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donna barba Jun 2015
this is love?
this is what people die for? cry for? long for?
this is love?
this is what people beg for? lie for? crash for?

no.
this is not love.

love is supposed to be like coffee in the morning,
like the first sunshine after a week of rain,
like seeing your first sunset by the beach.

love is supposed to be beautiful, and light
it is supposed to be new, and fresh
it is supposed to be real, and true

no.
this is not love.
this is some lame excuse.

love is not supposed to be like hangover in the morning,
love is not supposed to be like losing your favorite hanky,
it's not supposed to be like getting the flu on your birthday.

no.
this is not love.
Paramount Pawn Apr 2015
I lose my mind
To the question
"What is love?"
Thinking of it everyday
I don't know why
It's complicated
Love is complicated
Shannon Jan 2015
i lay down my
vanities
like
oranges
at the altar.
i pour out my
pride like water
from the Krishna-
sodden ribbon of faith
runs around and over and
through your hands
and i lay down my
face on your lap
and i lay down my face
on your map of the world
and the oceans whisper under my ear
and the future
is a boxer inside of your chest
throwing fist-
bom, bom
after fist-
bom bom
at the shadows on the wall.
and i lay my faces down
all five of them-
six of them.
and i lay them down to
be eaten by the dogs.
while they chew merry on my
presentations, my false introductions.
i look to the night sky of your face
and it looks like it may rain.
sorrow rain. snowflake fractals falling on my
cheek-
great rivers of regret and sorrow
and restraint.
i look up
Rigel Kentaurus
is shining from somewhere deep inside.
and i find you, and i find my way
around the black hole
inside you and i move swift around the comet that is me.
fire, fire, pieces of planets and fire
fiercely forcing it's way through the universes until
i finally hit
a force stronger than i.
i shed my clothes.
as naked is the eyes that see me, true.
i shed my pride.
as forgiving is the soul that nurtures.
i wear your adoration like cherry blossoms blooming
i wear your eyes, i take them from you
to see me,
to see me
and i do not disappoint. i am naked and beautiful and modest
just as you said i would be.
beautiful vessel
the Gods choose well,
so i lay my silks and finery at your feet.
blossoms in the sacrificial bowl.
let me lay, just a little longer,
on your lap that is the world
let me lay here
while your hand of the softest gossimer fingertips
rides the bumps in my spine.
let me find myself in your lush silence
and in this divine be forgiven-
oh! That I find myself forgiven.

sahn
1/19/2015
thank you always for sharing my work. im always ready for any helpful suggestions.
Jennifer Weiss Nov 2014
This is difficult to think.
This is difficult to write.
But I've been lying awake,
pondering* this thought at night.

To say I never loved before you-
just doesn't feel right.
Because I am the one
who loves all of life.
I am the one who loves despite-
one's tendency to fight
being loved, or to return love
with only spite


I have accepted myself,
and all things in their respective rights.
What plagues me is more complex;
I am trying to give it light.

I was  in love with you,
but I'm vexed  by this new found sight.
I would never ever risk
complications in the form of fight.
Never not give him my best,
even if I'm showing my selfish side.
And I never loved you
quite like I love him,
I just don't know,
is that alright?
But I really truly did love you once.
I just don't know if I really did love you truly.
Gabrielle Ayoub Oct 2014
During the struggle, love can pull us up
When comfort and warmth can’t be found, we can still reach for love
Because in the end, it shows us the way
But what is love exactly? Love might be a dream, a silent reverie
It might be everyone’s fate. Or is it nothing but an illusion?
Love remains a theme dearest to poets' hearts
Whom will never stop intriguing us
With their various styles and love readings.
VG E Bacungan Jul 2014
What is love?
~
Is it the butterfly in his stomach?
or the upbeat of his pulse?

Is it the attraction of another kind?
or lust of the naked eye?

Is it the stuttering in his words?
or maybe the cracking of his voice?

Is it the poems he wrote?
or perhaps the song he composed?

Is it the countenance of her face?
the curves of her hips?
the scars on her cheeks?

Is it something seductive?
like her buttocks or her *****?

Is it the grace in her movement?
or maybe the way she think?

Is it the way she made him laugh?
or the way she touches him perhaps?
~

None of the above define,
the love he has for her.

The love he has is commitment.
The love he gave was sacrifice.

Love is more than a feeling.
Feeling when gone leads to withdrawing.

That he kept on saying to himself,
now that she is falling,
out of love for him;
because the feeling is fading.

The fading is leading to his undoing.
Third poem of the VP series and third poem released for the night.
Did I know my love was small
Even though I felt it was large?
My love was selfish, though
I thought it would recharge.

What is love, anyway?
What is it when it is wrong?
Is it still love when it's misplaced
And you're not singing the same song?

Will I rediscover love
Just like I'm discovering me?
Will it give me hope for the future
Or just be discouraging?

— The End —