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Cardboard-Jones May 2020
The orchestra awaits in the pit;
Waiting for their cue.
Waiting for the lights.
The hierarchy of the symphony ready’s their instruments.
The concertmaster prepares the string section.
The principle trombone and trumpet
Rallies the brass section.
The flute looks over the woodwinds.
All these parts and pieces brought together
To make beautiful music;
Music that pierces the soul,
Soothes the turbulent mind,
And brings sophistication
To the chaotic mind.

Yet there is a man
Who stands before the assembly.
He does not play strings.
He does not play brass.
He does not play woodwind.
He stands before the assembly with wand in hand
With his back facing an eager audience.
For he has the most important job of all.
The orchestra would remain an assembly
Of beautiful noise with no direction
Without that magic wand.

This man directs the noise
To blend and flow
To make sense to our ears.
He is the conductor,
And he plays the orchestra.
Grey May 2020
Laughing, we dare each other
to jump into the crystal-clear fountains
and gaze at the bright blue sky
obstructed only by the Eiffel Tower in the distance.
Our splashes alert the security guards and we run,
unable to keep from giggling as they yell after us.
Stumbling towards a field of lush green grass,
we collapse against each other and grin,
comfortable in our warm silence.
As twilight nears, we splurge
on freshly-baked pastries
and gelato the color of emeralds,
huddling against the cold
in our soaking wet turtleneck sweaters.
Fingers intertwined, we run through the city streets
until we don't remember which way we came.
We slow, panting through our smiles
as we take in our surroundings.
We're on a bridge, the dark skies and glistening stars
reflected by the rippling water below.
We stop a vendor packing up for the night
and write our names on a golden lock.
We hook it to the bridge and throw away the key,
watching it sparkle in the moonlight
before sinking into the water
and drifting to the river bottom.
She cups my face in her hand
and leans in close
so the swirling fog from our breaths meld into one
and warms our flushed cheeks.
I gently pull her against me and close the distance between us,
our lips speaking more than the most beautiful poems
and our love as infinite as the skies stretching above us.
5/3/2020
The sentence structure is super repetitive but I think it's kind of cute despite that.

There's a bridge in Paris called the lock bridge where couples will write their names on a lock and lock it to the bridge then throw the key away, symbolizing that their love will last forever.
kinhanyon May 2020
Walked through the crowds, carry on thoughts, bring a lot cups of the words

The eyes has stopped and contemplated the purple-orange shorts

And then I'll write to you what those people will come to tale

Twenty two months together, bring pictures to remember

But unconsiously cant run closer - as if they were something I want to bring back home

And it all seemed like it  was yesterday,
We dont know how to speak and win the streak
You're my true friends, may we be found smell of rain
in grey veil-face the gale

And it all seemed like it was yesterday,
Both we create new beat and that's all just repeat ...
If it could be the day - when they say - people will changes but memories stay ...
Dave Robertson Apr 2020
To clap, or not to clap, that is the question
Whether it’s nobler in the mind to give
Undying love to those who save us
Or by opposing, expose those
Who have systematically underfunded
A public fed service with malice
It dies, we die, there’s the rub
Chatter and cheer will rightly raise from
Many whose hearts are true and proud
Whose hearts must be hardened
Next at the ballot box to lift us:
There is no country without unity
No unity without truth, no economy
Without each and every soul, always
no matter
what is built
or
what grows;
there is always
the fear
that foundations were laid
in
    shifting
                  sands
that roots
are rife with decay

i've suffered my fair share
i don't doubt
that you have too
yet
somehow
in spite of this
the walls
are still standing
the flowers
still bloom

maybe
its not as bad
as we thought
it seems that
unfortunately
someone
is always at fault

these
           days
they
                sleep
without
                 touching
Coleen Mzarriz Apr 2020
The night has begun —
she dashed into the crest
of the woods
where the branches would clank together,
forming an echo of suspiciousness —
silence cannot be suppressed.

Through the drifting moon — the stars tracking her every stride
into the broad peak of the unknown,
somehow she can inhale in the black.

“Hello, which pathway will you pick up?
Can I tour with you?

She cried out.

“I don't want to be alone.”

The trees floated on the flicker of the breeze — granting her the direction
that she desires — somehow,
she realizes she is not alone.
I don't want to be alone.
Mehdi Apr 2020
Water drops, morning breeze
Is it autumn, winter or spring...
I close my eyes and I still can see
The shape of air, the flow of a smell

I am too deep inside, that I feel so out
Laying on this bed, floating over a hill
I'm here, I'm there, not sure even where
Every morning is a start going nowhere

They are coming, they are leaving
I see them while they're not there
A sound increasing behind my brain
The touch of an angel holding my hand

A voice wakes me from this dream
"Open your eyes, you are still here
This is nowhere, but look around...
You're lonely but never been alone"
IMCQ Apr 2020
My skin contains your every utterance.
Your malcontent,
Your affronts.
My failures.

It's a love so bitter.
I'm weak to it.
The scent,
It lingers.

I bleed through the bandages.
My hands,
Impossible to grasp.
You let me fall.

We hurt together.
Harmonious are the cries and whimpers.
While you tear yourself apart,
I pour myself into you.
Love is the problem and solution.  The journey and the reward.  Never give up.
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