now was fleeting,
so corporeal in nature
as to be meaningless.
Her mind now
as white as the snow in which she lay.

All was still. All was done.
And all was begun anew.
swaggmaster Feb 7
learning to be
aware of how to hold
my physical being
creeping into the christening
resistant fingers and toes
curled inward in fear
driven by woes
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