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Poetic T May 22
I live for a world without,
on imaginary friends..

Because at the moment,

Twelve Thousand gods fight
        for ******* of your will...

To be hateful and **** for them...

I used to believe in the tooth fairy,
             and Santa...

But the reality is some mother *******
                grow the **** up.....

I read fairy tales but I don't,
                     ****, hate..
Morality of fallen morals
      in imaginary words..

People need to recognise,
      that every story is just
a third hand view..

Rewrote from the reflections of
           that time.

But some are sheep and some
      are wolves...

But the wolves never feed,
    just try to prune the wool
over others eyes to let them howl
                                     at the moon..
Dog and Goat perform the wool rite,
A deluge of silver flashing forward.
South wind where best perch to weather?
Lie me basking in your splendour!

Cast around the hill back footed,
Sky clad before spent beech leaves.
New greens are flashing here and there,
A Frost that whitens morning air.

Storms blow to cleanse Her of her dying,
Him of sins inside Spring flowers.
Dance for it is time to plant new seed,
Luperci pressed in chick ****!

Exalt in stirrings deep as marrow,
Have dandelions mark the passing.
Though limbs of Oak hold up pale plaster,
The Summer comes in Springs soon after.
Julie Grenness Aug 2019
Really, there was no need to fuss,
I signed on with Yarn Anonymous,
Here I stand to confess,
I bought more wool, not less,
Then I did sign the pledge,
I took abstinence to the edge,
Here I stand and say,
I have not bought wool for ten whole days!
Feedback welcome, one for my craft group ladies.
Anastasia Jun 2019
blue chiffon roses
pink ones
made from tulle
from cotton
green ones made of wool
orange made from linen
purple made from flannel
but the prettiest ones of all
are the blue chiffon roses
abigail j s Feb 2019
i am not the lost sheep, for You know exactly where i am. but i am a stupid one.

i know i shouldn’t lag behind the flock or wander over to the edge of the cliff repeatedly to check how far we’ve come, but i do anyway.

i’m weak and my wool falls into my eyes so i can hardly see You, but i make only half-hearted efforts to swipe it away.

Father, i am not worthy of Your love in any way. but You give my hooves strength to keep following You.

thank You, Jesus. please, keep me close to You. I will wipe this wool from my eyes and keep stumbling after You, no matter how much it costs.

for You will be my strength and my song and my salvation.
thank You. -the blind sheep.
written December 16, 2018.
Mortality is surprising as it should be.
That you should die is not implied by life
Or pain. There is a sweater hanging in his closet.
If one were to look closely at the
                       neck the thread begins un
                       raveling the
                       re. No one will
                       she s
                       d. But it is his sweater and he noticed.
But it is only a sweater and really no one will notice.
It isn't what they look for.
emma hunt david Dec 2018
this is my favorite pair of jeans.
they fit my legs tight and then loose and the color keeps to itself.

this is my favorite sweater.
it keeps me warm and it’s the color of moss.

i’ve been wearing the same shirt for three days, but i’ve showered between those days
i’ve been seeing you for a week but you’ve talked to your girlfriend between those days.
my neighbor threw my clothes on the floor cause he needed the dryer
so now i have to wash them all over again and i don’t have $3,
the machine ate two so i only have one left

your copy of rear window is on my floor.
your copy of monty python is on my floor.

thick hair, thick hands, thick wool,
i’m thinning but you’re only getting warmer

i’m tired of men entering my life and taking all of my heat right before winter comes.
watch who

death does

Ace Sargent Jun 2017
My fear is like a worn blanket;
it keeps me bundled safe from cold,
Protects me from intruding talons
that reach to break frail bones.

Its edges are torn and tattered;
Hairy strings scratch at my throat.
I sometimes hold it all too tightly
and it wraps around my soul.

It sees that scary people scare me,
and knows that everyone is scary.
But this blanket isn’t just a haven,
the people claim it “unhealthy”.

They tear at fraying threads and seams
and I screech for them to stop.
It’s so comfortable and warm in here,
and it very rarely gets too hot.

I’ve grown accustomed to its feeling,
but the mad people do not care.
They tell me “Be more social.
The world shouldn’t scare you dear.”

But this itchy blanket shields my body
when people venture far too close.
When they try to shove ideals and dreams,
down an already suffocating throat.

Why can’t the scary people see
That this blanket is home, is mine?
They cause the frightful disrupt.
They make the blanket make me blind.
new work! please feel free to leave advice on editing!
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