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Molly Sep 2019
If I could have one last conversation with you
A final day in the sunshine
I'd tell you I love you
for the first time
and the last.

If there's one more thing I could teach you
It would be that the way you're living
armoured
alone
unforgiving
is no way to live.

But I'd say it in my head, send it through my exhales in the hopes it subconsciously reaches your ears,
so as not to ruin the present moment.

We're sitting in silence
knees touching
bodies leaning into each other so it all hurts less

You'd stroke my eyelashes as they flutter with your fingertips
I can't remember what your laugh sounds like anymore

I can picture you laughing, but it's like a silent movie

But I remember how your voice sounds as it cracks through your tears
And I can see your restlessness
even with my eyes open.

I can feel your sadness
Its weight I can still see imprinted on my love seat

If I could tell you one more story about myself,
To the version of you that was still open
like a sunflower
so willing to receive

I would tell you that I'm tired of being scared
done with hiding my need to be protected
so tired of staying up all night guarding my own heart.

I may require affection and love more than you're used to giving
but you have seen my love move mountains for free
and I need just once for someone to do the same for me.

If I could meet you for the first time
one last time

I would share with you that I see your fears and I honour them
sooner than I did before.

I'd tell you
you're safe here

I would believe who you said you were the first time.

If I were to say goodbye to you again
a do-over
an un-doing

I would sit fully in that moment with you
and thank you for your honesty
forgive you for your shortcomings

Accepting that you never really unpacked your bags

Even though in my mind,
we had already grown old together.
I
Maya Duran Sep 2019
iii.
He reminds you that you may never be loved
In the way that you are supposed to
His heart opens as it should
A halved pomegranate
And the jewel flesh spills forward
In effortless bounty

Yours was wrapped in butcher paper
With care, long ago
It lives in the freezer
In the way, way back
Ice crystals form slowly
Until they resemble a silver blanket of moss
"Cavetown wrote a song about your ex and we played it all summer long" pt 3. This poem isn't about what you think it is, but I don't think that that matters so much. The feeling is the same at its core, even if the circumstances are not.
Jillian Jones Sep 2019
Nothing confuses me more
than the survival of the butterfly.
They fly around with their beautiful colors,
so easy for a predator to see.
There delicate wings,
one rip and they are grounded.
They have no teeth, no claws
to defend themselves.

So tell me, how did they make it?
How have they survived this long
being so, vulnerable?

I think ,through butterflies, God is showing us
that it is okay to be delicate.
You can survive being vulnerable.
We do not have to always be
hard and strong
to make it in the world.
We can be soft.
We can be human.

-to be a like butterfly j.j
Shakti Asana Jul 2019
I want to be the potter
and you the clay
I want to work you with my hands
My fingertips pressing
now....against the keys
the board stiff under the sensitive pads
as I feel you press back against me
imagining
your lips
soft
wet
tenderly
pressing
into me.

The clay
soft and supple under my hands
forming you,
widening you again and again
my muscles working
against your stiffer aspects
as we spin together
wetting, re-wetting
and smoothing
my hands against
your silky slick
foundation
strong and yet pliable
seeking relief
from standing strong
and unyielding
need.

You are a deeper container
than I anticipated
and I, a roaring flood
threatening
sweep you
away.

but you hold...
steady.


What Joy!
What Relief!

we never expected
to contain one another
without harm!
without fear!

Peaceful
now
our lines
flow together
the potter
the clay
the hand
and the wheel
we come together.

I love how we feel.
Flinging this out there without knowing if it is good or even qualifies as poetry. Who cares for merely good? If I feel it, receive it into me, and form that experience into words that I share, well, fine. We shall call it poetry.
Who judges the one in the arena? No, not me.
Self-conscious awareness kills the poet gasping for life inside of me.
Click "Save". Post. Live. Breathe.
Sabila Siddiqui Jul 2019
Like the sun my mind sets,
like the moon my heart comes in power
;
the emotion filled tides
rising and crashing.
Like a waterfall my emotions flow,
like a volcano words escape.

Suppressed emotions unveiled

letting words with no logic escape
for the words are true,

the emotions are pure

allowing the ones around me
to hear my secrets as they divulge
,
catch a glimpse of vulnerability , raw and honesty

that are veiled by the morning light.
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