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we take the same train everyday
I don’t know your name nor where you come from
what a joy is to see your face once more before we part ways again
but the moment the train moves
the rumble of my heart lead the way
stead fast, the scenery of steeping in Front of emotion
track after track
winding and twisting with nothing to block the way
the express route to desire
your astonishing beauty
Is my favorite stop
love at first sight
I wish I could've told you how I felt
I wish I could've held your hands
before alighting the train
Mikey Kania Jan 5
hook a buddy up my heart
is racing
trapped in purple drops of rain
my pulse has been pacing
like a golden train

we were spacing
out for five hours
my words became your worst
your worst became my words

listen to your inner voice:
nobody is without...
Sins are committed by everybody.

Regardless of skin color, moral values, beliefs, nationality, age, gender, ****** identity, welfare-dependency, wealth.

Fühlst du mich? (Feel me?)
Do you understand that?

It is never about stereotypes but about oneself.

Still, stereotyping helps us to survive in this weird world.

Are you brave enough to distinguish?

Today is a good day.

YouTube: "Bedrock Beautiful Strange"
Poetic T Oct 2019
Life can derail you sometimes
              but you just have to get

on a new track.

And at each new station of life depart,

                         relax till its time to once again

to  travel the tracks of life...
Over Aug 2019
His feet trembling
And my tongue sticking out
His breath numbered
Ant dancing in my hand

My blood too sweet
Heart wrinkled in cold sweat
Cold gaze on his face as
I constantly made him fret

His heart too sweet and
His blood to sour for my tongue
These ants too sour for
The blood on my palm

This skin too pale for
The radiance in his eyes
This chest too open
For someone to hide inside

Gave me his heart he who
Had none for himself
Took my blue heart and
Stuffed it into his chest

My eyes shift into focus
His chubby face is too dumb
The subway station too cold
My skin was too numb
Äŧül Jun 2019
Kindly avoid going to any hill station,
While planning so, bear some hesitation.

You are so very hot,
But the hills are not.

What if you go there when,
All that area starts boiling then.
My HP Poem #1745
©Atul Kaushal
Matterhorn Apr 2019
The subtle whishing
Of flowing gasoline
Sets the mood;
An ugly, teal-colored,
German-engineered insect
Rolls up to the pump
Alongside mine.
I note the empty car seat
Cramped in the back
As she steps out,
Her balayage-curls swishing
As she flashes me
A cursory,
Carefree smile.
Grinning stupidly back,
My eyes gloss over;
Déjà vu grips me and
I search my memory
For her face—

The insect scuttles off;
My tank is full.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Kitt Apr 2019
Despite the emptiness of the train station, I can hear the sounds of people.
Headed to work.
Headed home from work.
Day shifts, night shifts
Social visits
Business ventures.
All of the emotions and all of the stories they carry, unbeknownst to one another
save the innocuous and inadvertent clues given
by way of their postures or countenances, caught in glances
and forgotten just as quickly.

The station is full of ghosts,
of memories lost and faded from time.
Sentiments once deemed of utmost importance
but that now lie as irrelevant as those deemed unimportant.
All of them, lying together
as dead as dead can be.
There is an eerie chilliness to the air,
but I can’t bring myself to pull out my jacket and bundle up.
Somehow, the cold feels
fitting for the mood.
I haven’t been here in so long, yet I can still hear the ambiance
from so long ago.
I could almost feel the murmur of conversation
the occasional flipping of pages from books or newspapers
the omnipresent thundering of railways
the laughter of children on their mothers’ laps on the way to visit Grandma.
I can hear the patter of expensive Italian shoes
the shuffle of worn work boots
the clicking of heels
the scuff of flats
all running together
as the masses shift and shuttle hither and thither.
I thought about the loafers and stilettos that had once scuffed these hard floors.
I thought about how, in the moment, they must’ve seemed so vital,
so necessary.
But now?
Expensive and cheap shoes are buried together on decaying corpses.

I had lived near the train tracks, once upon a time.
After the world came crashing down around me,
it was only in rebuilding it that I found
something as benign as the sounds of a railway to be comforting.
But I did, somehow. It was a reminder of the world that went on
despite it feeling like it was at an eternal standstill.
Of course, back then I was completely unaware
of how I was building up a collection of memories
centered around that very sound.
I didn’t realize how I would forever hear that sound
and be brought back to a simpler time.
I never knew how important it would become, or the memories it would bring along with it.
Equality in demise
Arisa Mar 2019
I missed the bus seconds after the last passenger boarded.

Now I sit here alone,
Waiting for another vessel
To drag me to my destination.

The air is cold,
And my heart is still thumping away
Due to physical exertion to reach the thing I missed -
But like everything else,
My hopes,
My dreams,
They're too far to reach.

I don't know how to end this
But mention the tiny speckle of headlights
And the roar of the large vehicle in the distance.
So now I think:
'There's always another bus.'
One of my meh poems.
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