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Zack Ripley Jul 2020
Stop! PLEASE stop saying "don't."
"Don't give up."
"Don't be afraid to ask for help."
"Don't be sad."
"Don't keep it bottled up inside."
I could go on and on.
"Don't be scared."
God, I hate that one the most.
Like, why the hell shouldn't I be scared?
Look at everything that's happening.
Look, I know you mean well,
But when you say that word,
It feels like you're trying to control me.
And I already feel
                           ­        Out
                    ­                     Control.
I know you want to help.
And it means a lot to know you'll be there if I need help.
But I need to do this on my own.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2020
read his stuff

n.b. nowadays I write here only in praise of others,
as the rewards are far greater than any of the meager
stuff I got  laying around.

a poem for his summer soul-stice

self-confessed to the priest, we us, both, meeting
in the confess-******, wee needy for a solid projectile
purging, me, cause, I’m a plagiarist of inspiration

**** it every time a ce r tain poet writes,
its a sock to my multi faceted square sided~head,
discoloring my eye shadow, my maskara crazy running,
frustration, admiration, mortar and pestle pounded

into a white powder of unadulterated adultery with a
frothy topping of a jealousy muse laughing face, at me,
cappuccino made from bitter herbs and pink sea salt.

in eight lines the man accomplishes
what would take me eight, eight full
poems, even then, not coming close

still failing to retake his brevity skills,
his summer solstice way of seeing,
by keeping the dark away,
by inviting the dark in,
making it under duress,
spill the beans of his life’s
ironies, some hellish,
some not, all well kept,
in Georgia granite stoney face.

the softest steeling of words that irritates
me into a fine frenzy... what’s the use,
point made, in how he undresses
the eyes
into just outright gasping,

and that is the only
permissible comment emoji.



Her verse
I need to taste the salt
of her soliloquy
be drunk on the sobriety
of her verse
those words she writes
behind my eyelids
makes me want
to crawl inside her skin
and listen to her heartbeat.


as a poet, knee’d & head bent, asking you Lord,
would it have soiled a vast eternal plan,
to throw some kosher salt, on mes écrits,

let a soliloquy make my case, my summer
soul-on-ice, hangover from the drunken sobriety
that stays, retained, the sense of loss remains
long after he has left my screen, and I’m

wondering if he gets him poems from that
old yellow dog, if true, no fair, but o.k., I’ll
take it right, any way, I can, **** it. and you.
Would you agree with witty words from a dictionary?
And do those confusions all depend on mind play?
Who could help us more correctly:
Definition or detonation?
Lust or Love?

Who will promise to find the differences?
When we dig ourselves into dictionaries
or thesauruses 
Defining our commonality,

Refining our uniqueness, However
the death is the dictionary of unknown words,
Cant’t anyone edit and omit it, to none,
It’s soliloquy.
By Angel.XJ 10/05/2020
I hear the raindrops tumbling, in the clouds, on the breeze.
The moon's light peeks through the veiled night sky.
The first drops Kiss me so gently, but I know a storm is on her way
The crickets chirp mimic the sound of her shoes.
How it tiptoes into my space, the rustling leaves sway like a dress.
It pulls back almost as if aware of my observational gaze.
Then there's movement, the flow irresistible.
If her fringes invoke such beauty one could only imagine her eyes.

What kinda peace could a king find in the face of such unbridled grace.
Her pours allow the dark to share in the bright, bearing pits of light above most.
Her torrents clear the sediment of comfort and sweep the drought away,
Her showers clear the spirits of her subjects and boon us bounty,
Her voice crisp as lightning and clear as thunder shake the heavens when heard.

She can blitz the land or coast on the air
Raising up our tears only to let hers fall  
So I know Ororos love touches us all
Storms come and go but they are, were and will be here again.
Chris Saitta Feb 2020
Death is the dictionary of unknown words,
Written on the pages of the unbound book
Of earth and sea ~~ to no one, its soliloquy.
Z Sep 2019
Her gaze got the best of me
Burning bright and mahogany
I framed my fervor in filigree

hollow gestures, a pantomime
She just wanted to pass the time
Nearly twenty, too juvenile
To be anything more than tactile

A crowded room, a compact tableau
I still look for her where I go
A stubborn habit, it’s hard to quell
Maybe too callous, but I meant well

A little less than fortuitous
Resolution eluded us
Two strings, discordant synchronies
My pride, my wounded dignity
I've been listening to Hippo Campus a lot and I love the way they write so this is a *very* basic attempt at the style! Thanks for stoppin by
I was born a gentle soul
Reformed with an old jovial wisdom
Which was corrupted by the first attack
Stripped of my candor and left to meander
Until a visceral skin latched to my back

I watched my rivet dreams vicariously
All the while from side scenes
Spending time refining the premise
The fine hemmed edges
Were sharp yet crude
When tuned to this percentage

The very root of metamorphosis
Became an epitome of what I am
While walking a tight rope
Of Hope's chokehold
Invoking me to stand
Forcing me to look down
With nowhere to land

Echoes of mediocrity only fuel my drive
Staving fires from mere survival
Into the desire to thrive
While every injustice withers and dies
I bide my time refining my form
While the perfect storm subsides

The strengths I hide
Preside just beneath the surface
A revival impulse is convulsive therapy
Leaving me resolute within my purpose

Uncouth is the pretense
To claim and obtruding suspense
Whilst I am colluding and fearful
Whether I reminisce or remain pensive
The time has come to be cheerful

The only power over me
Is what I allow to reside
And keep me preventive
So if I choose to stay inside
It's because I'm designing
The next in line incentive

After I've repented
The only indefatigable witness
To my truth is me and God
And at times I ask myself
Will I know the blister's burden
Or fabricate a facade?
Logan Robertson Jun 2019
To My Dear
Once more
I speak from no blind
Without arms
Without an edge
I wish all the while
The well was face to phase
You were once in the hunt
Yet it wasn't your scent I was after
It was your fallen words
Like leaves that still a windy day
I remember that night
You hosted and hoisted my delusions
Pried my pride
With your rules and my rues
Shall a man be so shell shocked
At you
At the chill in the air
The wave of a pointed hand
The weave of lost tapestry
I often think back
At my metamorphosis
I was once told
Your dialogue
My dying on a log
Like tomorrows frog
To take upon a pond
And to jump into it

Logan Robertson

Of all the women I've met she was not the norm, or the spark of my eye.
Yet she was a puzzle. I couldn't figure her out, or come closer. It was looking at twin and that may have been the attraction. The irony being that that one chance encounter having a lasting effect on me, where I do often think about her now.
Haphazard soliloquy,
Uninspired philosophy.

Hello Poetry.

Streams of senseless dreams,
And many more to follow.

Swallow'd by a sense of disparagement,
Characterized by the cries in my head.
Survival of the fittest synapses.
That hold myselfs together.

I hold nary a candleless flame,
With a mind to set my minds ablaze,
with my haphazard soliloquy,
my uninspired philosophy.
annh Apr 2019
[Enter Marco, a young Milanese courtier.]
It is he, is it not, whose honeyed barbs drip with sweet condescension, and whose kisses taint fair Bianca’s lips with similar speech? Behold, how he frames her vision to reflect his own and directs her preferences accordingly.

Fie, I have been April’s fool in believing Antonio my ally. His encouragement was as sweetmeats to a greedy child; but I have chipped a tooth on that candy-coated morsel and found its centre to be flavoured with deceit.

My cousin Bianca, whose name speaks directly to her nature, whose light once made shadows dance for joy; how extinguished she appears now. For as Antonio sparkles and splutters at her side, her brilliance flickers and fades.

Lo, how he has seeded his untruths within her honest heart. His lies smuggled like contraband, his blandishments the articles of his trade. God’s wounds! Such a purveyor of frippery and falsehood I have never met the equal of.

It is high time to confront this sneak thief in his lurking-hole and to uncloak his creeping connivance. I shall bottle my rival’s words and choose carefully the occasion for their uncorking; then pour for the crowd a rich liquor of ripe requital.

‘It is notorious that we speak no more than half-truths in our ordinary conversation, and even a soliloquy is likely to be affected by the apprehension that walls have ears.’
- Eric Robert Linklater
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