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Here sits a poet,
A constellation  of thoughts,
A colourful sunset of rhythms,
Meteors of rhymes.
With pen in hand, by lamplight,
Only a poet knows
to create order from chaos,
His every word on paper flows,
Spinning dreams, emotions and wishes,
Whence the threads of figure of speech weaves,
A never-ending  tapestry of  poems.
Choreographing each stanza to be awesome,
Dancing over the meter,
Painting each picture to better,
The character,merit and existence,
Of what each poem means.
7/4/2019
rgz Mar 16
I can see
in the way
that you move

alluring
seductive
and so pure

that for me
you will be
big trouble


I can feel
when you move
in that way

the demon
take over
gracefully

he sways me
enchanted
towards you


For the way
that you move
so freely

I can't help
but to stare
you seen it

and I knew
how you moved
was for me
I did do
a tricube
of tricubes

3x3x3 = 27
2+7 = 9
3+3+3 = 9
9/9 = 1
coincidence?
(no, it's maths)
I want to be a Black verse
Living off the society’s expectations,
I want to be a Free verse
Redefine this hypocrisy called democracy.

When I grow up,
I will be an exposed poem, with stanzas like a book of secrete.
Louisa Coller Sep 2018
Scattered notes from the passive mind,
re-analysed with blissful anticipation,
searching for descriptive ways to be defined.

Imaginative pebble paths give me temptation,
luring my instincts in like a curious cat in the night,
a sinful soul hidden within a blooming carnation.

There are many ways to catch a spark through spite,
I refuse to abandon my kind, gentle morale,
to become a puppet amongst those who refuse to contrite.

When respecting the masterpieces - no matter how small,
fuel awarded amusements I begin to rope in,
leave me crawling but never let me fall.

Cheering, motivation, intelligence and motion,
satisfactions fills me when my eyes are open.
Hannah L Aug 2018
by Hannah Lee

A forest needs rain,
to flourish and thrive.
A human needs pain,
to learn and move on.

A sunset needs to be bruised,
to produce the colors you see.
An athlete needs to learn to lose,
before learning to shoot their goals.

A child needs to be curious,
to learn about her surroundings.
To love, you must be experienced,
for how can you love others when you can't love yourself?
Q Apr 2018
i can
put words into
lines

and lines into
stanzas delicately
arranged on the
ground--
verses of my
design;

but what
words,
lines,
and stanzas
must i
string together
to make you

mine?
for some reason i can't put up poems ??? i have so much stored already :^(
trf Mar 2018
Cosmetics cloud constellations far and near,
Tonight the mattress is solo once again,
My little dipper was a leader to cheer.

Heir to Isle of Gones, she's a gust of wind,
Scabs from toenails scratching restless legs to bed,
Seems fit for the darkness to promptly kick in.

"Where is my Mind" loops loud circles in my head,
The trigger and pills are held cautious at bay,
Our egos lie in white sheets born in blood red.

My window pane's silhouette was ****** and fed,
With curtain's wide eyes, nosey neighbors could see,
Followed by the morning after's tire tread.

While scrubbing the makeup, down on one knee,
Today's astounding grin crept up on my cheek.
syllable = 3
I don't know the rules. If I go looking
for grace and find it, what will grace

be but penance for my past, a silver
sinew-thread wrapping 'round old
            wrongs, gray hair for the
                        fickle.

I've naught but want for sweet release
from this history. The bombs ignored,
            repeating in gramophone static
                        dripping stiff

as wet bamboo. I remember someone
once sang here, once strung together

chords so sweet they rang like peace-
bells beneath cloudless sky. They've
            rang the bell upon my jaw and
                        done no wrong.

It's not so much unlike one's curiously
cold reception at a funeral. The cold
            and rain ****** at the skin
                        during graveside hymnal.

As long as the earth continues
its stony breathing I will breathe.

That which I cannot help but do.
Stuck between boulders, I sing.

When it stops, I will shatter back
into gravity. Into quartz.
"Rimrock" is a poem from Kaveh Akbar's 2017 collection "Calling a Wolf a Wolf." Akbar's lines are in standard type; my lines are in italics.
Vulpes Nov 2017
Within a forest of gray leaves
Like little flames devoid of heat
Missing their color like a ghost
Just shadows of what once had grown.

Enclosed by trunks and trees so lost,
Covered in twigs and withered moss,
Never been loved, never been found,
Just lonely bones above the ground.

Dead petals dance with ghostly plants
To frozen wind and silent chants,
A requiem of crumbling skulls,
A hymn for all their decayed hulls.

Silvery mists of countless lies,
Swallows all of the forest's cries,
Fog masks the guilt of countless sin
That brush and grass carry within.

Amidst all of this hopeless mold,
A shed stands strong against the cold,
A house so lonely yet so warm,
Held in the forest's dying arm.

The place where I once hid myself,
'tween ****** books in rotten shelves,
The place where I live on my own,
Made of my flesh and crimson bone.
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