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Barton D Smock Feb 2016
it wasn’t
that he’d been
in a terrible
accident
but that
the image
I had of him
hadn’t

sight has a single trick

show me a food
can keep
itself
from being
eaten, one of these

is older
than the other (the hands)

the parents
of touch
JR Rhine Feb 2016
I've never read
                                                            ­                  the same poem twice.

                 Laying in bed,
                                                     words shift in my mind.
                                                           ­         
                                                       ­                                    You hear they've said
lightning don't strike twice.
nate1990 Jan 2016
I
Ts
Jus
Taga
Mewep
Laywith
Ourminds
Combinatio
NsofLetter
Stomakes
ensofita
Llthou
­Ghitn
Ever
Eve
Rw
IL
L
Continuous sentence.
It's just a game we play with our minds. Combinations of letters to make sense if it all - though if never ever will ~
Ciel Jan 2016
Do you ever wish

The bus ride would never
end,

So you could continue 

To stare blankly 

At the boring

Bland

Scenery passing by

On the other side

Of the horrid
scratched up

window

And not have to deal

With all the ******

Depressing

Empty

Thoughts 
in your mind

That contemplate 

Everything 
and
Nothing

All
at
once
?

Because,

Right now
,
I certainly don’t
want this
 boring 

Quiet bus ride
to end.

It’s much
better
than
the 

Noisy

Tedious 

Thoughts
that
keep

flitting
through
my brain.
Austin Martin Jan 2016
A
splash
overtakes
the stern and
rocks grind the
gunwales. Quick to
maneuver, draw draw
draw, easing the boat into
calmer waters; pause. A deep
breath to regain  focus  and  scout
the stream ahead. White water, boiling
foaming writhing as it is forced reluctantly
along. Trout shimmer under the  warm  sun
cutting  effortlessly  through the  brisk  water.
Disrupted and scattering they  flee as a  stroke
breaks the surface, bubbles  rise  off the paddle
ascending like the decent  of  snowflakes  falling
falling falling to the surface above. On this ground
blanketed by freshly  fallen snow, water bugs  dart
back and  forth more quickly than the eye can  see,
disturbing  only a  slight  dimple  below. These  too
flee as the water  is  broken, cut in half, by  the keel
of a slender hull sliding seductively over the surface.
The  pace hastens. Unified, the  paddler and  boat
react  and flow as one. Tipping forward over the
brink, the canoe shoots forward over thrashing
snow. Quick right. Dodging a fallen weathered
tree. Quick left. Swooping past  a  rocky  isle.
Whitecaps breaking and eddies twisting, a
sirens  song,  drawing  the  boat  closer.
Violent spray distracts from the call of
the sirens and the canoe is buffeted
from side to side rocking perilously.
Waves reach up in a welcoming
embrace as the boat quivers.
Regaining balance it soars
onward,  leaving  the
anguished water
with only a
fading
wake.
V

-AM
Trevon Haywood Jan 2016
They say beauty is in the shape of my raindrop, and i always stay warm every single day.
And that's what I realise how beautiful I am just like the others.

Anonymous. 1/10/2016.
Julie Grenness Oct 2015
On love and astral travelling,
Through the stars we're wandering,
On the universe we're pondering,
My eternal love, Napoleon,
Intangible man, but  full of fun,
Our jewelled cloak of stars,
We've journeyed from afar,
Shape shifting, glittering,
On love and astral travelling,
I'm no Carlos Santana,
I have no scarlet bandana,
I am the oestrogen,
Old Josephine,
Where haven't we been?
I have no testosterone,
You're my "Yes, master!" Napoleon---
On love and astral travelling,
Sentimentally wandering,
Are you Angelus or Incubus?
Reminiscing, reflecting,
Comical groupies for loving,
On love and astral travelling......
A whimsy inspired by music, the Albatross.
Rachel Julia Oct 2015
my hands tell a story
of living.
a story of being happy, sad, hopeful, and hopeless.
my hands say where i’ve been
and hold the knowledge to where I will go.
my hands see the people I have touched,
the tears I wiped away, the things I grasped,
and those that I should have let go of.
my hands are big, dexterous, and strong.
they touch, type, and hold.
I have seen
the wonder my hands can create.
my hands mold, shape, and color.
they wear rings, polish,
dirt, sweat, bruises, cuts,
and scars.
my hands hold in every variation
a memory.
my hands know me.
Ciel Oct 2015
Rain
t r i c k l e s
             d
o
    w
n
the gutters into the
small
p u d d l e
collecting
        below,
drip,
drip,
drip,
plop,
plop,
plop,


water       into the
falls        puddle,
splashing onto your
stationary
        sneakers.
can’t make yourself
M O V E
[out] of the r   i
      a  n.
because you can’t tell
the
difFerence b e t w e e n
the t
e
    a
r
    s
from the clouds
and the t
         e
    a
r
                    s
from your eyes.
it ruined the shape of my poem, and i can't seem to change it. Maybe I'll try fixing it again some other time.
hellopoet Oct 2015
°●°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°●°
°empty vessels°
can filled with
what is essential,
●● light and air, ●●
all else weighs down
● ● intoxicates ● ●

°•○●○●○●○●○●○●○•°
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