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ESHÉ Mar 3
My mothers love I never knew.
Her affection was cold and pale blue.
My thorny heart was born to sin.
In creek water, I'm born again.
A pack of joes, a fith of gin,
I follow ghosts of what could've been.
Ive seen the sun pass through the. moon
In every town, I start again.
Luiz Feb 3
I'm a vagabond
traveling the streets
a free spirit walking
to a different drum beat

I do as I please
if you know what I mean
my life is worry free
I live in a dream

drink when I want
honest as can be
sailing with the breeze
I port seven seas

I'll say "goodbye!" one day
when death rides this way

floating to starry skyways
with me a sunny day
Mase at Corner's Bay
or maybe when she said "always"

satisfy your pleasures
do it without measures!
for the black knight no leisures
in the end
only memories are treasures
Dimitris Dec 2018
I wander around in Athens
like a vagabond
passing by the house
that I rent to be
with you,
almost three years ago.

Before that
we were both
still living with our parents.

You see,
we needed some space.
Some space
from the others,
not from each other.

We needed some time, for us.
Almost three years later and
I've lost count of
the nights
I looked
for you
in empty bars
on stranger's faces
at university parties
in the train, where we first met

Still,
I don't regret leaving you.
It was the right thing to do.
But I am in pain,
after all these years
I'm still in pain
And no one knows.
Not even you.
Derrek Faraday Dec 2018
Before the thaw, my feet will be rooted
Into this nation’s primordial freeze
My muscles and bones will be acquainted with malaise
The sun’s altruism will be refuted

Before the thaw, I will struggle to find consciousness
The frost will leak through the bedroom window
And don the facade of a blanket
The door will prove to be bottomless

Possibilities will seem unachievable
The brain will itch for what it can not have
Buses will limp through congestion
And the blizzards may feast on the feeble

You may want to write of your misery
But your automation will halt in cataclysm
Because someone held a door open
For the gust that billows bitterly

Gastric emissions will become tangible
As smouldering wastes contrast against the sky with rancour
The wispy whites, marginalized into *****
And the world remains infallible

I will lack the tools of incision
To enact my life’s revisions
I will weep for my unguided millions
While I saunter into oblivion

After the thaw, I will smile
My expatriate soul will run in the whimsical wind
Of the morning dayspring that will march unto me
I will stand over a kingdom of honey-filled tiles

After the thaw, the arks will converge
Into the straits of the Bermudian Sea and the
Elusive Caspian Forest, where I will learn to love again
While bidding farewell to winter’s dirge

In the waking world, I will ***** a limestone castle
Where entropy will rule and the mind’s domain
Is left susceptible to perennial reverence
The sea, coloured true, nesting a fairgrounds vessel

In this Great Revision, gargantuan skyways
Will show the world how exiguous we are
That we must not wait for exodus to come
Should we fear to waste away
Into icebergs
Sunny Gulati Sep 2018
With groggy eyes

I glanced outside my window.

It was early morning

and the street was deserted below.

Sleep had somehow evaded me

the night before.

The desire to mould my future

forces my mind to work overtime.

I have forgotten how to relax

and switch off at night.

Unknown fears drown my mind

all the time.

Below, I saw a vagabond,

unaware of where he was lying.

He slept more peacefully than me.

His needs were probably less than mine.

He was like a rolling stone

who gathered no stress.

Whereas my expectations offered resistance.

Preventing me from going with the flow, in acceptance.

Though our needs are few,

our expectations can become too many.

As I looked away, I wondered whether

I should pity him or me.
The more your expectations the more are your troubles
Some say
I am a Vagabond
in my own flesh carrying a heart
desperate enough to fly with
wounded wings.
My tears look like a
wondering rain-forest filled with
white lilies and baby breath.
My words ache to write you into existence.
Who am I? I am poetry,
but you can call me a Vagabond.
Dan Beyer Jun 2018
Vagabond heart;
Destined to roam.
Cursed and forsaken.
Forever alone.
Liz Carlson Mar 2018
ive traveled here and there.
ive seen incredible works of art
and pieces of history
scattered across the globe.

never will i know "home",
never will i fully belong,
never will i not miss someone.

a life full of adventures
and new faces,
i wouldn't trade it for anything.

the pain is always there,
but the memories will never fade.
joy will always abound
in the hope for the future
and the days of the past.

being a world traveler,
a vagabond,
has its troubles.
but the rewards make
it well worth it.
Athena Jan 2018
Loving never mattered to someone so tired of it.
In that quiet town where the sun rarely showed itself,
and with roads puddled by the never-ending rain,
she found herself swearing
promising
that what broke her could never reach her again.
Nobody could put a finger on where she came from.
All traces would only lead back
to the old inn’s waitress
who saw her arrive with a look so barren,
and fed her for free, as she always did to vagabonds.
This town full of compassion wasn’t for someone who wanted to avoid it.
And so, after a few days and nights,
she left for nowhere.
Just a mere vagabond I call myself
Every stream I reside into changes current in my fall
There are no parts to me
I'm just around, everywhere 
And someone to me somewhere
Often I wonder when I'll flow in the same stream again?
And as I get lost in the one I'm in 
I'll be running to another creek yet again
Cloistered I am yet I choose where I move
Oh such a *******!
Who laments but seldom improves
Strongest they call me 
For they know one day I'll swallow them too
Wise I call myself too 
Though I know I'm a fool
Who feigns death under the thunderstorm 
But saves the selfish believing no blade of theirs can dare cut me.
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