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M Solav Mar 28
Here is just another thought
Going down the stream,
Just another thought.

Leaking from a tap
Labeled with "purity"
Just another trap

  The obsessive mind gullibly bites the lure,
  Obscured by clouds connections,
  Concealing the large picture.

    How every blast creates a reaction!
    Panic attacks to draw the attention.
    Where’s the crack in the grand ****’s wall,
    So we can strike down the reservoir?

Diverting the river that must belong to all
Before our eyes - wider worlds shrink small;
Cradled by the uniformity of lies that appease,
Those grazing in the dunes still tarry at ease.

It’s no wonder!

Insecurity has grown into a most lucrative market
As danger becomes the currency on which to place the bet;
Release the flow from the control that profits hold fast,
Question the junk food that's become the pasture of our mass.

  Continuous diversions
  Feeding everyone’s greed
  Fulfilling false concerns -
  So easily believed!

    How every blast creates a reaction!
    Panic attacks to draw the attention.
    Will the facts in knowledge’s downfall
    Let us unshackle the repertoire?
Written on August 9th, 2017 — as lyrics for a song yet to be released.
Blade Maiden Sep 2018
I tumble
through a silver lining
eyes peeking out of a blinding
light travels fast
further yet to meet at last
between two sides
of the same mind
bodies lying on many tides
dancing over water to unwind

I heard myself mumble
"I'm waiting for the moon to drop down
crush these stones, flush my sight and make me drown"
flesh turns soft pink into shades of light blue
like sunrise
becoming the sea's painted sky, wide and true
I realize
I became one with the tide
birds flying in my sight
I'm their reservoir
everyday they will tell me au revoir

and I'll tenderly embrace
oceans weary face
and make it mine
make it mine
Gale L Mccoy Jul 2018
began with the end of your sentence
the dredges at the bottom of the mocha
fool yourself into thinking
you are not running on less than nothing
accept it doesn’t make sense
read the symbols you find
at the bottom of your reservoir
day 1 of 31 days of poetry challenge
Stephanie Jan 2018
I was drowned in my memories
Of how everything used to be,
I built a big reservoir inside my heart
So I can vividly see and feel them
When they turn oblivion to everyone
When they turn oblivion to you
Lucius Furius Jul 2017
The golfers leave early --
September or October --
it's just you and the hickories,
the asters, the goldenrod --
and the reservoir --
the ripples shimmering eastward.
Steamshovels and bulldozers labored here one summer,
digging a hole for the water,
piling up the earth.
You walk on the bank they made,
seeing beyond the golf course --
the houses and barns,
the swampy gray-brown fields of goldenrod,
the railroad tracks,
the pines.
Your thoughts plunge to the reservoir's bottom
then turn
racing to the farthest field.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: .
Meg B Dec 2014
I can't say for sure at what age you
suddenly start to really
take the world in,
but I have these
specific memories of being
an angsty fourteen-year-old
running laps around the reservoir
at swim practice.

I was so young,
but old enough that I really thought
I knew what love was,
and maybe I did,
maybe I knew love in a certain kinda way,
a certain kinda love I'm too old
to understand now.

I ran laps.
I remember noticing my breathing,
the one-two-three huff-huff-huff
rhythmically circulating oxygen as I
went numb from the waist down.
I remember thinking about this
boy that I loved in
some way or another.
I remember noticing the water's
gentle splashing,
the way the high, hot sun reflected off its splishing.
I remember the sound of runners
passing me by,
the sight of those I passed doubled over
from a "cramp" or maybe just
I remember the way my coach yelled and yelled,
pushed and pushed.
I remember feeling and thinking so
noticing so

I remember the first time that
I just took in so much
I had to go home and write some
love poems,
spilling my guts onto college-ruled paper
in some various-colored
gel pen.

I can't say for sure at what age you
suddenly start to really
take the world in;
I can't say for sure at what age a poet
suddenly becomes a
but I have these
specific memories of the first time
I took the world in,
and I decided to write
about it.

— The End —