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brandychanning Aug 2020
everyone has gone back to suburbia,
city streets are dangerous, if you look
at someone cross eyed, it earns you death.

don’t celebrate this madness,
mourn it in black, it has a taken
a pandemic to school me again.

this a broadcast, shout out, email me
if you know how I’m feeling and can
share what other mutualities crisscross.

Do you like Jazz? Mr neither.
Flouncy bouncy dresses? Nah!
Sweats? Unnecessary, I can sweat
just by concentrating.

You like me, own soulful bluesy singers,
femme fatales, who coax and croon,
wet the spun threads of subtle emotive,
who live by light of candles votive,
I live in black, day and nighttime,
write in midnight blue, a woman who!
takes no b.s. and doesn’t ever take no
for an answer...
Alex Scaife Aug 2020
Without the courage to end it,
Or the will to go on,
The vagrant wanders aimlessly
Under the artificial lights
Based on Samuel Beckett's the end
Simone Gabrielli Aug 2020
The gypsy hymns and railway trails
which you followed into the valley of your trials
Lady Luck brought you enough street child wisdom and thief given kindness
to turn the tracks around and the train whistle to wake me.
Desert saint of your weathered ways
with your thin wrists and moon gleaming lips
Hope to you was like a blinding sunrise, painful to acknowledge, yet sorely lacking without
Never could be without your Larkspur boquets and marigold wreaths
August heat heavy with the scent of cypress trees
Apollo of the dusty sea, flooded the cliffs with light like withering flames
born from boxcar visions and a desperate hunger for that windblown hallelujah we chased down the starlit trestles like missionaries. Summoned from our streetcar medallions, vagabond nymphs, rumbling through moth-eaten states and barren dusks, lazy moon gazing upon our dolorous times and wild days and all our rough and rowdy ways.
No need to heed the judgements of the stars.
With the arid land so wild and lonesome- we weave our own muse into the railway line- followed back to when you were my home, and the streets were the laurel crown of your vagrant fortune.
Nidhi Jaiswal Aug 2020
"My heart is broken into pieces,
I wanna give piece of my broken hearts in the shape of a fist,
Because i read in books,
Heart shape is like a clenched fist."

🦋🦋
"Every evening,
Going through those infamous streets,
I collected my heart pieces,
And i tried to give it the shape of clenched,
But i failed,
At
Every evening."

🦋🦋🦋
I cry on a deserted street in infamous streets,
It seems like it is raining without the weather,
Tears tear my broken heart pieces,
I want to add this,
But every evening remains in the grasp in fist,
And pieces of my heart get lost in infamous streets.
🦋
This poetry is based on the situation when we want to move on.
But we have no dare to do it,broken heart have no courage to add again.
Every evening when i sleep i lost in thoughts..so,This poetry is also based on my imagination.
Thanks for reading.
🦋
c Jul 2020
She belongs to the streets.
They’ve been calling her name
Since the day that he left
Stubs her toe on the curb
As she attempts to fly off
Into the traffic, with no second glance.
-elixir- Jul 2020
As the rain falls
I seek in the halls,
for the familiar thunder
that took me under
under the magic
of the dark logic.
Through the dark streets
you walk with treats
for my shaded soul,
as you whisper slow,
"do I terrify you?"
as I grin through
these healed wounds.
Eva May 2020
Abondened on the busy streets of New York.
So many people, yet feeling so alone.
Everyone in such a hurry,
each to someplace different.
They promised me a world where dreams become reality.
With my luggage in one hand and dollar bills in the other,
I gather all the courage and take a step into this new world.
Lorena Mar 2020
i’ve used three poems worth of words trying to describe you
to capture you
cos that’s what i do
try to capture things...
feelings, emotions, memories
chasing little things on the wind

and actually i think it is a good thing that i can’t write you down
because the things that i capture -
they’re pretty. but they’re pinned down
and there’s something ironic about a butterfly in a glass case

you’ve used up three poems worth of words in me
and i’ve tried writing about literally everything else but
all trains of thought go back to back and wind their way to you
like roads to Rome

i like the ache of knowing for sure that i’ll lose you
and that we will only cross paths for a short while
whether they’re pavements or cobbled streets or the side of the motorway
they only touch. and then move away

you’ve drawn three poems worth of words from me
and i have ten more waiting in the wings like 13 year old ballet dancers
stepping on each other’s toes
whispering in each other’s ears
all contrived and all unique
like you and i

So I’ve wrote another poem to describe you
But it’s impossible to describe the way you feel
Is this what love is like? Trying endlessly to write on sand before the waves arrive
Before the sea comes, you leave and the beach is smooth again.
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