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It seems to me that you're mistaken
I sense your yearning for a ghost
You fell in love with the best parts of me
Someone who I no longer know

And I've stayed hidden in the quiet
I've managed happiness, alone
Spent countless hours trying to heal me
Ignite the fire this world stole

And you want this ghost beside you
But ghosts can't give you any more
Can't give you something that they don't have
When they're not even half a whole

Ask for riches; you'll receive them
Ask me for treasure; you'll get gold
But dont you ask me for my heart
That can't be given, anymore
The onyx of my eye confesses on this page:
soft and torn with a leaking edge,
My breath sinks into creamy lines:
a fusion of cursive, print,
and shallows of wine,
My lashes accumulate dust
from love-dazed writing,
My hands grow skeletal
under crinkled lighting.
Poets, in a sense, can be writings skeletons. Writing poetry can be hard, and consume a lot of our energy. Though what comes from it can be tranquil, magnificent, relative, or even beautifully chaotic.
Finally The Fires Spent,
The Embers Darken Into Ash,
Hints Of Smoke Left In The Sky,
The Woodland Creatures Begin To Rise.

Finally The Rain Has Run,
Watering Crops For The Sun,
The Grain For Harvest In Due Time,
To Feed The Thousands For Their Climb.

Dawn Is Dawning On A New Day,
Mothers Fawning Over Babes,
Birds All Chirping In The Trees,
Dark To Light Across The Seas.

The Sun Is Climbing Up The Sky,
Wings Are Dry & We Can Fly,
The Rain Has Passed The Fires Spent,
The Work Continues We Don't Relent.
Harry Roberts - The Work © 16/09/18
The imagination is evidently pure; its here --
The ascent of ideas and valiant colours, and hysterics
In matrimony- on this delirious evening mood
(But he needs more paper to write)

We are familiar with The Great what's-his-name?
Ah - The Bard, out of the reserved shadows he would abrupt,
Create scenes of quiet saints turned to garrulous beings
(But he needs more paper to write)

On his tattered paper, he would write of idle witches, comedies, tragedies, of
The insanity of Love, the flaws of princes, fools, knights,  daughters, servant boys,
His work resembles that of festival with black and blue harlequins
(But he needs more paper to write)

The pity for Jesters, Twice as bloomed as the audience laughs at him!
What pessimism, what insanity, caused such a twist in this plot? they say
To understand the agony of the human spirit, where he writes inexhaustibly
(But he needs more paper to write)...



                                                    ­      
being squeezed like strawberries
red and porous
until the juices come
squirting out of us and
we must retire to our
fantasies of escape
because we’re choking
choking on self-involvement
choking on lack of confidence
choking on bad commercial music
choking on stupidity
choking on laughter
choking on living
choking on media
choking on stress
choking on words
choking on the dread of work
and just when we gasp for  
a breathe of fresh air
there’s always gonna be
someone to approach you
and tighten down the pressure
around your neck again
with their fingertips
and if you can’t breathe
you can’t fight
and become more docile
and subservient
to the hard pill of
commanding superiority
to swallow

supervisors and managers
are like road construction
on summers break,
making it more difficult
for you to get to where
you wanna go when
things are already
running smooth

I’ve seen too much enforcement
and not enough leadership
to last a lifetime
and I no longer
care
Isaac 6d
If poems were seeds,
How many could you plant
If you lived a full life,
And worked like an ant?
It would be amazing to have
Your own poetry forest,
Observing your thought life
Through poems clear and honest.
As this world is changing
And you are moving forward,
Don't forget to keep planting
Seeds to become your new orchard.
Written 13 September 2018
Isaac 7d
You have special talent
waiting to be
unlocked through work.
Written 12 September 2018
Can’t you hear the rain?
It’s loud in my bedroom, but I guess you are further from the walls.
You can’t hear the rain?
Thunder? See the flashes of lightning,
counting
less than one- less than a mile away,
and you still can’t hear the rain?
I hope the corn fields outside our neighborhood don’t catch on fire.
Or any houses.
I’d be alright if the school did, though.
But it’s loud. Pouring, yet
you can’t hear the rain?
We were just talking about it, the unusualness,
the strange in our wet summer, when
everywhere else is so dry.
But you can’t hear the rain?
Work, at the pool, was canceled, and
don’t you see the lights have gone out?
Well, not see, I guess.
It’s dark. Hot, as the AC isn’t working.
The fridges are off, and the candles are gone, but
you can’t hear the rain?
"Get back to work!"  the voice shouted out

"There is work, you jerk, to be written about!"

"Ok!" I said, as I stared at his head

This story is over, this poem is dead.
Sam Sep 11
I want to be great, I want to paint, draw, sing, play guitar, juggle and dance.

I want to run a half long marathon, achieve greatness when I have the chance.

But with only 24 hours a day, I fear it can’t be done.

I want to travel, see the world, be successful and have fun.

But here I sit at home, when I should go on a run, it seems I am a jack of all trades,

But a master of none.
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