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Poetic T Aug 5
Each word is a sandpaper syllable,
    And ever breath Is a knife sharpened.



                     Between both all are cleaved,
                                and each part is divided



and consumed when spoken.


                      we will never heal when both
                    


  are motioned upon us at once.


                                       We are cut

endlessly between ourselves and
                           only time can heal us.
Glenn Currier Jul 31
Back in the corner of the closet
they rest covered in layers of dust
so thick I can barely see their color
but I remember the days of trust

I placed in them on ladders
dragging the hose through mud
standing before the radial saw
cutting with fear of drawing blood

Yes they are quite ****
scuffed and parting at seams
soles worn and getting holey
walked through broken dreams

But I’ve got more work to do
I shake off the past with their dust
put on these old shoes cozy and true
and step into another future with trust.
Joshua Penrod Jun 21
Exhausted
Trying constantly
To shed all those days
That have long since passed  

"Passed Days" -JP
Ash May 27
Yellow journal
Aged in fondness
Worn by the weight  of powerful words
Forgotten upon the shelf
Neglected despite your cheery shade
An artist leaves a piece of themselves within their art
A fateful discovery
Thats exactly what you are
Beaten up, broken,
torn weathered-
By years of dry land and drought of inspiration
Made alive by Christ
And awake in its pages
Your cover is worn
Your pictures dilapidate
But once you open up
Magic careens
Unveiled under your dusty pages is joy
Romance
Poetic trances
Art of divine nature
That is exactly what you are
Worn yet beautiful
Aged and reminiscent
Evoking fond warmth
You are the yellow journal
Beloved yellow journal
Thera Lance May 13
They're the same, in some ways,
With piercing eyes of green that strike me still in wonder.
He stares down from his throne at those who have built up his walls
While she looks past the aisles, capturing me in the winter of her eyes.

The frost in their eyes isn't complete.
Like the white that eats at the edges of the leaves
During the coming dawn and approaching night,
There's something there, brittle and worn
That they hide behind clear ice.

I want to know you,
Lean in close to see the fractured light of your soul
As it slips through the dark cracks of your eyes.
I wish to know how much of the green has survived the frost,
To breathe warmth onto that which you have left frigid
And that others refuse to let thaw.
TD Mar 8
Her coverless-tattered state proved the journeys she had gone through.
Her old purple spine was scratched and bent,
Yet still beautifully intact.

The woman who brought her up filled her with stories,
Delicately placing each powerful word,
Gently building her up page by page,
Giving her a story to call her own.

She told her story to each reader,
Each page turn,
Every emotion.
Her pains in every paragraph,
Her charisma in every character,
Her love in every line,
Her tears in every tear.

She was worn
Yet brand new.

She held a strong font,
Each bold showing her power to change something,
Each italization expressing her importance.

Every time her story was told if affected a new person.

Crinkled and worn pages gave life a new meaning,
Provided a new definition of friendship, gave a new reason to live,
Provided a new reason to love.
She taught everyone something,
Giving away her everything.

She was judged for her looks by many,
But loved for her contents just as much.
If there comes a day where you decide to strip yourself of the past
to dust off your worn out clothes and start again
If you move to a new city and meet a stranger with eyes like the desert at night
I hope you never grow out of the faint hope we always held close
I want you to know I left my heart in the same city we fell apart and I never stopped wishing you'd come back for it
It's still waiting to be found by you
newpoetica Mar 2
what i long for are those lips,
to take long, slow, and passionate sips.
to caress your rough, worn face.
as you play around with lace,
both our legs intertwine under the covers,
as you and i mold into one another as lovers
stopdoopy Aug 27
A love that never was

Oh but I felt it
As we left it behind
getting cut
on the raw edges
not yet worn by time
or effort

Just a fresh feeling
I really did love her
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