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This good place
One I was searching for all this time
This inner space
Out of the blue
Into the wood
Somewhere within,
I stumbled upon it.

As if by chance,
In this moment of grace,
It appeared before me.

I do not know long I will stay,
But I like it here.
KG Jan 28
The pile of wood chips stack like the
Tower of babel from this concrete plane
The furnace hungers, ever patient for
******* blood
dripping cuts
Ripped up cufflinks that share the table
Every **** night.
Before attempted sleepless dreams keep this distance bearable by proxy.
I see your face when I wake up.
I see your face when I sleep.
I pray the days spin down quickly till I can see your face in person.
Until then I'll feed this furnace.
Seranaea Jones Nov 2020

stripping off bark,
carefully neat
and then
into the bone
of the branch

bigger chips follow suit
as the carving

the knife peels, chunking
out rough pieces as
they litter the floor

later to be swept aside
into darkness

years pass in solitary
cutting as cars
go slowly by

looking where the front porch
is buried at one end with
the chips of his wilderness

displaying no
to show
for the labor

no birds
no raccoons
no whistles
not even his cane

pare of nothing
but the pile—

all he is...

s jones

Amanda Kay Burke Nov 2020
A quick knock on wood
Pondering if I should
Knock again in case
The first one was in haste
I don't know why I wrote this haha
Ashlyn Yoshida Nov 2020
Burned wood can become charcoal
Compressed charcoal can become a diamond

I will become a charred and squashed corpse
Amtul Hajra Sep 2020
I was desolate.
The sky was never purple or pink
I was inside, and my heart ached.
I ran out of things to do
I lay in my bed staring at the fan taking rounds.
There were tons of manuscripts, waited to be complete,
On the brown wood table on which paint has dried upon.
The canvases have fallen down; the nails are still deep into the walls.
I still tie curtains into a knot so that the sun will shed some tears on my bed too.
The lights I don't need anymore hang on the walls.
Mails are all left on read, I remember there used to be 506 unread.
I'm exhausted of doing everything in my head, the bedsheet is falling off my bed.
Thoughts that make no sense are crowding in my head.
I have no place to keep all the clothes I never wear.    
My hands feel manly sometimes, but feminine at others.
Like when I hold a knife or want to color.
I pull the hair-tie off and my hair fall onto my shoulders, bounce; they feel soft on unpleasant days. Cliché
I live not far from the ground, though if I fall I could possibly die.
There's a light I intend to use for reading at night, but i never do.
I never read.
I write, I bleed
I write, I bleed
I write.
I bleed.
And to reading,
I don't pay heed.
Poetic T Aug 2020
Wasn't the one that fit in,
   table to myself, an ocean
                          of pressed wood

that I float on alone....


    You know there's always a but,

Never really wanted
       my life raft of solitude.

I just look up and know
no one to obscure
       my view of life...

My ocean is a fishery of thoughts,
                                  that are mine.

Swimming into
  uncharted life choices...

But I'm fine alone,
I'll talk to the fishes
every now
and then.

But throw them back

I've finished with them..
Lane O Aug 2020
Cicadas singing
Crescendo in the dark wood
Summer's droning chorus
the smell of the wet wood
is a reminder to be happy
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