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a guy
in wild
sox seize
this roof
with threadbare
darts and
trim top
with gad
of post
and prove
velvet goest
with cream
here this
base ardently
shin eaves
in our
free fall
Poetic T Jan 12
Woeful trepidations cling to me,
                  like morning cobwebs.
                                  The dew of hostility
          filtering into my subconscious.


And the spider feeds on the woven
                       chrysalis of my despairs.
I'm in a closet of silk and the fangs are
                                        gentle but intrusive..

Every dewdrop falling evaporates
                                            on my forehead.
Falling into the morning haze of despondency .
           Fear is a word that I awaken to,
                                 beyond the sunrise.


Forever in a web of dewdrops collecting
                       evermore on my thoughts.
Are the weakness of self a demise or
rather a strength,  to weave my own web on.
Nick Stiltner Sep 2018
Why does the morning pass by so quickly?
The grey light fades steadily away
as the sun reaches the top of its ascent.
Empty coffee cups, the bottom layered with grounds,
sit on the desk by the window.

Sewn into the fabric, intricately woven,
the multi colored threads begin to overlap
and are tightened, pulled through by the sure hand
of the passing hours.

The outline blurs,
the voice of memory begin to dissolve.
The faded face mouths the words
but I cannot remember the sound,
lost to the piling sands
at the bottom of the hourglass.
Alyssa Aug 2018
Lies slip from her mouth
Waiting for the web to be unraveled
She watches them stumble and fall into her trap
Disappointed, everytime.

The strings of fate wait
It is a game that none but her see
She grasps them and weaves a story from threads and her friends
All around, people become beads

She weaves the strands of the game
From her fingers, a tapestry unfolds
Showing a path that few have ever seen before
Once, a game masterfully won
Simra Sadaf Jun 2018
she weaved lies into her words
that seemed like light,
what a candle does to the dark,
the way your eyes turned bright,
turned brighter,
as you soaked in all the lies,

you wrapped your heart and
left it beside her bed,
she opened it desiring something
materialistic,
it's true, the laws of love and morals
are long dead,
and you sit there writing about better days like a mystic,

your faith and emotions in darkness now languish,
falling into pieces with this never ending anguish,
haunting memories, feeling diminished by sobriety,
you get drunk in the wine of morose poetry.
K Balachandran Jun 2018
golden threads of sun,
weave a flashy evening dress;
nature wears it pleased!
Poetic T Jun 2018
Disjointed reflections of vertebrae
that were fluid in the synapsis of
                       my subconsciousness.
they were inadvertently disjointed
              from my walking thought.

Then I fell beneath the tower that
I had build within,
               collateral damage of life.
Broken windows of reflection that
I tried to close, but lacerated my
cognitive actualization of self.

That which severed my validity of self
             was pendulous, but with a
string we can weave something new.
Not as it was before, more worn and not
so luminous, but what was lost is gained
for that voice a lingering a shadow of before.
A poem on depression
Lyn-Purcell May 2018
Open your eyes, your true eyes,
and look deep down inside.
See your life and ask yourself,
"am I satisfied?"

Can you grasp at the threads,
see the weave that is your life,
change from black to red
and change anything from tonight?
I've been reflecting alot lately...on my life.
I'm not particularly happy, to be honest with you.
I always find a thousand reasons to doubt who I can be.
22 going on 23, and I can admit, no, I'm not satisfied with my life.

I need - no, I have to change...
I really do...
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