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Jay M Sep 6
For a moment
A simple second
You make me giddy
Make me forget my promise
But then
I have to bite my tongue

So close
Yet so far away

A longing
Yet it shall never be relived.

- Jay M
August 29th, 2019
Jay M Sep 6
Realistically,
How could I
Ever be close to good enough
For you?

You're kind,
Funny, thoughtful, sweet,
Adorable, caring,
Overall wonderful.

What am I
Compared to you?

- Jay M
September 6th, 2019
J J Aug 21
Cresol dusk imbued to rustic hypnosis,
The civic stroll outside,zombified with
What must be glorious ataxia.

The masquerade hosted by dust,
An implicit surrender to the elements,
Basked in nocturnia-- lo,

The elements ceased having meaning
When I learnt I could not hold control
  over them.

See the sky ramp and shiver,shuffling stars
In a showcase to those loving,an augury to those
Self-appointed sinners--

And see me,disconnected and without a care,
I surrender my breath as limboid tangents
And the elements do not rebut.

I am homed in becoming alone,
I am possessed in converse and I am lost
  without the choice to be otherwise.

I watch the gimcrack mannerisms loop effably,
Understanding the road to omniscience is tipped
In ego alone--

One must not surrender,rather accept
And work a way round the system.
The cosmic map is eidetic,it's lanuage
  dares not pander to speech,
  it's sleep is one day needed
  and complimentary to our own--

I listen to the madrigal and no longer seek to compose it,
I choose to believe that nothing is chosen.
(LONG AFTERWARD) I began posting here under a different name years ago and decided to revisit the site only recently after a string of publishing rejections,despite an urge to abandon poetry all together. What's amazed me most is the growth of talent,particularly one S. Olsen,looking through much of my older work(few of which ive published here) I've found a lot of similarities,from similar phrasing's,vocabulary,format's,viewpoint's,etc. Despite not knowing of him until recently. Simply put,he is the poet i aspired to be when poetry was what my life revolved around,the best of his kind. I would rank him among my favourite contemporaries and if not for this site I'd never have discovered him, this poem shows more of my voice than his,I think,but that is a further example of his own unreplicable voice. Keep strong,brother, whatever helps helps and your writing has helped me greatly.
S Bharat Aug 10
She Is Now Used To That

By day, she is happy
And able to spend the time
In her own imaginary world.
She manages it with her selfies
Which keep her away
From nervousness.
By the time it darkens,
The effect of her imaginary world deserts her, And she is down to earth,
Again engrossed with the harsh reality.
She becomes introvert,
Exposes herself to me
And sheds tears every night
Saying that in her showy life
There is nothing in lieu of sorrow.
But the next day, she does the same.
She is now used to that.

S. Bharat
Johnny walker Jul 26
She was my one and only Valentine the one and only I ever gave a red rose every Valentine's
day
along with a card to tell of how much I loved her
never In twenty years together
did we ever miss a Valentines day for Helen meant the world to
me for sadly now my sweetheart has
passed
away no more cards or rose's will there be on Valentines
day
Amaris Jul 24
You gave me silken scarves and solitude
To weave my own bindings
You gave me surpluses of satin
Bandages for skin you broke
You gave me Swarovski accessories
As if it excused your absences
You gave me smooth apologies
A salve to my twisted fingers
Tim Jordan Jul 12
Mistah Gates. He dead"

Time is an ouroboros and
the Earth a flat circle

Measure out your life
in insta pics

Let us go then, you and I,
through empty diamonds
and deserted play grounds.
Let us visit, if you will,
the battlefields ,
streets full of bodies
that decay in minutes.

In waiting rooms people come and go
and speak of tanks and Bushido
 
Eyes I dare not meet
Can see me with their headpiece
made of straw

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Forgotten, as we stare at our new ones.
This poem is intentionally jagged and imperfect, much like me.
I had spent most of life searching for my one
true love and all time
she was no more than
a street
away
How cruel life can be
for fate kept us waiting
what seemed like an
eternity In my last days at
school the year was  
1968
I didn't know then this
pretty school girl who
would come down to my school at break times tuck her
skirt Inside
her
pants
would do handstands up
at the railing around my
class room showing of her loverly legs for all to see many
later she would become
my wife
and she would give birth
to our son this pretty girl who loved to tease how strange life
Is often cruel but sometimes kind and I'm grateful for the school girl
who became my
wife
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