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Poetic T Jul 2014
If love
         Was steps
                         I would
                                   Climb each
                                                     And every
                                                                      One to
                                                                                Step in
                                                                                          To
                                                                                            Your waiting heart....
Angela Mary Pope Jan 2014
My reflection couldn't see
Only for the world to witness
Glistening eyes, gristle and teeth
A wild air, grizzly hairs amiss

loss complete
through stark white sheets
I sleep in too closely
beside the ghost that wears them

Like long blank stares
From the monster that lives
between and beneath
Whatever needs picking up

I see what you see and you see me, I mean

Long blank stairs
creaks and cracks
telling the story
leading to nowhere that surprises us

When doors no longer lend to surprises

I left you right from wared
so you left me under there
the voice of a dream
from underneath the stairs
Taru Marcellus Jul 2014
I hate the idea of next steps
as if life needs planning
as if it won't undertake the future
without consulting your intentions

next steps:
float into oblivion;
become the dying star I have always wished upon
next steps:
graduate from a static state;
become a 3-dimensional character
next steps:
explore the southwest part of town;
find a structure that speaks to me
long enough for a 10 minute conversation
next steps:
take a shower;
prepare to step outside
next steps:
contrive an appropriate line for the end of this poem
next steps:
Next poem is #100, a major benchmark. Look out for that poem. It's definitely a notch above.
I took a step I'd been waiting to take
for awhile now
hands, stop shaking
this is what I want
An endless track,
Meandering predicatively,
305 times around,
Yet never knowing what lies beyond this
Grizzled track.

Shivering,
My gray spirit presses on,
305 steps taken
Through this impenetrable fog,
Many more to go.

This bight winds on,
This way and that,
305 turns.
The speckles of this devious path
Cloud the search for meaning.

Only a breath,
Only a moment,
305 days.
Run away from the end,
Clear the path for me.
Bight Definition: a bend or curve in the shore of a sea or river.
Gladys P May 2014
An upscale lounge well known,
For its ambiance and specialty cocktail,
Which includes live entertainment dancers,
On stage, in fine detail.

While a  glamorous female stood in front of the bar,
With a deep sea blue martini, in her right hand,
In an ice cold oversized snifter, dipped in sugar upon the rim,
Where she leisurely stands.

With a pink orchid,
And blue twisted glow stick, placed inside her drink,
Taking rhythmical steps,
Side by side, in sync.

Dressed in a strapless dress, slightly above her knee,
Nicely fitted, in shades of purple, green and teal,
Displaying a genuine soft look,
With such great appeal.

When a young man walked in,
And gazed into her seductive dark brown eyes,
Reaching out his hand,
Asking her to dance, as he passed by.

She was absolutely stunning,
With fair complexion, short black hair, a beautiful silhouette,
And a radiant smile, reliving her early days,
An unbelievable night, quite difficult to forget.

She appeared divine,
Upon the dance floor, mainly surrounded by youth,
Dancing salsa throughout the night,
And mixed melodies, near the DJ booth.
Clindballe Apr 2014
First:* Take all belongings reminding you of him.
Second: Find a good spot to make fire.
Third: Throw things in pile at spot.
Fourth: Get gasoline, lighter and bucket of water.
Fifth: Pour gasoline all over things.
Sixth: Light lighter and throw into pile.
Seventh: Watch flames absorb everything.
Eighth: To quench fire pour water over fire.
Ninth: Now do the same to *
him.
Written: April 27 - 2014
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
I am in levels. Past levels. This deep, intrinsic wonderful lost, the lawlessness of its fascinating expenditure of excite. Pushing through the wild and feral snow-dusted plains and timber ridges. Like red-spotted dots breathing through the cylinders called the spine. This descends into a narrow channel of scantly clad greenish scenery in a time-soaked visionary wilderness of snow,
Our crab legs dancing down wiry purple highways, our heads could not even look backwards if we had wanted.

Furious, love-latitudes, stalking breaths thwacking fork-ended tongues into a pinkish knot buried into the first layer of organic membrane on this railway of miniature canals, showing. And their pride snuck into the elbows, shooting down each vertebrae as it stepped with great precision every ledge that the currency emphasized. The raw accumulation of stolen heart-beats rattling between the interstices of new fuel careering these red engines. Crashing with exquisite pleasure into one another.
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