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The days back then were great
With very less fear of fate

The fun was neither in glories
Nor in the gifts we receive
It was in listening to the stories
Which were hard to believe

The swords I drew for war as king
Made my enemies look for spring

The Cycle Rides, before the Sunrise
Catching Fireflies, before the night dies

The magic of the rainbow, while it's raining
Holding mom, scared of thunder & lightning

Sleeping on the grass gazing at the moon
Haven't realized how my childhood ended so soon
struggling childhood,
infinite smiles,
dashing youth,
amazing life,
the wrinkled eyes had,
treasure of memories to share,
but none in the old house had ears to hear,
so the treasure was buried,
deep under the soil,
with the wrinkled eyes....
Some stories
never end
they just continue on
long after
you are gone
every time
they mention your name
the angels sing a song
I am a pole dancer who knows a lot of  love stories , even more  but than many churches have heard .

And I never felt no one goes quietly when the subject is love no one predicts the disillusion
As no one knows why the disappointment life is mortal but everyone wants to be accepted but and love?

Unfortunately the love I feel for you still is hot in my veins .
I know he still shines inside us
I do not want to be your friend
What do I do with so much love I feel?
I do not want to whistle to the moon
I do not want to be barefoot in Saturn What do I do with the love that I still have for you ?
Blow as the dust?
I can not be your friend
I'd rather wait to  until December over the sun.
I know that everything has the end that lovers can become friends but what do I with love ?
I’ll Use gravity on the sands ...
I’ll Make poetry without senses
I’ll whistle to the moon.  
I’ll go down to the sea
I’ll slide my body over the fire
But...
I do not want to be your friend because
I do not know what to do with the love
That I still have for you.
s Willow Feb 4
My up coming death,
you inspire me to write.
Never satisfied even after me last breath.
I hate the way you roar, slither and scan.
Invade me mind day and through the night.
waiting, dreaming ‘bout your cunning plan.
I Idle at your foul play.
You are more able, violent, and deep.
Ice bites the debris of may,
and wintertime has the eternal sleep.
Oh who I hate you and your ways.
I adore and hate your personality.
Your stage style fills my days.
The way you destroy my mentality.
My hate for you is the sarcastic ties.
Now I must away with a stunning heart.
You get us in the end.
how are you so smart?
You’re taken my best friend,
my brother,
and my health.
Once I leave
The works I’ve weaved on the paper will grieve.
Maria Etre Feb 1
I blame poetry
for turning
my life
into
fantasy
Fọlá Jan 30
The Dictionary.
The library of words.
The keep. The record.
A friend and helper to all.

The place of meaning,
By its very definition.
The book of many editions,
In numerous forms.

Calm, lies the water under the Bridge,
As the Ox laps from the gleaning Ford.
The Web aligns the stars,
As the Long man reclines,
Searching for the meaning of a word.
Please, let me know if you see it.
'Tis an old sorcerer
Searching for what hath lost
Amongst the sands of time
Wondering
Scratching thy ancient beard
Grey. Dust. Smoke.
Darting eyes watery from
The dew drops
Amongst the pain of what hath left him behind
Forlorn. Ole Joe had long gone
Josephine, her tiny fingers last
But Thameena, Andrena, Guam.
Them stuck as
The last of the flames
Took the blame for the cranes
Too cruel for a willow.
Too cruel for a willow.
Years had gone by the millennia

Yet the sorcerer stands alone.
Searching.
28.01.2019
Ashari Ty Jan 25
Honesty
Is the best poetry

Lies
Are the best stories
A twist,
A burn,
Drown, you say?

Shall I spray these letters on the page for you to read?
May I display the writhing writes that within I keep?

I slash the pen against the inside of my skull,
To write my stories...

We call this,
a poem.

but does that make me,
the poet?
A response to "I LOVE YOU" by Ramana Tandra
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