SC Kelley 11h
People write such cliche poems.

True love that goes on for lifetimes.

A gray city in the rain, colored only by the music of life.

Hot coffee entrenching the soul with warmth in the crisp autumn.

The perfect snowflake landing on the nose of his winter angel.

The smell of northwestern pines after a heavy storm.

Her unparalleled footprints in the sand with each angelic step.

Tailgate stargazing on an ideal summer night, hands intertwined.

But isn't that what poetry is all about?

The most heartfelt descriptions about the broadest of beautiful moments?

~S.C. Kelley
For those who write, feel, and everything else
be gone
cold weather
be gone
from here
be gone
and show
your freeze in another

too long
you've tarried
too long
you've stayed
too long
a gelid touch
you've so unpleasantly

spring oh spring
bring your warmth of air
back again
to melt the landscape's
icicle encased
a throng
connect a
noise abut
frowns of
disbelief that
may rejoice
here and
swing to
the beat
with their
sunny dispositions
in the
rain today
that found
these roots
of yore
notably sound
A town of 10000
a tree
I hank
here this
fallen arc
yet the
loop in
terry that
a singularity
present now
go to
New Mexico
and the
ennui divided
there with
scrambled eggs
and this
dark star
A star of the east
We met in the middle at half past noon on the road that led to nowhere. I could see the stars were shining a little more bright on this cold December evening and the snow beneath are feet kept us dreaming of warm honey and lavender tea. Sugar dropped from the trees onto our minds full of dreams of what we could be. We met in the middle at half past noon on the road to nowhere and I don’t know my way home but I’ve found you now and I’m tired of searching for a we everyone told us we could never be.
Lavender tea
Just like the seasons,
You’ll catch me changing.
Sometimes for the better,
Or for the worst.

Regardless, I should be loved,
When I’m in every state.
I’ll love you at your best,
But even more at your weakest.  

Since we’re all worthy of love,
Why stop when you’re feeble.
In the winter, I’m brittle and
Without the spring there is

No summer within me.
I’ll crumble in the fall since
We love the colours on the ground.
And the cold that slowly creeps.

I doubt you’ll love the seasons
That change in me.

Waiting and waltzing.
Dia3 6d
Still cold since fall, December
Comes with empty trees, season's starter
Blankets gotten out, woods go ember
Ends the counting, Happy new year!

Newest year starts with January
Continues festives and parties
With snow and ice, comes drinks and poetry
Decorations stays still,cones and a tree

Third and final, February’s the last
For kids and lovers, it seems the best!
Keep enjoying folks, while it lasts
Because 28th of the month, is where it ends!
Days are just days
slipping heavy gentle into one another
days are just days here but they're
growing on me like how bruises grow
under my skin
we are past ready for this summer to be over,
we are ready for new things to begin
and we are wearing our
long sleeves now to keep
our hearts warm, don't put
them back inside our chests yet
we've missed so many chances that it feels
like coming home when the wind blows colder,
and we walk around with paper clips trying to signal safety with our
soft soft hearts and our
broken-link eyes,
keeping track of who wore it best
looking up the road trying to find out
where we're headed, take a backseat
put your skeletons away for me
days are just days here, but some days are soft
some days spill over into seasons and you smile and I know,
I am going to be here forever,
and some days, forever doesnt feel
like very long at all.
writerReader Sep 2015
Why did you have to leave
in the winter time?
Why did you have to
go where I can't follow?

You knew it was too cold for such things.
Sam Aug 6
Her words hung to frost
in the Moon-White air.
There I fell,
steel-cold in their presence.
The allure of longing
a familiar solace
only February bring.

An empty tongue,
bent to hiss all the shapes of
unripened promise
that burden green on a winter tree;
behind torch eyes
that bleed memories
down to the wick.

I could lend ear
never tire of our solitude.

I yearn for that colourless sun,
where streets not blushed pink
from summers lick
but wind cuts brick grey
and windowpanes orange with laughter.

For in such black months
we birth anew,
flowers breathe colour
to dead roots
and the busy people
calm to a welcoming halt.

A full/virtually complete update to my previous post.
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