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Anastasia Aug 2022
Dear little teacup,

I found you at the thrift store
Nestled amongst the big teacups
With your shining gilden lining
And your pretty petunia shape
You filled my heart with love
Although you were only 1.99
To me, you are priceless

Dear little teacup,

I cannot wait to place you beside
All of my precious collections
With your lovely violet finish
And courting man and woman
Surrounded by trailing little flowered vines

Dear little teacup,

I imagine you've been lonely
Without your friends for so long
Don't worry little teacup
For I will keep you safe
I love my teacup
A Jung Lim Feb 2020
Who lied that the moon hung only in the sky?

I poured the moon in my teacup.
It was floating.

Mouthful moonlight.
Glorious celebration of an orchestra
from scattered crickets.
Kai Jan 2019
There was a porcelain teacup on the shelf
hidden away behind the others
Long ago she had found it in a dusty old shop
and held it with care as many would
close to her heart
cradling it like something precious
She took it home that day

There on her shelf was a little teacup on the shelf
shown proudly on display
Dainty and sweet with little tea stains
lips had left a little pink smudge on the corner
Loved and appreciated the teacup sat

There was a dusty teacup on the shelf
among the packed boxes it went
Surrounded by windows draped by black
and the smell of salt in the air
Packed away and stowed in a closet it stayed

There in the box lay a little teacup
dusty and chipped a bit on the edge
A reminder of times went by
of tea parties at the kitchen table
of little ladies dancing on the carpet

There among the other cups and such the teacup lay
as they mourned another lost and pulled their lips to a smile
remembering good times gone by and loves lost
Seeing the disrepair and with much care
they took the teacup from the box

There on the counter a teacup sat
freshly dusted and glued together
It stood filled with rosy tea and healing herbs
brought to a mouth kissed gently
They let out a sigh sat the cup down
and began to cry
My grandmother died recently, she used to always sit with me on the bad days and drink tea from antique cups, we would dance and sing around the kitchen till I felt better. I miss that about her. All my poetry seems to come from sorrow, perhaps I can use it to promote healing instead of despair.
Danielle Jun 2018
This broken teacup of mine,
Lays on the floor.
Pieces scattered and crushed into the carpet.
A mosaic of pain.
This broken teacup of mine,
Stabs and slices,
As I pick up the shattered porcelain.
White stained red.
This broken teacup of mine,
I can’t put back together.
I remember it fondly from when it was whole
And admire its new beauty
As I wait, patiently.
Not the other poem I was going to post tonight, but inspiration comes at odd moments and I have no problems rolling with it.

Sometimes you can't put people back together, sometimes you have to wait for them to fix themselves. But that doesn't ever mean that you can't appreciate them as they were and who they are now becoming.
Nigel Finn Jan 2018
There's a storm in my teacup,
An ache in my head,
A plethora of words,
That are better unsaid.

There's a monster inside me,
That never stops speaking,
Though I try to control,
The havoc it's seeking.

You think I'm a good person,
But I do not agree,
My friend: you only judge me,
Based on what you can see.
Definition of a monster; a creature, being, or entity that is terribly afraid, so much so that it lashes out at whomever approaches it. A common characteristic is a barbed tongue, which can be used to inflict severe damage on unsuspecting victims.
Adellebee Feb 2017
All my cigarettes cant create all these moments that I crave
The smoked out thoughts, and careless talks
Leaves me breathless, in the kitchen

You never see what I want to show
All the taped up glass, masking the broken teacups
The roads unlit, the day sweeps into dusk
Alone in my self;
crowded with all these cracked dishes

Never able to let the cloth catch the dust
The last meal, has reached the minute hand
Through the window, a single star staring
Watching me inhale, as the smoke covers the broken cups
first poem in a long time
archives Nov 2016
i'm full to the brim
of insecurity
from the words
that you fed me
tip me over
i'll spill
it might burn
but i'm left half empty
pour me out
of the lie
that i need you
to be full

i may be a teacup running low
but i am whole
Erin Suurkoivu Sep 2016
The honey in the lion sounds like a delicious thing––
a gentle balm capable of subduing
the cruellest of monsters.

According to the stars and tattooed,
you fancied yourself king of the jungle––
lazy in hot African afternoons.

Golden and tawn with sleepy sun-gold eyes,
shaggy mane, muzzle red with
the blood of a gazelle.

Did you think me such easy prey?
Or was I so much fermented honey,
only a sweet intoxicant.

Sun warmth seeps from jungles of cold concrete.
I mistook your gargoyle wings
for those of a guardian angel’s.

I overlooked your rough skin, your
crooked hawk nose and your skinny ribs,
and assigned fine things in you that didn’t exist.

So duped, I acquiesced to your slimy kiss.
Your mouth a neglected cemetery,
teeth a row of mossy tombstones.

Vampire. Incubus. Your seduction like grotesque death.
You named me tempest in a teacup,
but I was the eye of the storm.

Until the night the eye was eradicated,
and the storm blew in,
striking me dumb with your sound and fury.

But no spattered blood and no spreading bruise
to be found in the pattern of the kaleidoscope.
No cause for alarm.

Today I am lost in a picture show,
a beautiful world coloured by nostalgic past.
Women’s lips the vivid red print of a velvet valentine.

Head in the Clouds, I fantasize about a certain scene.
Because you think violence is ****––
retaliation – ******* in my dream.

Give me an eye for my eye,
for all the eyes you plucked, from women and breadwinners.
Give me blood running down your back, sweet as honey.
The Honey in the Lion, available on Amazon.
Kit John Parish Nov 2014
A smudged grainy ring against blue lines
it cuts through his handwriting like a breadknife

the blue ink ripples with the water-damaged paper
reassuringly human amidst the bleached whiteness
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