Zoie Marie Dec 2017

“He looks at me like a story book that isn’t finished”

Max McGrath Nov 2017

"Tell me.
Even though teens today say that they know love
Love is misunderstood, it is not that simple.
Even though it's easy to tell about love
People find love in different ways.
He, she, them, it's not the same.
One may find one at the bar, one at a goddamn Uno game.
Never assume you know love, especially of others.
Especially when you haven't gone out the world in order to find it."

R Nov 2017

Wiggly fuzzy sweetie pies
canoodling along my toesie-woesies.
Meowing purraciously as they
noodley-poodley awound the really biggy cat chair.
I'm waying on the couchie- ouchie!
Their sharpy nail digs into my fleshy-weshy by accident
but that's okay!
I lovie-dovie-wuvie-very-muchie
my darling widdle biddy kiddy cats!~

Shane Leigh Nov 2017

There is a world and it's subtleties;
It's breathing in of morning
And exhaling of mourning;
It's blind eye to the women whom make husbands of one-night stands,
And the men that only see women as one-night stands;
It's gentle pushing and shoving in forms of naturally planned disasters,
Rushing waters and uprooting winds -
It's a curiosity of the millionth wonder of the world,
The one that no one knows about.
I see a world full of subtleties
That only exist because we want them to,
And because nature says that they must be.

Enjoy (:
© Shane Leigh
Raph Oct 2017

Sunlit tree branches,
Ice cold blank stares,
Faint sight of what's to come,
Ashes and what none

Paraphrase Oct 2017

She never believed in fairytales.

Princes dressed in sharp coats,
Nauseating romances in long boats.

In magical lands at the end of lost trails.

Underneath non-functional clocks, where time,
With it's hands tied, doesn't travel in straight lines.

She never believed in fairytales.

She never believed in people.

Dressed in shorts, jeans and suits,
Fabric attempting to mask revealing truths.

Pretending they lived in fucking steeples.

Pretending that love, like the taste of cheap wine,
Could be forced to be made, forced like tears from her eyes.

She never believed in people.

She never believed in love.

Was it the pain that was never hers to feel?
Why she dressed in black, when she loves herself in teal?

Was it love that she let him take her from above?

Why she muffled her screams so nobody would hear?
But herself, year after year, after year.

She never believed in love.

She never believed him.

His words were as gentle as his touch,
He didn't answer her questions, he didn't ask for much,

But that she run her fingers on his chin.

And he told her he loved her, in gasps and shunted breaths,
When lust gave way to love, in a grip tight enough to keep her from death,

She never believed him.

"Where have you been?"

She asks him, ill made accusations,
On a long boat, dressed in a sharp coat, constellations,

Making signs the universe wanted to be seen.

The love in his eyes blinded her,
"I feel like I've been wandering forever,"

"And until I met you, on these lost trails"
"My love,"
"I never believed in fairytales."

K Balachandran Sep 2017

Most sublime, the art of love is,
the inner worlds, it keeps churning.
At her I take a hard look; at once
I fully realize this,her lips tremble
like the fecund earth, awaiting seeds!

Eyes acquire a misty morn quality
that to her tell aloud "Look at him!
he is the one you had seen in a dream
and swooned, pained not knowing
where to find him,out side the dream"

That meta text's context quickly get
transferred, to my database of smells
warmth and endearing sounds,pout
of lips conveying multiple meanings;
my search runs exactly three seconds,
decides to cue her on the result,still not
open, an enigma it remains,but she gets it.

A twitch starts at that exact moment,
somewhere deep, that's all I can tell,
in us both it resonates, deep,  till we shake
uncontrollably like two leaves in a blizzard!

Her feet wear, two shoes made of wind,
and mine try to match their frenzied speed,
in course, rush , collide in a mid air embrace.
Two pairs of hungry lips, now need no words,
to see what just spontaneously, did happen
at nature's own, sweet, free, will, ethereal!

K Balachandran Jun 2017

The non peril writer,magnificent illustrator,
dexterous editor,all in one of the book of life,
each one, each page,each edition looks and reads
different, yet one in essence, though flavors vary.
We hear  you speak every tongue,Latin, Arabic, Hebrew
and in sonorous Sanskrit,you make us chant"Earth is one nest"
Such profuse creativity  baffles one and all, ever
is your prime possession;  manifestation as well!
The nebulous one, present in each cell,each neuron,
well,  everything ever appeared,anywhere in cosmos,
we attempt to know you in myriad means, give you names
that pleases us, we try to possess you in ways even mean.
We hallucinate our cameras of mind, captures  you right
with the eyes of science; you still prove to be like music.
In our limited resources allotted by neuron collectives,
we make you sit on the throne, of the architect of cosmos,
that evolves and emerge,and itself erases when time is ripe.
The artistic painter of emotions, that has been baffling,
the mix of color happens without any  guide book.
sans blue print of any kind or elaborate plan to execute.
You have no designated place to live, in spite of our wishes
you are omnipresent , the string, player as well as  music,
your thought work we all are, weaved in to one from
strands of of ancient  DNA things preserved,through ages!
Oh! the one that's beyond the realms of winning /losing
the subtlest of all the sublime that in every heartbeats chant,
love to be a work of art that  pleases you, in me present,
Help me from within, in my dissolution as colors,varied
be the painter too and to become that work of art pleases you.

Poetic T Mar 2017

For a flower may open late
      but will always pleasure
                the right bee...

being a virgin isn't wrong, but when they find the right lady well bee and honey....
Justin Soberano Jan 2017

What is it that makes me bleed profusely?
I search for this plank in my eye... sawdust?
Like the grains of sand and gravel, subtly,
We then subconsciously blink to adjust,
Avoiding an unfortunate sully.

Blood had spewed everywhere as if a splash!
Blinded and beneath waves of sultriness,
Boiling and cauterizing subtle wounds,
This juxtaposition of subtle pain.

Pain has always been subtle, always has.
Like the way your glasses broke into shards.
I have always known these fragments of glass.
Never blood, sand, gravel, sawdust, a plank.
But your subtle beautiful concussion.

A sonnet of how subtle one can be as they creep around your head and your heart. Enamored by their pain, you seek to comfort them with you yourself dying in agony.
Next page