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Sean Achilleos Oct 2018
Beautiful heart
A heart not to be worn on your sleeve
In search of Love in a pit of snakes
White rose among the scarlet
Only to be found once in a lifetime
Disappeared it has
Like a cat sleeping in a windowsill
A common site overlooked
It was always there
The vase in the window now is missing
The one with the golden heart
Locked away far from sight
Never again to grant the opportunity to be shattered
A beautiful heart
The holy grail
Shall be difficult to find
Written by Sean Achilleos 18 October 2018©
Sean Achilleos' Music is available on the following platforms:
Amazon, Apple Music, iTunes, Deezer, Google Play, Pandora, Saavn, SoundCloud, Spotify, Tidal, YouTube, Jango Radio, Nicovideo (Japan), IQIYI (China) and YOUKU (China)

Sean Achilleos' Book 'An Affair with Life' is obtainable from the following platforms:
Smashwords, Amazon, Wordery, Kobo, Exclusive Books, Takealot, HelloPoetry, Loot, Overdrive, Bokus, Barnes and Noble
forestfaith Jun 2018
.........A bag of stones as my heart.
              Water lillies as eyes,
          A glass vase as my body.
     I couldn't think with this thunder
   storm of a mind and I couldn't
speak  when my heart is racing, running out

  of time. Blurred is my vision, heavy, are my thoughts. My heart filled with the heaviness of fear and nightmares. 
 I don't know what to do. I don't want
   to enter into the dark lairs of death
           I am afraid, fearful, hurt
                And lost. I hope you
                     God would help
                         me through
                          this storm...........................
Hope you have a great year ahead!
Brandon Conway Jun 2018
if I could                     forever                  be turned to
      art                              immortalize            ­                    me in
   ceramic.                                my story                                       have it
  submerged                      at the bottom                          of the sea.
    forever                       eroding                   ­         waiting
to be discovered and studied. Forever capturing the minds
of the historians the poets the dreamers and the ones
filled with curiosity. Have my painted life chipped
away shielded by salt and grime. Leave them
questioning and wondering filling in
the missing specks of my life.
Let them display me on
a pedestal left
to inspire.
Formatting on this one breaks on a small mobile screen
Kewayne Wadley May 2018
My arms stretched around her.
She rose like a flower.
Blossoming to life.
Her lips a bud.
Flourished full.
I a reddish ceramic.
A reminder that we are grounded.
She filled where I felt most empty.
On certain days she would dance in my arms.
Painting my cheeks rose red.
Creating foundation we both can grow.
Her trust being the ultimate gift.
Arms wide open she dug deeper.
Without soil, water or sun.
I'd stunt her growth.
Our self love being reason to how we feed each other.
Blooming the petals of what became ideal.
I gave without fear that the vase would break.
Butterflies loom over her head.
Watching her grow was the most important thing
G Rog Rogers Aug 2017
Let me then
get a vase
and water

For the Rose
that I have
brought You

Let me
Your spirit

So Your song
You will sing anew

For the beauty
of Your presence
And Your company
to keep

Let me then
adore You
In all the magic
moments that
You bring

Let me
see You
A living vision
of an Angel

For a time
of We alone

Sure and Certain

Far beyond all
hopes of dreams.



Final Draft
Mae Nov 2016
Where do you see yourself in fifty years? I have absolutely no ******* idea. I don’t. I really don’t and for the longest time I thought that was something to be ashamed of. It probably still is but I certainly am no longer on that boat. I can tell you where I would want to be, if that makes it any better…
The proper or more common way to answer this would probably be to describe my future employment of choice or the amount of little Julie’s and Tommy’s I plan on having around the kitchen table. Yeah, that would be ideal but then again, there is no substance in that. There is no honesty in that type of answer, only social norm. Or our need to go against it.
In fifty years, I hope to be sane. I hope to have developed the capability of living with my sins and not let my anger and poor decision crowd my mind. I hope to see that behind every stupid act I’d done in the past, were hidden good intentions and not just a broken window where the frigid wind of teen rebellion would flow through. I hope to be able to sit on my front porch, watch my grand-Julie’s and Tommy’s run around freely, knowing that the life they have is much better than the one I wanted.  
In fifty years, hopefully, I’ll have learned that grey hairs don’t mean wisdom but experience. That instead of guidelines to live by, I’ll have stories to share. I hope that my skin will have become creased with tall tales like a vase molded by life’s hands.
In fifty years, I hope to be young. To be filled with vibrant energy and to resonate love. I hope not to be the answer to problems, but a set of hands that’ll hold a loved-one when nothing can be done because that is when we truly need saving.
In fifty years, oh, how I will have lived. I will have fulfilled my most wanted wish from childhood.

In fifty years…I will have lived.
on a whim...
Sam Oct 2016
The flower droops,
showing its true colors.
Leaves fall to the floor,
all shriveled and brown.
The little old vase was all that was left,
It's steardy glass held in the water
to keep the flower alive.
Around the rim, cracks began to form.
Nothing was done to fix them,
they were little, they didn't matter.
But today, they grew large.
The vase broke, water spilled everywhere
and the flower was left,
laying on the floor,
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