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visit old places
to search among memories
in hope to find you
I write about you as if doing so will make you real
Haven’t met you, yet I know how you make me feel
Or maybe the reality is I have and the want is from memory
Pen to paper should imitate passion inked on you by me

No doubt that I am foolish, time winds and leaves us scarred
As if contradicting doors with a dozen locks, yet still ajar
Reminiscent of bruised fruit, but the heart only feels hunger
With you satiating the wanting and the ever driving wonder

And the poetry has gone on so long I know not if your real
I have no regrets, as the pen bleeds only what I feel
My mind like a drunken witness with an unreliable memory
With that in mind, I paint dripping words with my visions of you and me

Whoever you may be
Amy 6d
I search for you,
I search for you in my dreams
I search for you in blank faces that cross me in the street
but it seems you’re so far to reach
but
I won’t ever stop longing for you
because
once we do find each other
I know you’ll be worth the wait.
to my soulmate that's out there
this is one's for you
her soul is parched
from wandering through deserts
looking for a oasis
she'll never find
Esther L. Krenzin
Maybe it helps not at all
Or maybe it helps much
But I’ll say it like this
I have it in my head
I heard or saw or read
Somewhere that dolphins blind
In dark or bound briefly
But kindly with blindfold
Can find a moving thing
Long beyond when it moved
Through water and tests show
It not to be scent trail
Nor do they the experts
Suspect temperature
But say instead the roll
And fold of turbulence
Signs a way back to fish
Or fleeing lure and sings
Betrayal though all else
Is still as night and death
Paul M Chafer Sep 15
I think,
I know who I am.
Do you know who I am?
Or maybe I don’t; after all.

It’s true; I don’t know who I am anymore!
What I do know, is that I try for sincerity,
Try to match ‘your’ forthright honesty,
While disguising how lost I have become,
Which is not an easy task to set oneself.

Do you sense my damaged spirit?
Well, my heart was lost long ago,
I fixed it, though! At least, I tried.
Yeah, sure, it’s not perfect: but what is?
Understand, those wounds went deep,
That’s the trouble with loving, giving,
Opening up, before the fated falling.
Even with distance, a virtual world away,
Always the landing, the dreaded crash,
The scattered pieces of shattered affection,
Embarrassing detritus of human emotion,
Becoming flotsam on a soughing breeze.
The confetti of feelings; unrecognisable.
A whole person, just floating away,
Left to wander, bereft, unwanted,
Loved no more, until inside; something dies,
Desire, crushed into nothingness: dead.

Survivable, though, oh yes, never the end,
Love is unique, a true, ******* phoenix,
Preening gaudy feathers, calling, calling,
Forgetting the pain, the yearning,
As it rises, seeking, wanting, needing,
Searching for that elusive phenomena,
After all, it’s more than just attention,
Surely, way more than that, surely!
If we’re honest, we all need to be loved,
What is life without ever caring?
A friendship devoid of true sharing?
Just existence, shadows and dust.

I do know who we are; even what we are,
As do you, if you search deep inside,
Or, maybe I don’t, after all,
Do you know who I am?
I know who I am,
I think.
Written for a friend
Phil B Sep 12
Humanity is restless in its pursuit of
pure, and unbiased comprehension.

But we are as blind as the ants,
Who navigate a pheromone soaked
sensation scape.
Only able to perceive perfume
trails, and the colour they emit.
Like the warm, hazy lights
of a carousel river steam boat,
They pass each other like
perfect strangers in the night.
Amidst the dark and misty waters
Unafraid to surrender trust
to the twinkling of an eye,
the faint smell of musky cigars
on collared shirts, or the
Incandescent shades of a lip.

We have yet to leave our ancestral
cave homes, full of mad desperation to
capture, define, and preserve the
fleeting forms of nature and it’s denizens.
Sand and ochre kicked up and splashed
in deeply passioned abandon,
as fingers raced and traced the earthy canvas,
Etching, marking, tracing and screaming.
Until, in the end, the exertion itself
is impressed into the rock-face wall.

Other, similar endeavours may well include,
The many voyages and explorations of
Early settlers and tribe folk,
in attempts to map the sprawling land masses,
from the tips of snowy doom filled mountain tops
down to the last measly grains of sand on distant coastlines.
And even now in the modern era,
The sky itself and the cosmos in its enormity,
Probed forever deeper, but never reaching
Its absolute depth.

The creating, and dividing, of art into
it’s multiple facets of genre and subject,
Always pushing outwards in the need,
yes, the very drive to express anything,
everything, and nothing at all.
Emotion itself made captive to
Staves of rhythmic and melodic
progression and regression.
to plumb the very essence of a note
would reveal a beyond Planck length
Spectrum of wave and particle,
Eternally ringing out into
The collective consciousness of the universe.

This isn’t a poem, so much as it
is a personal meditation into
The finite infinity we experience
From one moment, to the next.
Much like meaning, we can only
assign so much burden to a word,
only place so much faith in diction.
But that’s perfectly alright,
Because without ambiguity in
the shapes and forms of metaphors and simile,
We lose a sense of the PROFOUND.
The innate desire to find meaning,
in the most personal sense, in anything.

And really,
isn’t that the most beautiful thing
Ever?
Composed overwhelmed and in awe , of  everything, and nothing.
Tony Tweedy Sep 12
I walked into life's library to seek perhaps adventures there.
Not really knowing what I sought my expectations unaware.

I looked first at the non-fiction upon shelves marked clearly with tape.
The more I looked yet did I realize it was from that I sought escape.

I chanced upon a section where great imagined dramas did abound.
Where mystic stories and strange creatures on the pages could be found.

Caught briefly by the imagined on the pages with heroes deeds upon.
I realized all was fantasy so through the pathway of books I ventured on.

Time passed as it tends by some scale that seemed so erratic in its flow.
As shelves and stories passed me by along the route I chose to go.

I came then to a section with a long queue of people standing there.
Patiently in their place and each with determined and focused stare.

What was it that drew them and caused this lengthened line?
Their looks suggested that the need, was very much like mine.

I had passed so many shelves with random people here and there.
But no other shelf or section for which this queue I could compare.

Through strong and strange compulsion I resolved to take my chance.
To join the much sought after line toward the shelf of "Love and Romance".
If only it were a book on a shelf....
So many books.... but each only works if there is both writer and reader.
We all seek to write and be read and so be a story shared.
Andra Sep 11
when you think you know...

when you think that all is
as you know it
as you'd like it
there's something that happens then:

someone pulls your hand and shows you that
life
and
the world around you
is different than you thought.

that the grass' green is stronger
that the birds' flight is more beautiful than you could see it
and there's nothing left for you to do than... believe.

"believe and you shall see.
believe!
if you believe, you will see the flight and the sun's light and the sky's blues...

search without a fear, without a care and with no doubt.
you won't find the answer in an instant,
but it will come to you.
maybe only after 20 years in Tibet,
but it will surely come to you."
-a few years ago (about five, to be exact) I asked someone I looked up to a deep and quite personal question. we talked for hours. Before going to bed I wrote this.
B D Caissie Sep 8
Where art thou my love, with thy presence, brings forth a warmth that cannot be denied.  

Where art thou my love, with thy gentle touch awakens that which has laid dormant for a season.  

Where art thou my love, with thy soft whispers of spring transmit a breath of tenderness  from thy lips.  

Where art thou my love, with thy buddings of anticipation and thy blossoms of pleasure.  

Where art thou my love, when birds chirp serenades and the lonely dove coos to his beloved.  

Where art thou my love, where art thou...


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