Noah A 22h

For those who love to sing and dance
Carry on

For those who love to spread their joy
Carry on

For those who love to be kind
Carry on

For those who wish to find true love
Carry on

For those who wish to harm others just becaus they think it's fun
Stop and think of what you're doing
Maybe you can change

This topic blinked into my head.  After that, I just had to write about it.

17 | 31 Poems for August 2017

Let me whisper those sweet words that held together the shattering glass you think you’ve become.
I know that through their utterance you will finally feel your heart beating to the rhythm of our love.
I want our long late-night conversations and phone calls to come to life again.
Because I miss hearing your voice on Wednesday afternoons and the joy in your sporadic bursts of laughter.
Sometimes you feel as if you’re running away from the constant pang of unworthiness that your heartbeat has become.
The world has made you feel like an abandoned church, but in my eyes, you’ll always be a cathedral.
I just wish you’d stop running away from the fear of finding something so genuine and just run into my arms.
I want the chance to breathe love down your spine; I want to be with you until the love runs out.
In a world ravaged by cold wars, our love and happiness is what we should be constantly fighting for.
Life will bend and stretch the both of us into painful shapes, but I know that we will eventually be okay.
During cold winter nights and warm summer mornings, I long to have the presence of your body next to me.
I know that we didn’t come this far, to only come this far.

Based on Neo Madime's poem titled, "Start Over Perhaps?"

My heart still says that you're the one.

Find her poem here: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1594541/start-over-perhaps/

Love
Is the way
You fill me
In ways
I didn't know
I was
Empty.

©LadyofRavenhill 2017
Eiram N 4d

There’s a silent invisible in every person
And in you it strains to be read,
Like the creased pages of a forgotten diary
Spilling delicious secrets not meant to be shared

Like you it begs for the unspoken cue
From the boy who would tilt his head and listen,
But until then the mental melody you weave most beautifully
Knows only the tear tracks on your cheeks that glisten.

So on the day your voice slips through the cracks,
The cobweb dreams you bottled up in fear set free
I pray they won’t grow weary with unuse;
I pray he’ll let hear your silent muse,
ring crystal with no apology.

The silent invisible in this poem can be taken to mean different things, hidden secrets, discarded dreams, hopes, memories, troubles, ideals.

I wrote this last week feeling rather contemplative. Always wonder whether the passing of time will yield my share of thoughts to be spoken and who is it that will take the effort to listen to their worth. I guess it’s because I’ve confided in the wrong people in the past which led to poor consequences so now I’m more careful about the people whom I choose to share them with...
Nonetheless, my silent invisible still strains to be heard.
moquino 6d

i have always craved a love like that of the fog,
for love among people never suits those like me.
i am an ocean trapped within a set of bones
unwilling to let me free;
jailed, misunderstood by the simplicity
of average bodies and frames
and shallow minds and ideas.
i am the blue sea in a skin bursting at the seams
with thoughts and subtle grace
that only appears as chaos above
and darkness from the depths at which they swim.
an acquired taste, i am unlovable,
for i hold the weight of countless ships on my shoulders,
but also the weight of the drowned in my heart.

i am the most beautiful violence, the most deadly benevolence;
an eloquence of earthy tongue not many understand.
the fog is my beloved code that orders the confusion
and assures me, even for just a moment,
that i am lovable like the rest.
for the fog kisses my lips with gentleness that seems
idiosyncratic amongst my battlefield of
sunken ships and lonesome hidden remnants of better times.
it shelters me, engulfing me in soft caresses
and breezy whispers; tearing away my stormy facade
with the most ethereal efficiency.

however much i may toss and roar and kick,
the fog stays and there and listens, watches.
it does not dare to change me,
but it lingers in its soft, chilly presence
until I have calmed myself.
i am never sad when it does fade away,
trailing wispy fingers along me as it does.
for my love, the fog, never dares to go
until even the tiniest phantom of the storm has passed
and the sun is beaming down upon me again.

Julie C Smith Aug 11

When your blood is a stream of luck running through your veins
A flood of happiness flowing everywhere
And of the dark days nothing remains
Except of the smell of the clean fresh air

When his face is all you can think about
And his dark hair all that you ever see
When seeing his pictures makes you so proud
And his is all you ever want to be

Then you know you are in love

Written on July 5th, the most beautiful day since three months... Remembering it on a day you don't need...
Inspired by a song I listened to two years ago. I'm sorry it took me two years to fully get it

And with one single flicker a warmth was felt.
As it lit and swayed around I swirled in thought.
How can something so small define in mirror image,
what I've tried to say so many times.
I becoming like the wick surrounded by depth.
Lost at sea without so much as a barge to rest my head against.
With you becoming my single barge of refuge.
All thoughts of despair and lack of faith disappeared when I bumped my head against your strength.
The fragrance of the way you soothed without so much as a word.
The city lights never shined as bright. Nor have I had reason to want to stay put until you showed me
how much strength I had in myself.
The barge of clear glass that surrounds us.
Stained by the scars of who we use to be, we constantly sink.
Discovering depth over by the far side of the fire that slowly descends. Devouring the wick.
If ever this fire should burn out shall we truly find out what it is to grieve

Kerrie Short Jul 11

I had closed the book many years ago.  The words that adorned the pages were too painful.  I told you I did not want to open it again.  I had hidden my story on the highest shelf of my memory and I did not want to reach toward that dusty void where I had placed it for I feared that once I opened those inky pages the memories I had locked away would hurl themselves at me like a thousand daggers to my heart all at once, tearing open those old wounds I had done so well to conceal.

I told you.  I begged you not to make me.  But here I am, opening it once more and writing a new chapter...

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