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Amanda Kay Burke Jun 2023
Been lost too long to find the right road
To save squandered time thrown away
Backtrack the past but I'm wasting the present
Cannot erase regret
Tried every which way
I am so stuck right now
Don Bouchard Oct 2021
When you run across a "which,"
Put a comma in the ditch.
A punctuation bug-a-boo. Maybe a bit of doggerel'l do....
Laokos Jun 2021
if you think that you are
no better than your
current circumstances
then you are right

if you think that you are
better than your
current circumstances
then you are right

two keys
one locks your cage
one opens it

which one will
you use
Isabella Oct 2020
Do we idolize normality
Or demonize insanity
And which is worse
J J Mar 2020
Her paper-thin wings, inked in grainy
yellow and true azure blue;
The butterfly's ****** movements twitched
Like a stop motion puppet's.
Her bearded creator bows in sarcastic devoir
Wheeling out the spiralling portal
And contorting it to a star that rapidly unfolded--

At last, the pale sequinned godess is upon us,
Trembling in goosebumps like raindrops atop
   the rattling leaf. Sacred imprisoned witch;
    harbour of her sister's thorny cobweb, and fangs
That wish nothing more than to knit upon our sordid

Where Shelter May 2017
The Prism Through Which We See Clearly


light saws our untrue selves with acute angles,
piercing our holistic pretenses, daily disambiguation features,
our sheltering disguises into our essence refractive elements

this is not a cute rainbow poem - run from here

it is a dissection of our true nature
why belabor, why elaborate?

through the prism
you color-coded self, tracted,
a mapping of your intersections,
what each color speaks, needs not an explication,
your hidden humanity comes to my eyes, in full revelation

at last I see you clearly

the lost and black withered limbs,
the stirring, leaping, enflamed flaring, never ceasing, breathing elements that mark your singularity

did you know your eyes are constant singers?

through prism, each note heard distinctly, as it rises uplifted,
your song, mine for observation and weeping exhalations,
your song, the production number of thy own composition,
through prism, our interior visual disinterred and released,

here I must cease, for what seen, grievous weeping deepens,
from the glory and the pain my blurred wetness overwhelms
the clarifying crystal useless when tear coated

through the prism,
before the full length mirror,
my own, unowned, never could be owned,
'mirror mirror on the wall,'
warped weave of tissues, mine,
the song sounds, mine,
from lungs disgorged
myself, diagnosed and displayed

of what I see, spitting speech
ceases and desists,
the only thought permitted, repeated,

where is my shelter now?**

5/13/17 6:49am
Colm Sep 2019
The rain unsettling shakes more than me
It shakes the summer out of the pensive trees
The quiet out of the evening still
The confidence out of the newfound skill
And more so than the colored leaves
Which newly rest on dampened ground
As the sorting of the rain gives way
Resulting in a plethora of familiar sounds
All merging beneath and moving fast
Like a symphony of cicadas in the summers past
Known only to one in time as the same  
As the parting whisper of the trees in rain
Written on a whim tonight, when I first heard the rain greet the evening trees and their fading leaves. True story, the idea behind this is that the trees part ways with their leaves, just as we human beings will one day have to part ways with our children. Slowly, steadily and with a whisper.

Colm Sep 2019
To the side
With mindful eyes, lax
Like the smile which always wide
Comes back

Sitting beneath the old mailbox by the railroad tracks

Trying so hard not to forget
The words inscribed
Which you promised me
In the letter that never came
And why is that? Because I waited too long. LOL. Mr. Newman with the song. FTW.
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