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Poetoftheway Dec 6
scraps and scrapes of
scripts,
from tears and  zippered weeping of
rips,
lie upon my consciousness like pimpled
irritants,
begging for compassion wetness of
completetedness,
but time is a bitchye mistress, fools not with
suffering,
so herein dispatched one of many driftwoods
dispatched

and let us say
who’s up next. Amen!
M Solav Mar 2022
Thought is finding its shape,
Becoming stronger¹,
And word by word,
Layer upon layer,
Self-erasing,
Taking form².

The mind is a collage
Creating itself from cut-up scraps¹;
It is a sculpture built by a flowing
Fountain of sand,
Both constantly being eroded
And being formed

And grown by the erosion²,
The sculpting fingers of erosion¹,
The sculpted shadows of forgetfulness².
Grains of memory
Beneath the fingernails¹,
They fall, they forget;

One remains².
Written on January 6th, 2022.

This is a photopoetry collaboration with poet Paul Rowland¹ (www.jonathanpicklesthecity.com). We took turns writing verses on an abstract image on Instagram.


— Copyright © M. Solav —
www.msolav.com

This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact marsolav@outlook.com for usage requests. Thank you.
Dark Dream May 2021
I am
gleaning
Scraps
I am
Starved
AND
they are not
Satisfying
at all
Proctor Ehrling Sep 2019
In our mutual agreement of togetherness, I was alone.
I'll just start posting lines I never found a use for, maybe this will be a good home for them.
Beau Scorgie Apr 2016
Tonight I will sleep on my fragmented thoughts
that my anxieties found too delicate to embrace.

Crushed by nature and neglected from nurture -
I'm not one to hoard but my head must rest.

Is it so wrong for a woman to caress her melancholy
as tenderly as she does her lover?

These pieces of madness once smelled so sweet
like the roses I've kept from years foregone.

I crowd my mind with scraps of death
to remind myself that what is dead, is never gone.
b for short Mar 2016
She would take it down
       on old crumpled receipts—
imprisoned at the bottom of 

                           her bag.

Each laid to crooked rest next to
questionable crumbs of mystery
and a pen that leaked its
                    remaining potential
into scattered
Morse code all over
cheaply sewn lining.

The saving grace
of these little       ragtag proofs
allowed her to
relive the moment
when his singing voice
brought all of her
dizzy moth thoughts
                   to a stand still.

With each coo, he
pulled on all of the right strings,
and all of the right curves
on her body                 turned up
in all of the right places.

     Once again she
danced a smile with her eyes
and rolled her hips with her tongue
like she never
   forgot how.
© Bitsy Sanders, March 2016
When you talk to me
All I can hear is
The sound of her voice in yours
When I look into your eyes
All I can see is
Her reflection in yours
She is everywhere
And I have looked beneath your soul too many times
Hoping
Praying
I would find something that belongs to me within you
But
She hides in every corner
And I am in plain sight
A sitting duck waiting to be shot
By the very hands that used to hold me in my sleep
You have never deemed me worthy
Of tucking me in the folds of your heart
And as I lay here in the cold silence of your indifference
I think I realize that maybe
The pieces of you I thought you had given me
Are only scraps of what you gave her
And what she refused to keep.
Maybe, this whole time,
The pieces of you where hand me downs
From the one person I would never be able to accept anything from

**(You never bothered to give me something new)
I gave you my brand new heart and you gave me nothing
AprilDawn Apr 2014
no longer relevant
noisily devoured  
by a gaping hole
stuffed to capacity
then shoveled
into a bin
marked for permanent exile
an anonymous
paper trail
that use to lead
to my life.
Getting ready to move   ( which I did several times after my hubby died )  , and  the  busy work  of saying good bye to things I didn't need to  hold onto anymore fed through  the paper shredder.

— The End —