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Poetic T Mar 2018
Woven smiles collect
              euthanasia on the ones
who cant voice through
                           desperation.

She collects the ones death,
                     tears upon.
For he pauses where
she shows empathy upon silence.
Even death has feelings, so his sister shows empathy upon those who need it but haven't reached the final chime of life's clock
e J Mar 2018
Fingers swiftly plucking at steel spirals
Those sharp twangs echoing inside the body
Shooting outwards, escaping that hollow chamber
Sweet words flowing out of the mouth
Rolling off of the tongue so easily
Sounds molding together in a soft duet
Throwing themselves against every part of the room
Bouncing, ricocheting off of the walls
Hands pause, sound slowly fading into a stiff silence
Reminds me of him.
André Morrison Feb 2018
The only person that listens to me is my external dialogue
You call it schizophrenia, I call it a duologue
But in reality it's just, it's just that in a group of two
I am my own leader, subject, enemy and compeer
Born out of a fear of being alone, my mind began to sere
And unintentionally planted a voice into each cerebral hemisphere
Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
I

feel pleasant to spell your name,
hear echoes of your voice,
recall all bygone time,
can’t silence my hope,
can’t move ahead,
can’t be the same,
can’t forget.

Why, can't we,
dream the same?
Genre: Love
Theme: “Forget”, what she said. When everything matter.
Note: Repeat the Title "what if " followed by "I" in each lines below "I", except the last two, then it makes sense.
Ezzah Saleem Feb 2018
A poet hidden in a singer,
A singer hidden in a poet,
Under the grey skies,
On a land of snow,
Her lamp almost burned,
She wrote,
She was a poet,
But she sang too,
She sang her melancholic pieces of poetry, carved on wood,
She sang lullabies with her words, on torn ***** papers,
On a broken seat, with a dusty piano,
She bagan to play with the waves of notes, pushing her tired fingers, against the keys.
Afraid she was because she thought she was imperfect,
But some imperfections are beautiful and wonderful, she did not know that.
Her pain gave her words birth,
Her fears raised her words,
Her regrets made her sing,
Her beautifully written  poetry,
Not too strong, and not to powerful,
With a little voice, with a little hope,
A girl who was afraid to speak,
The one who was afriad of herself,
Invaded the universe.
With her unheard voice,
With those unspoken words.
An unexplained series began,
When her shaky voice sang her old lost lullabies,
And her soul lifted her voice up,
Her body still shaking.
But not quitting,
She wrote and wrote and sang and sang.
On sunsets, on oceans, on skies , on rain,
She wrote her heart out by singing with her soul.
No one has to be perfect. We have so much inside us that we don't know. Maybe because we are too aftaid.
Bee Feb 2018
Down the stairs, my hands a shield
for incoming priority mail,
and trained for the way your body would
hug me closer with every exhale.

Your mother won’t stop calling.
Kind of like the week we spent hopeful
before they sent you away.
Kind of like me just trying to hear your voice,
always searching for something that’s calming.

The windows have
been open since yesterday,
and I heard the bird sing to its sky,
“I love you”
before it started to rain,
darkness swallowed up the sun’s sky
and wilted all our daisy-chains.

Rescued frames surround me,
reserved to tell your stories.
The breeze never fails me,
it carries your scent in flurries.
If I try hard enough, I could feel it

through my hair, and on my lips.
Every night the breeze
brings with it a solar eclipse
that soaks through my skin,
and intertwines with my blood cells,
going straight to the bones that
keep my body from further farewells.

Tomorrow I will build a home with
the words of your silent prayer.
My cracked walls will be painted with
your skin and the scent of your hair.
My new bed will be made with
old t-shirts you always used to wear.

If I could fit your eulogy on this page
I’d make sure to mention the breeze that whirls
through the center of my chest,
and my lungs that faithfully breath the air
that may have once circled your ribcage.
Diangelo Tyler Feb 2018
Small voices can stand tall
When planted in your heart
The whispers can begin to
               GROW
And turn it into a spark that
              IGNITES
          YOUR PASSION
And amplifies your words
So they are never overshadowed
And they are always
                  HERD
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