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Vedo la luce di un lampione,
in fondo alla via.

Dall'alto.

Non voglio illumini da sola la strada.
Non riesce bene.
Non è serena.

Lei non è fioca.
Ma non è viva.

È giallina,
ma d'un giallo che non sceglieresti mai
tra i pastelli colorati.

L’asfalto crepato, le erbacce secche, le case vuote,
ciò che illumina è familiare.
Ma non amico.

Non deve esser molto contento,
quel lampione,
come un padre che osserva, immobile,
il figlio morente.

Vorrei potesse andarsene
da quella staticità.

Da quella strada.

Da quel nulla.

///

I see the light of a street lamp,
at the end of the street.

From above.

I don't want it to light up the road by itself.
It doesn't work well.
It's not serene.

It's not dim.
But it's not alive.

It's yellowish,
but a yellow you'd never choose
among colored crayons.

The cracked asphalt, the dry weeds, the empty houses,
what it illuminates is familiar.
But not friendly.

It must not be very happy,
that street lamp,
like a father who watches, motionless,
his dying son.

I wish it could go away
from that staticity.

From that street.

From that nothingness.
Written looking out the window in midnight
Reece Apr 13
As we walked through the wood,
I found myself oddly stood,
Amidst my peers and fellow friends,
As we searched to find an end,
For we believed we could.

There was a fork in the road,
Two paths diverged, their end unknown.
My peers and friends took the right,
While I stood, paralyzed in fright,
Not knowing where to go.

As they walked down their trail,
I hoped and prayed that they’d prevail,
But feeling called to look around,
I focused on the ground,
And studied, and eventaully prevailed.

The one to the left,
Had been more unkempt.
The right was more ideal,
Even though they hurt their heels,
They charged forward without regret.

However, deep in my soul,
I felt called, the origin unknown,
To walk the path that no one dared,
Not necessarily because they were scared,
But because the right had been controlled.

So, gathering my wits,
I took a step, with no intention to quit,
And walked down the path to my left,
A warm feeling spreading in my chest,
A sense of pride, I must admit.

The road I travel on,
Not many dare to step upon,
But those who do are,
Chosen by the stars,
To walk the road I travel on.
A shorter, not-so-subtle nod toward "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.
Laokos Feb 27
I’m not good enough to write
this poem. these ******* words
won’t come. here I am, feeling
like a dried **** on the grass—
all hard, white and shriveled
obstinately sitting there, surrounded
by all that lush green.
this resistance is a real *******,
sitting on me like a sumo wrestler,
smiling in its power over me.
looking down on me
and controlling me effortlessly.

“you can’t write poetry,
you’re a nobody.
a real lukewarm leftover special.
no one will ever love you.
no one will ever like you.
no one will ever see you.
no one wants you to succeed.
no one wants to read your poetry.
don’t waste your time doing
something you’ll never be good at.
you’re not good enough.
you’re not strong enough.
someone like you could never
be someone like that.
someone like you could never
do something like that.
someone like her would never
love someone like you.
you’re gross,
nobody wants to look at you.
stay home.
don’t do anything.
don’t even try.
give up.”


I mean, this guy’s got a million
of these bumper stickers
and he slaps them all over
the inside of my car
all day, every day—
that is, when he’s not using
my chest as a seat cushion.
it’s gotten to the point where
I now can’t see out of my windshield.
I just wanna go somewhere
but he won’t let me see
where I’m going.
he won’t stop talking.
I can’t hear the music anymore.
I don’t know where I am.
I can’t breathe.
I just know that this car feels
more like solitary confinement
than freedom and the a/c
stopped working a long time ago.

I think I need to stop the car.
I need to open the door
and step out into the light.
I don’t even need to take
off the bumper stickers,
I think I just need to walk
for a while—
move at my natural rhythm again.
like children do before
we start in on them.
before we start building their car
around them and teaching them
to believe in it.

this is you.
you are this car.
except when you’re alone,
then maybe you can leave
the car but never in public,
never in front of other people.
this car will protect you from
them, from the world—
from yourself.
hide in it.

well, I left my car
on the side of the road
some ways back
with the keys in it
and a full tank of gas.
the door’s open,
take it if you need it.
hell, take it if you want it,
I don’t give a ****—
just don’t try
to pick me up in it
if you ever catch up.

                      signed,
                                 ­ 
                               nobody


P.S. watch out for the fat guy in the diaper.
Vitæ Feb 13
He drives dreaming,
     smoke writhing between
              gashed fingers keeps the
                                         wheel turning.
                                                  Sometimes,
                                an irresistible light
                     flares its hungry glare
           blinding the only eye
he can see with.
Sometimes,
     he's headlessly drifting,  
               and fears what's sprawled
                                 on the kerb might've
                                                        been him
                                    and when it isn't,
                              he pays a toll
       bound for the high way
black as a solstice night
     riding serpentine
          until he's no longer
                     prey to the break
                                              of day.
“Not a road long enough to outrun the dawn. Let the sun rise. I am ready.”
― L.M. Browning
Vianne Lior Feb 11
Footsteps on cracked roads,
we rush, yet never look down—
the ground holds our past.
What the world sees
and what you think you are presenting
is not what you think it is
when I hear your gears announcing themselves
struggling and winding
slipping between their metal teeth
amplified by your modified tailpipes
I imagine a neanderthal with their sloping brow
and knuckles dragging the ground
getting up each morning late for work
when I hear you change gears from my living room
I wonder what part of you is missing
by your need to announce yourself
through your tailpipe
I want to help you look
the whole world wants to help you look
a mother’s love
to be held and cuddled and told again and again
I hear you
I am so sorry the world didn’t notice you standing there
I think you are just wonderful the way you are
there is no need to puff yourself up to compensate
let me help you find what you are missing
you broken winged butterfly
you lost adorable kitten
let me help you put yourself together again
you forty-five piece porcelain set of chipped china
Copyright all right reserved February 8, 2025
Leanne Jan 29
Life points in all directions,
Each road is different.
Some roads we travel, we often choose to blame.
Why blame the path we’re taking?
It’s a product of our choices.
You can’t change the way you get there; the destination is yours alone.
You pick every turn.
You take every detour.
Sometimes darkened, and sometimes light.
But this road, the road you choose to go down, was made just for you.
Imagine, a straight flat road.
There would be nothing fun to do.
This road is full of valleys, and sometimes the highest peaks.
It might scare you to keep traveling on.
But know that this road doesn’t define you,
Or make you who you are.
It’s who’s traveling this road with you that helps you when you feel you can’t go on.
So life Points in all directions;
never judge or show any shame.
This person on this different path, may be experiencing the same.
Emma Grace Dec 2024
The push, the pull, the press
One button, two minds, and three words.

Off it goes, it explodes.
No rhyme no reason.

The Thoughtful path, The Thorned path.
Yellow pebbles when looking in,
Where red roses begin to sprout.

The weary step, the feet begin to shake.

The warmth of gold gravel turns to painful pokes.

Treading as it turns to May, more scarlet petals lay.

The one blooming bruise, the two weeks later, and three sleepless nights.

The time it takes to be one place.

-Grace <3
Hello everyone!
I wrote this as I fell asleep so it has no specific topic. Let me know what resonated with you.
Hebert Logerie Dec 2024
Pas à pas. Ô Femme, l’Ange Gardien de mon cœur
Je te poursuivrais jusqu’au chemin du bonheur
Je ferais d’énormes sacrifices pour rejoindre ta route
Je t'en supplie de n’avoir absolument aucun doute
Je te retrouverai parce que je t’aime tant, je t’aime
Je m’en ficherai de toutes sortes de problèmes
Souviens-toi de la jolie chanson d’Alain Barrière
Je franchirai les frontières et briserai des barrières
Pour t’exhumer, t’enchérir et t’aimer davantage
Comme cela a été fait à travers les âges
Si tu ne me revenais pas, si tu ne me revenais
Toi et moi n’aurions jamais, jamais la paix
Pas au pas, pas à pas, à petit et grand pas
Toi et moi serons ensemble sous un nouveau toit.

Malgré marées, vents et ouragans : je t’aime
Et je ne vais pas hurler et crier que je t’aime.

Femme, femme de mon cœur, si tu ne me revenais
Pas à pas, je fouillerais les encyclopédies des secrets
Pour trouver la porte de ton cœur et la clé de ton âme
Je franchirai bravement toutes les frontières. Ô Femme !
Femme de mon être, je suis prêt pour être critiqué
Flétri, censuré, canonné, voire crucifié et cloué
Comme cela été fait à travers les ages
Pour ressusciter l’amour et t’aimer davantage
Je t’en prie de nourrir aucun, aucun doute
Puisque tu seras seule sur ma voie, sur ma route
Si tu ne me  revenais pas, si tu ne me revenais
Toi et moi n’aurions jamais, jamais la paix
Pas au pas, pas à pas, à petit ou grand pas
Toi et moi porterons ensemble la même croix.

Malgré la pluie, le vent et le tonnerre : je t’aime
Et je vais rigoler, rire, et sourire parce que je t’aime.

P.S. Hommage à Alain Bellec (Barrière), un grand chanteur et poète.

Copyright © Décembre 2004, Hébert Logerie, Tous droits réservés
Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de plusieurs livres de poésie.
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