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archana May 2020
a drowning depth of your
cobalt coloured eyes. I stand
stumped.
an abyssopelagic. lost in a delusion,
where we promise to
meet in our frayed, paper-thin clouded
dreams.
the moon-glade, bouncing off your
translucent pale skin, I watch
the reflections of the weeds withering.
your eyes, containing the ineffable
oceans. a shade of
verdigris. a blueish, green colour.
holding sparks of doom.
incandescence filled despair. how can
shadowy sadness be sparkly?
you laugh. and it reminds me of the
sounds the waves make, to each other,
before they lash onto my toes
on a windy twilight.
a hold on a fiery disposition. yet,
a conceding decision. to tie my
dancing, paint tinted fingers, to remain
your caged bird of possession;
a sigh escapes my lips. stuck in an endless loophole,
a luminous filled deception.
Mansi May 2020
The more poems I write
The more I realize

They help me
Give a name to
The sea of emotions
brewing in my mind

Once they have a name
They can be understood
Amanda Kay Burke May 2020
No fancy journals
Designer markers or pens
Number two pencil
I now write in pen actually but this was written back when I only used pencils
kiran goswami May 2020
As I am done with another poem,
I put my pen’s tip to rest
on the white chest of my paper,
and look at the clock
that runs from its own shadows
and chases its own reflection,
While it reaches the unanticipated.

Terrified, I close my eyes
and think of a moment
when the close does not matter,
when it grows so tired of running and chasing itself
that it stops.

Now as the clock has been silenced
And I can no more hear it shrieking,
I hear her voice.

Her voice, calling my name
like a leaf gently lying on a pond surface
that had been mute for too long.

Her lullaby, ringing like a wind charm
that has been touched by a raindrop,
makes me sleep in my thoughts.

Her hands, holding me into her arms
like the sunlight embraced tightly by
a droughted land.

Her fingers, feeding me food of thought
like a drop of ink that falls the pen
and fills the paper.

Her eyes, looking at me with love
like mine looking at the clock
that has stopped moving while
my pen at rest has not.

Her smile, that she throws at me
like the dandelion which throws
her children away to be free,

Her tears, that slide down
From her eyes to her lips
like the rocks on the mountains
that cause avalanche.

Her food, that she cooks
While she burns in and out
like the cells of the body that
die out quickly
for the new ones to be born.

Her stories, that she teaches me about
the world around
like the wind that whistles to the
water that never stops flowing.

Her lessons, that she wants me
to learn and remember
like a book that turns to the right page
with every command the wind makes.

Her love, that keeps me alive while
she is dead,
like the earth that gives birth
to her new ones from the womb
she no longer owns.

I think of her as I realize
How the clock has paused
I now know, she and her thoughts
stop time.
My mother, stops time.

So, I lift up my empty pen
from the ‘just blue turned’ chest of my paper
and look at the clock
that is again chasing its own shadows
and running from its own reflection.
I am done with another poem.
Steve Page May 2020
"If you want to change the world, pick up your pen and write...." ( and pin it up where it can be read)
Martin Luther.
1517 Martin Luther nailed his writing to the town notice board (the church door).  He kept writing, kept reading his writing publicly - some years 200 performances.  And got peoples' attention.
Dez May 2020
I write a thousand words to shape in your mind what I am feeling. I read a thousand words to understand how you are feeling. But for lack of knowledge I know not what is your meaning! For a thousand words would mere touch the surface when millions of feelings lay below the surface. What must we do to understand? What must I do to take your hand, and clasped in mine, take you to a place of comfort. Where at last you see a thousand words are not all there is to see.
Lily May 2020
You’d think that after
All this time I’ve spent typing,
That I could spell “the”.

Brain gets going way
Faster than my hands and then
Teh the lights go BANG! out.

I’m in a horror
Movie and I can’t break free, can’t stop
This train of thought from

Moving onward, but
Then my dreaded enemy
Appears on teh screen.

Teh red squiggly line,
Object of my nightmares, bane
Of my existence.

I’m forced to stop, move
Teh cursor away from teh
Train, draining seconds.

Must catch up with my
Brain, must… I must… I’m losing
Steam… then another

Teh.
My English teacher challenged me to write a funny poem, so I decided to add onto my old poem "Teh."  Enjoy~
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