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My body seems to be destroyed.
Cataclysms tore the flesh.
Survival logic is broken,
I can't crack a log.

I can't use an aspen pole.
Prop up the rotting attic.
And from juniper basket
I can't build anything.

I can't use a twig bundle.
Melt the grate fireplace.
And count in French Spanish
I can't for no apparent reason.
Poetic T Nov 2018
The eternal strings play
as crows feathers
                  fall like tears.

But alas,
               these will never dry
seeding the clouds with grey.

Every melody is a line of life,
now serenading stone words.

A sunset caressing
chiselled days, years,
                       then nothingness.

Upon a wooden box,
               a crow sings tears
that form on the strings of
      yesterdays now played.

          The future is barren of you.
Nikos Kyriazis Oct 2018
What are you drinking sir?
Oh, inside this wooden mug
several things exist

Stalks from the flowers of rainbow
and some molten clouds of autumn

Petals from the maize shrubbery yonder
and some drops from youth's lunacy of course

All you need
for the upcoming winter
Lydia Hirsch Jun 2018
Wooden woman waiting outside of a grocery store
in North Berkeley

Made tired by time,
chips of wood had fallen in masses from her body,
entire aspects of her anatomy had eroded away--
most of her nose, her left ear,
her right cheek, her *******, half her stomach

She had been a tree,
torn apart, reassembled
in the form of a female human being,
no sign of life in her sightless gaze

I guess she’s gone now,
after all those years

I went to look for her
and found only an antique shop
with a peculiar name
at the address where she should have been

I would have liked to have seen her
one last time, this statue
that fascinated and frightened me as a child

I’m glad she’s gone, though--
She resemble less and less a woman,
was becoming clearly merely wood
cut into tiny pieces and glued together

She resembled less and less a woman,
and I’m glad she was killed
before she ceased to be art
Sombro Jan 2018
Me, on my way to clock out,
He, croaking wooden breaths, a
Splintering throat, crooked as an oar's overbite
Glinting with some
Unbelievably bared promise.

I looked past him, echoed the anxious knots
Of its hollowed brow, scooped and spotted
From overuse, I frowned past him, though he followed.

I spent as long as I could not talking to him,
But forced to deny myself silence
I heard his two part speech
And paid some token focus
To what he had to say

What little I heard, in his hope filled groans
Had nothing of his contented purpose, for
Varnished words are slippery

When we went to the pub he
Leant on the wooden counter and
His roots set, he
Sprouted drunken fruit and
I don't think he's moved since
this one was sitting in drafts, so I thought I'd finish it, I'm having a prolific day
Irina BBota Nov 2017
How pretentious can be the silence
in the mornings of the hot summer days!
I felt nothing no more, for patience
is not limited to formal love and it says:

It was just me. The rest of the world delivers
heavy waves stumbling against my wall,
trying to set right the serpentined rivers
of crying, flowing on my crusty skin of a wooden doll.

The Sun, a dragon that throws flames on his nose,
the Wind, too coward to show his refreshing face,
the Sky, discolored in the distance, it froze,
just the Moon closed his eyes, leaving no trace .

Me and I, were not well together,
but I have found the power to listen to myself,
sipping the sweet-bitter coffee, feeling a bit better,
I was learning again to live, to be an other self.

I knew that one day the blank pages will be coloured,
That the ink stains of my soul will disappear,
That I will forget about the storm that is uncovered,
the call of love will be on my side, without shedding no tear.

I knew that butterflies melody I would hear soon,
Birds chattering happy over the green forest,
That I will never hear poor souls screaming in the noon,
That all this will be simple memories on my wrist.

Now I extinguish my thirst with accords of violin,
Mistrust has deserted from my sleepless earth,
Regrets have become sad songs of flowers on my skin,
In the breeze of the morning, forgetting my wound's birth.
Vexren4000 Sep 2017
A stake through the heart,
Of a man accused of Vampirism,
A crushed skull,
And writing pile of meat,
Dead simply because
Man is ready to fear and discriminate,
At the turn of a century.

JAC Mar 2017
I'm a boy made out of wood
And with you I know I could
Be painted better than I am now
To befriend an artist like you somehow
My hair and shoes are made of clay
Molded carelessly, messy, you'd say
Fix me, bend me, make me new
But please don't make me into you
Someone made me, someone great
But made of wood, I know my fate
Will be met in a fire, so easy to catch
For I know I'll fall in love with a match.
Hao Nguyen Apr 2016
If you build a wooden statue of my father,
I will break it down to pieces to build a home
and light a fire to warm my freezing wife.

If you leave food offerings for my mother,
I will collect and cook them to provide a feast
that will feed my hungry son.

If you commemorate a pond for my ancestors,
I will draw multiple buckets to cleanse wounds
and offer water to my thirsty daughter.

If you ***** a golden statue in my memory,
I will instruct my predecessors to smelt me down
into small pieces and spread wealth to my family.

If you wish to remember good souls and actions,
celebrate them by giving to those in need.
crystallaiz Mar 2016
the 3pm sun is streaming through
the window with
glued-on paper flakes
illuminating the furniture
casting dark shadows
against light wood
and i'm tasting snow
on my tongue
and thinking that this
feels like freedom
Last time everything felt surreal, but now I feel real. It feels great to be real.
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