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they hide their sadness differently
each filling their emptiness with

never ending
waves of poor choices and
escalating consequences

he will never find relief in memories
of better times of kind words of moments shared under the moon on a hill where time and again they danced in and out of each other

she will never find relief in a bottle or a twisted piece of cellophane chasing the ghost of better times of kind words of moments shared when their souls and bodies were bare and there were no conceits or pretensions or sarcasms

of a time when they were the world

and the world was them

so they continue to chase
their relief in the wrong directions

when they both know that the
solution is asking to be found

So instead they'll forever carve each other's
names into their

very last

bare

inch of bone
Read the three part discussion on Sadness here:

https://hellopoetry.com/collection/31132/sadness/
Brent Kincaid Jul 2018
Little Po’ Beep was fast asleep
When poverty came and found her;
She never quite saw
The Republican laws
Crash all her hopes around her.
The Beep's favorite daughter
Felt that she oughta
Be able to salvage a bit
Of the life she had
Before things went mad
And went reeling to hell from the hit.

Little Po’ Beep felt the cost was too steep
For taking a nap when she’s tired.
She truly believed
At least a few of the thieves
Needed to be indicted and fired.
She would gladly affect
A wring of the neck
Of the jerks in Washington who ground her
Like so much cheap meat
Starving dogs wouldn’t eat
No help from the dumb peers around her.

Little Po’ Beep wished she could learn
Some way she could turn
The slick words from Congress against them.
She’d take all their assets
And kick them where they sat
Then show them some tar and some feathers.
She’d set up a rail
Outside of the jail
And ride them from town in bad weather.
Brent Kincaid Jul 2018
Little Po’ Beep was fast asleep
When poverty came and found her;
She never quite saw
The Republican laws
Crash all her hopes around her.
The Beep's favorite daughter
Felt that she oughta
Be able to salvage a bit
Of the life she had
Before things went mad
And went reeling to hell from the hit.

Little Po’ Beep felt the cost was too steep
For taking a nap when she’s tired.
She truly believed
At least a few of the thieves
Needed to be indicted and fired.
She would gladly affect
A wring of the neck
Of the jerks in Washington who ground her
Like so much cheap meat
Starving dogs wouldn’t eat
No help from the dumb peers around her.

Little Po’ Beep wished she could learn
Some way she could turn
The slick words from Congress against them.
She’d take all their assets
And kick them where they sat
Then show them some tar and some feathers.
She’d set up a rail
Outside of the jail
And ride them from town in bad weather.
SelinaSharday Apr 2018
The many ways he is legal.,Legit and lit..
With 3 A.M to finish it!
He ever so slightly gives..
Her a passions mind hickey.
F.ck..up.. savory
Like shivering kisses mind hiccups.
unspoken...................................attention given.
Make's her shiver he's a mental ******* giver..
Make's her mind moist and inquisitive.
At the sign of any confusion.
It's his  penetrative foreplay.
Its the lyrics used to seductively play.
Tools He uses..their selective differences.
Just before 3 a.m.
She floats adrift softly melting H.i.m.
Talking  everything  comprehensively through.
  Rocks her mindful  emotions.
Mind Fkin sweet potions.
non-trivial notions.
Following every word she's relaying.
All before the 3 a.m. relating.
By day he's catering appetizers of verbal compliments.
Sharing of the days events.
when they are away from one another.
They are texting each other.
By evening.........
his texting feels like gentle
                                                                ­    whispering!
Making His next text something she's craving.
Neva leaving her guessing what He is doing.
Neva askin her wyd?
                                             Mental interactions are tender touchings.
                              Mind F
kin..   A tender kind of existing.
                                                       ­    As they both be falling.
By the time its 3 a.m.
Oceans colliding.. erupting.. exploding. mental explosion.
3 a.m. dammn she's already had many ******* heightened chills.
Body follows every moment. No hesitations so receptive.
They are such Intellectual souls..
The body is prepped it always follows.
3 a.m Anything Goes.
By 7 a.m exhaustion so good sets in.
Physical resting  so sweet.. yet mentally he's ready with a grin.
Just to start a new day all over with her again.
by selinasharday 4-2018...H.I.M (he is mine)
Mental whispering, detailing finishing sweet tempting mental savory things Prepping for the emotional and the physical.. intimacy colliding.
Shane Leigh Jul 2017
My sweet, softly.
Softly my sweet
As I walk into the night –
Is that fear that furrows your brow my love?

I reach -
But I dare not feel the slick of your skin;
Watch the torments torture your heart.
I will go softly my sweet, my dearest,
Into the darkness and –
Oh, so softly my sweet.

Do not speak precious words to me now, –
Harsh words – not as I go into the dark;
But please, do wipe the sweat from your brow,
And move not your lips and be silent.

My dearest, I have made my oaths to you
And yet, you say no.  
You still say no – you are not to.
So why is it you still ....

Oh Gods!
My love, do not touch me like such
With heartening words and calloused fingertips.
I beg of you, Cease! Or I will be forced to stay;
I beg of you, Please! Do not make me bear
The sorrowful words that proceed from your lips.

Just let me go softly my dearest,
My sweet.
My sweet, let me go softly.
© Shane Leigh
This was my first poem published to this site. For the most part is has not changed, but I have added a few things along with adding to the title.
Is the one that is passed truly the one that treads in the Darkness?
Morgan Paige Feb 2014
Call yourself Morgan.
Do not hesitate.
You were born on summer solstice.
Like the sun, you’re distant from others.

Move to Seattle and leave no forwarding address.
Busker for a break and warm your bones with charity work.
Pretend poetry is the only thing you’re good at,
And be good at it.

You can’t just write ****** words into
An exhausted leather journal, no.
Incorporate stanza into every conversation.
Drip intensity and rapture like morphine
Into the veins of anyone who will actually love you.

Speak as if you were never human and you’re still learning to exist.
Metaphors and run-on’s are your best friends-
Run-on sentences.
Run-on arguments.
Run-on relationships.
Run-on recovery.

Develop a reliance on caffeine so potent that
you've become the 7:30am medium black coffee
at the cafe down the street.
Leave no traces.
This used to be a poem based off of a poet I looked up to; Buddy Wakefield. I was encouraged to rewrite it as if it were for me, so I did. Since then, I had the privilege to meet Buddy Wakefield. At a meet & greet after his show, he was so rude to me that I left crying my eyes out. This was so disappointing. I no longer associate the only poem I've ever been proud of, with his name.

— The End —