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Maria Etre Mar 2019
Those spaces
between each line
form the places
where I lose
my
breath
writing about
you
you
let me
die
first


your touch
on me
it's
always been
?






















...
..
.
don't be sad
...
A W Aug 2017
Where do I begin?
Why do I try every time you say "it's fine"?

I can't tell anymore with the feelings I receive.
First it's something I have to believe,

Believe in what?  A sign that I cannot see?
Why should I be naive?

Nothing make sense the more I think about the contradictions.
Do they even synchronize; our emotions?

I cannot tell.
Not until you yell.

It doesn't have to go on for so long,
So why must we chase something if it seems like we don't belong.  

Our friendship is an unresolved issue.
Always getting ready to argue.

Will our years of friendship be the same?
I care for you, but do you only feel sick around me?

I've made my mistake,
but I plan to get back into shape.

I want to confront you but will it make it worse?
Am I now on a high horse?

You tell me all of my flaws,
all of these laws-

Like it's a word for word scripture.
I always need to re sculpt;



Just to fit your mold of ideas.



I'm not trying hard enough,
yet my efforts don't matter through the rough.

I just seem too broken for you.
Or maybe, as always, I'm just making up you view.
I just have bad anxiety and jump to conclusions too soon.
Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2016
You are beautiful and I am not.
We are the habits of our forefathers.

We can choose to forget them, let them
Drain away like sand through glass,

Distant dust of history. As much as we try
To remember, desire is stronger than memory.

Sometimes I turn to sculpt soft clay,
Loose and stark in my hands.

And then I abandon the mess. I should keep
My fingertips stained red for effort.

I remember dreaming a vision:
Heroine of my own story,

Walking the grey beach in winter,
Projected far into the future when I might realize it.

Clay does not sculpt itself.
Prayers go unanswered. Here

I dwell in my own lit house,
Multiple yellow lights

Floating in the dark, mirror for
The starry night that I might see.  

We’re the only species with
Wings on our feet. We’ve molded

Paper into something precious.
Currency of kings. Gold origami.

Honeyed words remain my nectar.
Rome is a daylong process that is for ever.

To shape is a practice
Known by time and being,

That I may become a living embodiment.
That I might find grace in a raised arm, a bent leg.

That I might see myself through a filter of love.
That I might remember there are no

Comparisons.
That we are beautiful for our very selves.
From my poetry collection, "Blood for Honey", available at Lulu.com and Amazon.
Äŧül Aug 2016
I love your eyes and the eyebrows,
And I love your nose & the lips.

I love your smile and the laughter,
And I love your grimace & the tears.

I love your happiness and the anger,
And I love your innocence & the glamour.

I love your appearance in my dreams,
And I love the lap dance you perform.

I love your sketch in all of my memories,
And I love those curves tempting to sculpt.

I love your memories with all my heart,
And I refuse to give up all hope even if you get married to someone else.
My HP Poem #1117
©Atul Kaushal
Luna Craft Jun 2016
You can tie me up and break me
Control every inch of my soul
Put me on an assembly line of mirror images
Sculpt me how you ******* want
But for the love of god let me tie my own noose
Let me end this game
I'm so tired
Pauline Morris Mar 2016
Would you rather
Be you
Or make yourself a new
Whould you rather
Live beside a ocean
Or in a city with all of the commotion
Would you rather
Be happy
Or always feel crapy
Would you rather
Go to heaven
Or face armmagad
Would you rather
Love yourself
Or somebody else
Would you rather
Die
Or learn to fly
Would you rather
Be lonely
Or be someone's only
Would you rather
Tell the truth
Or tell lies to the roof

Whatever choice you make
You sculpt yourself
Even if you choose not to choosechocand set upon a shelf
Chip away,
Piece by piece,
At the unrefined granite,
Erode each layer,
Define it further,
Find the perfect contours,
The creature within,
That lives and breathes,
But beneath a prison of rock,
And you hold the key,
A chisel,
Take it away,
Chunk by chunk,
Reveal the true form,
Let its eye see again,
Let its fingers reach for the sky,
Perfected,
Not created,
Reduced,
From rough stone,
To beauty.
Thoughtful Aug 2014
Beware: Do not fall in Love with an artist.

An artist is definitely the most dangerous to fall into a relationship with.
You won’t even know you’re the exact facsimile of their work.

They will tear your heart to bits,
more than likely to generate a new showpiece.

They will watch your irises go from fields in bloom to dull skies,
and your black pupils go from metallic to charcoal.

They will be able to stroke your hair softer than a paintbrush,
and watch your little detail emerge from something pallid.

They will be able to memorize the structure of your face,
then round your cheeks and chisel your dimples into rock.

They will sing lightly the melody you’ve made,
as they cling to your torso as if a life source.

Do you see the danger?
For the love of god, beware.

— The End —