Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Bhill Oct 2020
life is like a patchwork, of various scenes
like the quilt you had, filled with so many things
the colors were bright with patterns mixed up
there were even flowers, sitting in a bright cup
the squares and the shapes made it dizzy to see
they told you a story in patterns of three
life is like that quilt, of patches I suppose
you go, and you go, seeing what life has chose
you never realize what you're about to conceive
just patches of time is what life is, I believe...

Brian Hill - 2020 # 289
Nis Jun 2018
Entre escaques de cristal
perdida está mi alma
entre el azabache y el mármol
mi atontado corazón se halla.

Ven a mí rey de marfil
y libérame de esta desventura.
Corre reina de caoba,
necesito tu abrazo en esta hora.

Venid a mi, oh piezas de cristal,
pues entre escaques me hallo
y sólo vosotras sabéis
cómo encontrarme.

Y sólo vosotras sabéis
cómo he de encontrarme,
cómo he de ubicarme.
Entre la caoba y el marfil,
entre los escaques en que me hallo.


Between cristal squares
lost is my soul
among black amber and marble
my numbed heart is found.

Come to me ivory king
and free me from my misfortune.
Run mahogany queen,
I need your hug this hour.

Come to me, oh cristal piezes,
for among squares I am found
and only you know,
how to find me.

And only you know
how I shall find me,
how I shall locate me.
Among mahogany and ivory,
among the squares I am found.
I couldn't find a good replacement for "escaque", which means "chessboard square" so I just put square.
J Fawn Apr 2018
Children  encased  in  steel  structures,  while  their  parents ­ stand,

Holding  metal  square  leashes, screens  glaring  white  while they

Idle,  shadows  of  their  faces  concealed  by  light,  while ­ teachers

Around  human  squares  circle.  A  student  watches  woody  tr­ees,

Roots  unseen,   branches  neatly  trimmed  like hedges,   no  leaves  

On  the  ground  below, but  shadows  cast  by  sunlit  branche­s. He

Sympathises  with  his  like,  both  in  a school and unseenly rooted,

Confined  to  a  square.  The  overflow  is  cut  to  fit, laid  bare, seen

Under  fluorescent   light,   blinding  whiteness  of  his  blank  script

Reflecting  nothing  of  shadows  he  collects  and  cultivates­,   hides,

Overflowing  from  the  broken  branches  that  he  keeps  in his bed.
Another fun experiment to write. (Okay so it’s only a square on a desktop browser) (and I guess emojis don’t work on here) *upside down smiley face*
Danielle Apr 2018
The Poem I’d never write
Has perhaps already been written
Drained out of me
By poetry classes
And poetry forms
In which to force my words
An emotions to fit
Into squares
I got so mad when I had my first poetry class, most of the poems I write are free-form and it was really hard to fit things into a pattern and rhyme, so I vented a little in this poem lol
Danielle Mar 2018
The Circles are calling!
As they circle round my head
Weaving me dizzy and divine
As we fall into the Circles of Hell.
I try to block them by feeling square
Only to form a triangle
The pressure builds
And lines are being bowed
Everything collapses into roundness
And my sanity goes.
Just a good summary of those moments in life when everything seems to happen at once, good things intermingling with the bad, and just dumped on you.
JDK Mar 2016
Being lame is underrated.
(What a stinkin' silly statement!)
Being bad is such a bore.
(What was all that nonsense for?)
I'm okay with just being me from now on,
and I don't need this anymore.
The Cool Paradox: the people who care the least about "being cool" invariably turn out to be the coolest people.
Arturo Hernandez Jun 2015
There is no hair on my chest;
My eyes are deep dark

Which i heard you say
Are the ones you do not like.

I have a crooked smile

With good intentions
Unlike the guys
You hang around.

I comb my hair with a part
Over to to my right side

And i dress to impress
A lady that does not care.
I will still walk
With my chin up

And my getup squared
Just because
She does not care.
pocket squares
blanket plaid
checkered waste
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Wicked nether-land. Nether world, white, askance. Capitulating mangroves, verdant trees spliced with hyperbole, onomatopoeia, and manilla envelopes; her world is stuffed with secrets, she listens to gorillas cracking mussels a kilometer away, near a rill. Never she thought. Nothing that could provide....providence. Mangled heliographs  sprayed all over the everywhereworld.

"Don't be S.A.F.E.," she whispered. A bouquet of gorse, cistus, and pimpernels squished in her small fingers. She climbed her way through the pedimented stairway, then collapsing on the porch. Legs spent, and spread out upon the desiccate grayed four by four planks of the portico.

And as time elapses, the shuttering shake of the hemlock, which writhes through her skinny nimble dactyls, upwards straining the heart as its toxic bends appendages- crisp cerise lumens bend on the Titanium White walls, where only shadows bend time. The hour, still nine. Every adornment, furnished with red and its hues. Not purple, periwinkle, or any masked enhancement.

These are the symbols that reticulate splines, that curve temperatures, perverse hemispheres and debunk worlds. Upped antes, verbs that terns flirt worth, birth words. Ooh. Aah. Camera. The forest wraps her in its verdant pasture, where at last the moribund tamarisks disperse.

While at the plateau she is quiet and longing. Arms astride, dangling. Vaunt with highs and bliss- a kiss of withstanding pleasure serves her the cure for a lifetime of whining. This, yesterday where her body rattled through crooked vines. Square ships toasting her vocal melancholy in the sweet-waters of Time. So that all of her ripened limbs could grow, no more sheepishly than the magic she knew as a child. Stress free. First among the Earth-words, verbed-up and made jealous by pronouns that encompassed her joy-brimming hide. Closing down her voice and hugging her from behind.

— The End —