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By Durance Vile, my mind is moored

Its waters ebb and flow

The backwash-break brings back

bright balance

-Uncovers one swash stifled rope

...........................................................­...............

This earthly anchor, untying with the tide

Holds hostage, half aquatic

Guarded grip makes docile, God! moreso, dreary

Hard choices hold chains for the static

      ...................................................­................

In absence of any ascent to dry land

Docked, I'm doomed to dally a while

'Til the noose tugs undone, or I sever it short

And set sail for Durance Vile
Love,
Know it
Heard about,
You know its name.
I found it humbly.
In the heart of beauty.
I know now my ignorance.
In ignoring her pleas to me.
I took her heart, and now she took mine.
Let us rest as firm beings together.
Watching the night sky dance and pass us by.
Laying side to side while we confide.
In each others loving embrace.
In the wake of tragedy,
And the highs of being.
We will go through it.
Together now.
Hand in hand.
For us,
Love.
A Double Etheree Love poem I made for my ex, a little later in the relationship when things smoothed out a little bit.
Austin Draper Jan 12
I chase the Labels
I sanction the pain, if I am able.
I share, and take a path once again with the angels.
I send it, and yet without recognition a lingering mind cradles,
“What of the purpose of failed stories, these are bad fables!”
Beauty has no purpose if it naught contort other faces.
If it not make cross all those of lesser way, is it stable?
This is my thought, as I spill more hearts across the table.

Time after time, I make old things newly exhumed.
Backing them with memories, dusted and altered now recovered.
And now, I sit back and have the passion of yesteryear removed.
The corpse of my old soul’s death, I dissinter.

I did surge in eyes,
Many viewed my struggles then.
Of a Dog’s passing.

My mind was made now.
Passion is what they will crave.
So, making story.

Dried have my tears now.
A world unfit for crying.
One without color.

I make my own God’s
They bow out slowly from me
Apostle of Death.

Words said so often
Stories made so frequently
There is no purpose.

When covering broad things then,
Be afraid of toes
They strike fear into future.

Now, a little down the track.
I reside in a mental shack.
Hobbled, squatted and no decor knack.
A youth enters, with a small sash on back.
I sit, Brandy laces my breath as I address this little boy jack.
“Boy, so you are called by jack? What brings you to this stack?”
“I came to ask, why so ambiguous? Let’s clean up this rack!”
(Birthed of mold and creases, this trailer now sat lone among the dirt it inhabited.
The worms itself even mourned for the sight of it, for great sadness was in the structure itself.
Wheels, low to the ground and suspensions worn from distance.
A white tint, so complacent a staple then.
A single window, cracked and closed with brown and yellow patterned curtains.
The inside, a victim of circumstance. Clothes, and stains lined it’s interior.)
“We get it boy Jack! Please leave with your nuance as I die a Slumps Snack!”
“Why are you afraid? Why are you afraid of your shack?”
“Well, it’s all filthy and filled with garbage! With nobody else giving it a whack!”
“Why are you afraid? To write again?”

“I fear nothing. I make my words and I speak my silence.”
“You do fear something, and I know what it is.”
“Get out kid, I’m drinking. I don’t need company now or ever!”
“Then why do I find you wallow for somebody to take you off the brandy?”
“Who even are you? A younger me or some ****?”
“Maybe, in a story that is.”
“I don’t know what you hear, but I’ll stick it through. Always done on my own.”
“That’s not true is it? You would have nothing without nobody.”
“Bah, what do I care for em? They gave me my dues and I make my own wringer now.”
“You’re afraid, not specifically of death. But, what comes from a life deserved of it.”
“I don’t fear nothing, I speak my mind and I fear nobody.”
“But you fear a different death, or more truthful a life of intangibility.”
“I see myself, and I understand myself.”
“But you’re afraid, why? Why fear to express yourself like you’ve done before?”
“It’s nothing then.”
(I pick up a paper, it has his uploads list. I take the laptop that sids languidly on his Dinner table.
It sits in the darkest reaches of the habitation, and it’s a fingerprint trap.
The dust seems gravitated towards it, yet the wear on it shows it’s use.)
“You post them don’t you?”
“Yes, I hope to inspire people.”
“Oh, but that’s simply not the whole of it now is it?”
“I…”
“You are afraid. I know you, I am in you and everybody.”
“What is this? I lost my patience with tasteless poetic semantics kid.”
“Still have the grammar I see.”
“Bah, get on with it and be out.”
“I am a boy, so simple in title and without description. I transcend my role here. Because, when it comes to it, I am every role. Inquiry’s of life, pushing the bounds of the story. I am characterized of the nature the author explores. The world made reality.”
“Nice speech, I’ve never been one for long narratives.”
“You should be, I know you. I’ve cohabitated with your characters. I know them.”
“You’re just a kid in a dialogue, no more than I am a drunkard in a concept.”
“Ah yes, we’re dealing in conceptual thought. So, that means I lack the limits of single placement. I am wherever and always.”
“Sure. Get it on and done with.”
“Why are you afraid? Of this Shack, Continuing this Rhyme or furthering me?”
“I, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know or you don’t want to admit?”
“Fine! I’m afraid, because I feel like I’m not good enough. Not deserving of this shack, nor of beauty nor to continue you or my works. Afraid, that the world is beyond my style. That I’m saying all the wrong things. ”
“Why?”
“That’s it, just pestering my inner thoughts with your inquiry, so funny kid!”
“I know why, but admit it to the full of yourself. I know you write this with half your mind, as do you many things with only half. When you have a whole as oft you do when you write, you can make beautiful things.”
“What’s it to ya?”
“It’s me to me. Without you, or those like you I have no meaning. I have stories to inhabit. We are but to write, Austin. I am young, because even though I am old as every story, there are never going to be a limit of stories. A limit of creativity.”
“Get out of here with your Kindergarten ****. Things change, change into a norm.”
“Ah, but what are bars but to be broken? Why do you think us humans make them on ourselves? Maybe because we understand that even nature, is an obstacle to break through. And we’re training ourselves for a transcendence of sorts.”
“I used to speak Meaningless as a second Language, and let me tell you to get off this *******.”
“Admit it, you can never run from me. You hide, you deny it and you taught yourself to others. You grow sick of me, yet your biggest smiles are making the same words into new tapestries.”
“I used to, before it all became the same poems again. Before, I realised that all the Ideas I had couldn’t be realised.”
“I know you’re fear, since you can now be acknowledged, you want it. But remember a time. Come with me.”

A time of great Felicity
A boy, with emotions undocumented and no contentment.
One, who pursues the sadness of his heart for the future of his joy.
Who chases down the roots of his suffering, to uncover future satisfaction.
You write them, so you can relate to yourself in gladness.
You write them, because they help you remember that you can be bliss.
And the amount of their being, gets you lost in a forgotten ecstacy.
A grave of your prime, now sold to those you truly forget to smile.
When they were all but a vague Happiness.

“You see? Write them for you. Write them to edify yourself first. Write them, because even if they are only to yourself, some things need to be admitted. Some things need to be written.”
“You know, I guess I’ll pick it up in my spare time.”
“I know you’ve got plenty of that.”
“Ah ***** off! Wise kid huh.”
“Don’t be sad, they were great poems for you. Still write them, but only when you want to.”
“What do you mean? I’ve always loved too.”
“Sometimes, you don’t have the passion. Experiments require passion.”
“I don’t need any number of them. And, I’ll write of my new pains.”
“Exactly, tell them about things that need justice.”
“Of course.”
“Just, tell them about me huh?”
“I’ll fit you in somewhere.”
(His soul was made less shallow, and his craving for meaning sated.
The witness of his meanings were for all of his dreams ill fated.
Now, he can write all the small things. Just like his old works, equally loved and weighted.
Things less inclusive, and more a thing of specific purpose created.
He love his old works, his children have made him elated.
But, he wants to try something new but related.)

I’m Jack, the Great I am.
And take this from his creativity,
Nothing means Everything
Tales of life come from small places.
A long Poem I made just a few days ago, about my realizations about my passion. I hope to inspire people, I really do. But, in the end these poems are like a personal journal of mine. And, they are all very dear to me. And, I make them for myself. I just hope some of my realizations can help you out too.  (A A a a A a A A}w* s*x3}5 7 5}x4}7 5 7}[Rhymes Mixed with Dialogue]}[Dialogue]}w* s*x7}[Dialogue] Cx5} [Ending]}
I can’t arise now.
Why, softly until
We have you.
A Syllabic Poem I made for my best friend (5 5 3)
Jim Davis Dec 2018
Take a slow look round
See what you can see
See all is a lie
Truth lies with your heart
Trust your heart to know
You must live the life
You are meant to live
And die much too soon
With the thought of me
As your best sweet hope

©  2018  Jim Davis
Just found this in my old notes!  Don’t remember writing it, but I am getting old!  Not meant as an ego trip but as a celebration of love!
Simra Sadaf Sep 2018
I realised
I can not hold light
or words
as they slipped out
from the crevices
of my fingers
and the palm that had
our names written,
ink smudged and
seeped under my skin,
same syllables
the association of letters
your postfix
my prefix,
now I fail to get
the letters of
your name right,
the light,
or you.
James Khan Aug 2018
https://schizoidspaghetti.wordpress.com/sylla-*******/
Skye Aug 2018
I
Want
To write
A poem
About things I know
Numbers and mathematics but
People don't like maths
It's boring
It's just
Hard
Work.
Like rain it makes them grow, just simple feelings to torrents.
Like a small breeze, brushing on the surface, they change the calm emotional ocean into a death trap for the poor thinker.
Like a match stick, lit to a can of perfume, the stink of ******  smell raises as it brought to a thunderous explosion.
The ravernous bear, calmed, the harmless cat made a killer, all by simple them

They can't be touched, no evidence seen, only aftermath, a horrid trail of destruction,
Of mountains trampled, of volcanoes quenched, of seas dried, and of desers made gardens,
all due to syllables joined together, words
Words have it all
Danielle L Cook Jul 2018
The riverboat floats
Following the stream
To your mind; a dream
Let it take you where it wants to
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