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Wyatt 6d
Her venom’s love potion,
her bite’s in slow motion
as her arms wrap around me
like webs carefully woven.
There’s art to her eyes,
as red as the blood that
strings down from my neck.
I got caught red-handed
in her gaze, in her web,
in her heart, in her chest
and now I can’t get out.
Poetic T Feb 3
I don't sludge through
Through the tripe

          Of others..    

I'm no **** to another's words.

     I only like what is pleasing to my
Eyes.

       I'll never sleep upon another's words      
        to gain syllable reflections...

If you write in manners of worth,
       I'll read every word.  

But I'm no where of vocal stares,
       If you read me it's cos you gain
                   Something from my words .



If you only came here for pity reads...


       Well guess what.
               This isn't a pity stop.

Read me for my worth because
       I'm the better view.
            No pity view i'm
                
The words who you,d  wish
                                you'd read.
Poetic T Jan 5
Woven flesh knotted with the confines
of my inner plague.
             A misery of reflections that I would
wish never to gaze upon, as I'm my own
               medusa, confined in stone impressions.

And I transfixed upon my own morbidity.



But then you gave me a tattered box.
                    It's confines rattled like aged bones.
A melody of death sombre in its gifts.
                  I collected them and used the
              webs of decay to knit them hanging
                        like lynched memories swaying harshly.


With this chime of
                               syllable decomposition,
I heard your message.
That even though every gift is concealed in a darkness,
                                          there is always a moment
where its brighter than any luminosity given by the light.
Alan S Bailey Nov 2018
Various things surround in this dark room...
lost in the buzz of the whirring fan motion.
It slowly draws one into trance state, I'm like a
glow in the dark skeleton, silent darkness, and so on.
The forest path that guides us to a clearing,
whispered hushes and quiet anticipation
of the next story to be told, going from
one to another, a bead, white gold.
Starry skies endowed with crystal droplets cloud,
the moons face in the misty shroud. Woven by the hands
or fate, this way or that, the future can not wait.
Whatever this is become now, please love, set me free.

From some spell, life has changed. The darkness used to scare me.
Eric Babsy Oct 2018
Your my want
My need
Why I breed

Can I feed
I smell you from afar
The natural kindling you are

Come to the sky for me
From up here we can have a view
Lovers below me then you

Naked skies surprise
Another word of the wise
When I find love we will not die

No one can ever take my love
As we catch a glimpse the sky above
Our love like a woven fabric

Together we blanket the naked sky
Our love can make us fly
Forever running from the question why

Naturally we begin to dance
Sending both of us in a trance
Nick Stiltner Sep 2018
Why does the morning pass by so quickly?
The grey light fades steadily away
as the sun reaches the top of its ascent.
Empty coffee cups, the bottom layered with grounds,
sit on the desk by the window.

Sewn into the fabric, intricately woven,
the multi colored threads begin to overlap
and are tightened, pulled through by the sure hand
of the passing hours.

The outline blurs,
the voice of memory begin to dissolve.
The faded face mouths the words
but I cannot remember the sound,
lost to the piling sands
at the bottom of the hourglass.
Pagan Paul Aug 2018
.
You are there,
stalking my memories,
a series of pornographic tapestries
woven deep into my mind,
Hand stitched together
with a cold blunt needle,
threatening to unravel fast
when the sun kisses the horizon.

The petals of paper flowers
yellow with time passing,
presenting a weathered view
of a love that once thrived,
but is now moon dust
gathering on a dark web
of lust laced
with delicate ****** fragments.




© Pagan Paul (25/08/18)
.
Poetic T Aug 2018
Visual delusions:

Scrutinizing the acuity of
            what is visualized.
But sight is only validated
by the morality glazed over.
Until narratives are edited
to mimic a reality of self delusion.


Oral formalization

Dictation versed within syllable
            delusions, never sounding
the reflection of thought to breath.
But sour exhalation collects on
vacant windows, spelling other
          than what is breathed outwards.


Auditory silence

Auditions drummed within,
echoing on shallow walls,
           nothing wrote within
A tirade of failures woven with
three perceptions. Collective ignorance
.
Avaleen Jun 2018
and your words unravel me
like the silken strands you were woven from
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