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K Oct 6
Oh, Wild Wood
The smell of oil consumes me -
The acoustics surround me like a nest of warmth and buzzing bees.
Oh, Wild Wood-
The rain across the street is slapping against the cement like it's been owed.
Oh, Wild Wood -
Your coffee's burning-
Your touch is lingering - your words are softening like butter and I'm searching for meaning in the cool air.
Take me back there.
Oh, Wild Wood -
have I lied?
Have my memories betrayed me-
am I hollow as a guitar inside?
m h John Sep 1
we watched as the sky
opened up to us
and showered us
with its rain
however the only difference is
the rain was fire

and we were wooden
The witch in me
Melted with
The gremlins
Just multipled x2
***** computer
I want to be stuck in a house with you
Listening to the rain pouring outside
The smell of the heavy rain
The smell of the heavy rain in the middle of a forest
The smell of the wet wood

I want to feel the cold of the rain
In a hot summer

It is like an opportunity to be closer to you
In your arms, under the blanket
Watching TV and making love all day
Hearing the sound of the rain outside
Hearing your breath
Feeling your skin
Hemlata Roy Aug 3
To see
The dreamy waterfalls,
The creamy sky,
The shiny sea.

To see
The trees along the road
While travelling in a car
and having that fresh air
which is cold.

To see
The nature
with so many beautiful creatures.

To hear
The music of the birds
Now a days, which is hardly heard.

To feel
The fresh air
in a greenary wood land.

It is better than that of staying at home
Imagining things that would never happen.

The happiness of going out in the nature
never have realised in the days
of living in a house like a wooden cage.
When you feel alone and sad just go in the nature and feel free to view yourself to the world, it will make you happy again.
Juhlhaus Jul 23
I felt a tree's heart one summer
Night after the heatwave;
The wood was damp where abandoned
Roots drew the cool groundwater, still
Trying to make cells, shade, and scent
As they'd done for more years than I
Walked by without pause,
Until the tree was gone.
Jude Jun 16
If the trees would speak,
They’d tell me to leave,
To find my roots,
Grow up to the clouds,
And find my peace.
been a while
I tend to forget about all that goes on in my life,
Each mental note is burned,
Like a moth enticed by the beautiful flame,
No matter the importance,
Each trial becomes engulfed by the bigger questions,
That tend to argue about my very existence,
Every realization of growth rises in smoke,
A puff of air released from my lungs,
Blows it away into the blissful nothingness,
That sits in front of us all,
What remains is not memory,
Nor is it emotions,
They are questions,
That only fuel the fire lit between,
My breaths and dreams.
Johnny walker May 23
I grow up in time when there were less pressures In life than there is now kids allowed to
I didn't have to put all the pressure from school  as they do now for I  had childhood but now they
seem have any all pushed Into schooling
stress of exams at to early
age no time for play
of a childhood of just being young I believe society that pushes them far to young they don't have time to develope naturally  
of there own If given a chance  to stay here or return to you 7my past I'd be more than happy to return to 50s and
everything's tarting to becoming exciting and new I loved
the cars the fashions mini skirts and the ladies with the hour class
that were a pleasure to see  yes If my time I'd go back to the 50s 60s days with less pressures than
Rowan May 12
It stood among no giants, no towers, no mountains.
Heedless to the wind, scattered without waving stalks and rusted leaves,
it chose to fall where it could not.
Jaded, perhaps, but not without sterling hands crafted to bellow.
A smattering of elbows chastised the woodpeckers pecking.
Ephemeral? Beautiful? Sober? Lassitude?

It fell among no gorges, no ravines, no swale.
Heedless to the rain, swamped in a dell without sliver streams,
it swelled up above the ratty woven sails.
Coarse, perhaps, but feather flew, vying for sky.
A copse of whitebark pine pillaged no battalions.
Mauve? Tender? Empyrean? Redolent?

It pattered among no small sorts, no ant hills, no chambers.
Heedless to the duke, sabotaged without sword, spear, stone,
it swallowed a hive of rabbits in no fields.
Desultory, perhaps, but not with quintessential ripples bent in space.
A harrowing panacea flourished in spindles of florid bristles.
Sempiternal? Susurrous? Honeyed? Irascible?

It churned among no whirlpools, no pots, no frosting.
Heedless to the maelstrom, sluicing in a myriad of slanted lanterns,
it chose to lure where it could not beguile.
Laconic, perhaps, but not without furtive gallows smoldering.
A candelabra of viridian mire spies spied genteel dragonflies.
Enormity? Enmity? Vestigial? Switchback?

It stood among nothing.
It stood enervated.  
It stood.
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