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Micah Oct 2017
My house has seen too many monsoons
deranged doors shrieking in paranoia
The paint is flaky, lost to the elements
Teacups chipped and dusty, spoons bent in telekinetic fatigue
My fans are fans of decapacitation

But there comes a time that
you would like to cohabit this hostile hostel
With someone who is not bitter at the stars
Someone with doorbells and not medieval fortifications
With smiles that warm the winters and cool the Indian heat

I've lived this way for far too long, hiding from the sun
unworthy of someone on the other side of the bed
emotions unkempt, ruffled thoughts and passions raw
Torn smiles and hands skilled at pushing away
Words that shy from affection and the touch of death

I have a house to renovate, I don't know how to make it a home
So I sit on the porch, waiting, till they have had a look inside
Sit, till they decide this estate isn't real enough for them.
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
The night sky reflects the macrocosm,
swollen Universe in all of its glory.
Laying girdled in repose and hush,
across time with an endless story.

The sun light reflects the microcosm,
miniature Universe in celebration regail.
Laying gilded in gold and dewdrops
riding time with a ceaseless tale.

The microcosm reflects the macrocosm,
the Universe mapped in a tiny mind.
Laying guarded, cradled in rainbows,
through time with its Nature confined.



© Pagan Paul (2017)
.
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2017
Two becoming one by golden rings,
The man in a suit, and the wife demure
in white.
During the art of making love,
the ardour of man is firewater,
and sweet liquor.
The woman's wistful gaze is aflame
with a wish of vestal silk.
The firewater may chill, and the sweetness
of liquor fade, but the wistful woman's wish
is as lasting as time.
A poem from my journal based on a picture of a married couple that I saw in a magazine.
Adrian Newman Aug 2017
I don’t know how to go on
I don’t know if I will
Even if I did
Would I be the same still?
I don’t run away
From what I said or did today.

But let me know if you think
You’ll change your mind
Just for today
In loving memory of yesterday.

Because I feel the yearning
To become clean
From what plagues my mind
To what I mean.

When I say I don’t want
To stay away
From what brings back memories
I wish you’d pray.

You don’t have to believe
To see what I see.
You don’t have to pretend
You don’t understand.

Just let me know if you think
You’ll change your mind
And leave our plans
And daydreams behind.
Just be here, not yesteryear
To commemorate parting from yesterday.

Oh yesterday
Oh yesterday
Oh yesterday
It won’t go away
She won’t go away
I won’t go away.

Just hold this hand
And look at those stars.
Best friends forever
Is simply a farce.

Dear, oh dear
It’s thoughts that count
Nothing matters much
When your life is doubt.

Dear yesteryear
Loving yesteryear
You go by as fast as yesterday.
Forgotten friend
Forgotten sunset
Let’s pretend yesterday’s here yet.

29th August 2017
I wrote this spontaneously at first, then as I progressed it started to have a more sophisticated edge. I didn't think a whole lot while writing, I just let the thoughts spill onto the page and I really like to be in that headspace when writing something because when I hold back ideas, I hardly ever write anything with meaning.
TS Jul 2017
How it hurts to know, to see
that I won't ever have the words flow, like you, through me.

My sentence structure, lacking
thoughts toss upon the sea, the sail we're tacking.

There is no passion to my words,
just novice, vice sent to up to the birds.

My strong desire, though, is meek
to dance with words until my hand grows weak.

Please be patient whilst I learn,
to write, to feel this wistful nocturne.

-t.s.
PrttyBrd Jun 2016
On the eve
Of the eve
Of tomorrow
I heard a distant cry

On the eve
Of the eve
Of tomorrow
Was never answered why

On the eve
Of the eve
Of tomorrow
Now isn't as it seems

On the eve
Of the eve
Of tomorrow
Today was but a dream
6716
PoeticPresident Jun 2017
I look at the waves
and feel the ocean breeze;
the cold atmosphere to my skin
leaving me with goosebumps
But not until you come
and wrap your arms around me
We'd sit together and look at the stars
Play connect the dots
while trying to find the constellation
We form our own shapes
and talk about how we'll create
our own little Utopia
while looking at the midnight sky

Ohh,
the grapes you pop into my mouth
The sweetness is like the kisses
you plant on my lips,
even when I cry
And everything I do,
you wrap your arms around me
and let my tears wet your shirt
You then rub my back and remind me
that the good outweighs the bad
even on my darkest days

I swear you're magnetic
because even when you're away
I can still feel your aura
The burning passion and affection
that we have for each other
is predestined for eternity
and
NO ONE CAN BREAK THAT
But baby,
when we arrive home
the land will carry us
and we'll uphold our values
for pessimisstic beliefs
are just myths
because love does exist
And man, this one that we have
is sureal
It's real,
but it's like it's not
because it's like living in a fantasy
It's just orange soda you see
Tastes delicious
when it touches my taste buds
and goes down my throat
into my stomach
**** IT'S APPETISING

Tupac said to Jada
that she brings him
to ****** without ***
and baby, I give those words to you

I wanna live with you
FOREVER
even when we're ghosts
or magical creatures in Utopia
So that we can plant our love
on various people who are like us;
Predestined for eternity

You're my euphoria...
Lunar Mar 2017
the radio static of a blank station
the moment raindrops hit surfaces
the gliding of wooden sliding doors
the tick-tock of the clock on the wall
the sounds of leaves flying in the wind
the period of time a guitar is being tuned
the mellow piano scale of moonlight sonata
the echoes of footsteps in an empty hallway
the breathing of a newborn and a dying man
the far-off engine roars of a car on a highway
the supersonics of an airplane flying overhead
the crashing of tidal waves upon the breakwater
the ****** of chimes or frozen icicles on a cold day
the scrape of my pencil on paper as i draw and write
the scratchy noise after a vinyl record finishes to play
the ruffle of bedsheets when someone is restless in bed
the bristle of hair when mothers tousle their children's hair
*his voice
this poem's alternate title is "Wistful Sounds".

w stands for wistful and wabi
s stands for sounds and sabi

wabi-sabi: the philosophy and design principle which appreciates the aging and decay (due to time and weathering) of an object, idea, or even a person. It is said that wabi-sabi is the feeling that stirs a wistful, sad melancholy close enough to spiritual longing.
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