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this is a story of a 17-something boy
who left his home, his parents,
his friends, his town with a backpack that
contained two shirts, a few dollar bills,
his diary, a pen, and his battered copy of
Love in the Time of Cholera, he fancied
himself a writer, “I write fiction”, he told
his friends who thought of him as
pretentious and pompous, the first piece
he ever wrote was a poem,
an unstructured and ill-rhymed one,
he was one of those with a pretty face,
a cheeky attitude that has given up
on *** and was disdainfully aloof,
the first night away from home in
a new city, he slept in the bench of
a parking lot next to a homeless man
who stank of *****, cigarettes and
cheap whiskey, he had spent all the money
he had on train ticket and a water bottle,
the next morning, he woke up with
massive hunger pangs, at the time of
such suffering, there was only
one thing he wanted to do – he took out
his diary and wrote on hunger, despair,
and the prospect of never making it,
it was achingly poetic.
Amanda 2d
Mornings of silence with notebooks
Multiple blankets piled around
Searching for answers and deeper meaning
Within inexplicable lack of sound

Sharpness of my pencil scratching
Fills my body with calming joy
The quiet still holds only questions
So solitude's presence I merely enjoy

Just listening to my heart thump steady
I turn emotion into art
If eyes are windows to the soul
Poetry is a peephole to the heart
About those quiet comfortable mornings with just me and my pen
This is not a poem
it is a thank you
that is breathing in my chest
as tears flow from ducts
that haven’t seen happiness like this
since the sun started going to sleep earlier
and settled into the sky with my heart,
this is my gratitude
as I look at the words that you say
leaving comments for me to read
that brighten my soul
as nothing has been able to
for at least five days,
this is my love
for the love that you feel
for the words that I shared,
thank you
for taking my tears
and making them happy again
I just logged on after a rough couple of weeks and seeing the responses that people have had to my poetry made me break down in tears. Thank you all for reading and sharing your love for words with me. I am astonished and so grateful.
Try 3d
as i read the words you write,
they feel like waves of emotions,
dancing across the page,
waves crashing into my shore,
craving more to wash up onto my shore,
it reaches deep into my core,
pulling tears from my eyes,
everything you write is so deep,
like the oceans in which we lose ourselves,
so continue to flow so freely,
let your pen dance freely along the pages,
equal to how you dance so freely in the mirror,
for every word you write digs deeper and deeper into me.
                                                 © Try
I've been reading some one who is new here, writings and i have been quite moved so this writing is a shout out to them, the Writer i am talking about is Jessica Stull.
her writings are very moving, you can honestly feel very emotion she is portraying in her writings, every line feels like a new wave crashing into you, yet the way she writes its like shes dancing on the page it self.
In the case of a senseless reality
Those who may indeed happily lie to me
Sly with a grin a twerk of a smear
You can lie for sure dear
But you’re just giving me more words to play upon a spindle of voices soon to be longingly forgotten
My strength only grows from the disdain of long slow days that take away from the beauty I seek
Perhaps those who thirst, prey upon the meek
Lies are fun indeed to play on...
But I dare not play with karma, for I’ve learned she bites back harder
So play me your lies for nothing can sure hide forever
I dare you to phase me, spare me the excess, except that is the truth.
Even truth said too soon
What would phase me even more,
The actions to match
But that’s just my thoughts a-running
I’ve got other things awaiting
I was taught,
Open your mind and protect your heart

©Jessica Stull
I’ve been through many friendships and relationships that have ended with dishonesties I knew were truths when I dared to believe  reality
Lunar 4d
i could never listen to your voice;
my ears could never hallucinate.
i could never look at you for so long;
my eyes could never hold your gaze.
i could never measure your big hands;
my fingers and yours could never lace.
i could never be in your solid arms;
my hands—liquid—could never encircle your waist.

but i think i could be on your mind
and i could be written in your heart:
if you read the words that i write
when you pick up this poem and start.
to lj, an avid reader.

from j.m.
Paul and his friend once said
"The rock feels no pain".
Yet, without mallet or hammer
the rock,
was smashed with forked tongue
and I wonder . . .
was it Art?

Inspiration taken from Simon & Garfunkel
I don't know how.
***! I didn't even try
But somewhere along the way,
I fell out of love with you.
12. December. 2018.
This cast includes
a sad reader portrayed by you
a sad writer portrayed by me.
Poetry is ******.
And literature *****.
Nothing I write ever feels as though I tell you
Anything true,
Fraudulent living.

My pen spills its ink
But never empties me.
Head still pounding, swirling
Swimming in black waters.

You all tell me words will set me free,
Yet I know now you were mocking me,
To read my agony
In my own blood must be a pleasure to you.
Do you see yourself in me?
I can’t connect
You’re out of reach to me, reader-
Hands grasping at air.

Writers are perverse.
Big sepulchres by the zealots cathedral;
Scribed all over, the living kneel outside in praise,
But the writer sees itself for what it is;
A tomb filled with nothing but death and decay.

Poetry is dumb.
The burden of feelings
Circle around the sink
But never drain.
So I will have to write again,
Hostage to language.
I’m back and bitter as ever ; )
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