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Lemonade Jun 2018
No, this time it didn't hurt me much,
maybe I am used to it, now.

Maybe I have had enough of us.
Maybe the fact that you're not there, doesn't bother me anymore.
Maybe I became more independent this time.
Maybe this time I knew where each of the pieces goes.
Maybe I don't expect from you anymore.
Maybe I grew up a little bit.
Maybe this time, there's no jack to my Jill.
Maybe this time, Jill knows how to fetch some water, all by herself.
Maybe this time, I want more from life.
Maybe this time, you just stick to the white-ruled pages of my diary.
Maybe this time, the whispers around streets aren't about you and me.
Maybe you don't lie close to me anymore.
Maybe, those peals of laughter are now replaced by the smell of coffee and battered laptop screens.
Maybe, my hands don't search for you in darkness, anymore.
Maybe, my eyes don't search for you in our favorite hangout places, anymore.
Maybe, my lips don't mumble your name while sleeping, anymore.
Maybe this time, I finally get that you don't care about me, you never really did.
How bittersweet is love
How bittersweet we feel
For a love that’s unrequited
One that isn’t real

Oh how sweet to wonder
To think of what could be
Thoughts that are so tender
Thinking you’d choose me

So bitter to hear you say
That she is the one
Who makes you feel that way
Your connection
For too long
Her mind
All along
Her energy
So strong
Never me
I’m wrong

How sweet it is to string myself so deep
Falling for your words
Thinking they’d be for me
How sweet I’d hear the words
You’d string together
Orchestras from your heart
But one look from her
Can tear you apart
I see it in your eyes
The longing
The need
Of her
Not me

For a second of her time
Makes you feel alive
While fire burns my eyes
As bit by bit
I break inside

How bitter it is
That I sit here like a fool
While you love one after another
I should have knew
I was nothing
Nothing
Nothing
More
Than just an ear piece
Not a voice
You’ve torn me to shreds
But I don’t make a noise

No I smile
I do
I’m still standing tall
But the pieces within me
They’re starting to fall
And they melt from your side
As your pieces fall to her
I stand with false promise
Caving into shadows to hide

Still is sweet when I hear your words
So sweet I feel on fire
Just one more look
One false hope
My mind says I’m a liar
But my heart goes back to you
With kind gestures you give
I ask myself if fantasies
Is what I need to live

What’s more bitter that solitude
Is loving a love you cannot know
And chasing after hope
That’s left you all alone

Oh how bittersweet is love
How bittersweet we feel
For a love that’s unrequited
For one that isn’t real
Lemonade Jun 2018
There's this guy I call my best friend,
He is sweet and sound.
Yes, we complete each other's sentences.
Calling him just a 'friend' would be a disgrace.
He is more of a diary for me.
Deliberately, he listens to my pointless thoughts
with his stillness, softly pardoning me,
connecting the dots,
he smoothly stirs my soul with indulgence.
letting our smiles exchange their scents.
Yes, I know he does his job too perfectly.
You would say he is just a fantasy,
right?
But trust me, he holds true.

There's this guy I call my best friend,
My constant companion,
he helps me untangle my obstructions,
just the way you untwine your hair,
and let it spare.
He is like coffee,
in the mornings that aren't glee.
His eyes proclaiming that it's a good day alee,
as that smile reaches his ears,
letting my heart sing a happy song,
all day long.

There's this guy I call my best friend,
Some of you may think, this is again someone friend zoned.
But no, this is someone I have owned.
He is more of a family to me,
who never lets down to me.
He touches like a happy pill,
he is the Jack to my Jill.
He is more than just a poem to me.
I hope, together we blaze,
forever and always.
Lyn-Purcell Jun 2018


a spokesperson of history and
their own language

an adventurer who dare to brave the
unknown jungles and uncharted temples

a student who starts from nothing
and grows by learning more

a listener who can hear and hone
the sound of their own prose

a lover who always leaves their
mark on ****** papers

a waterbearer who pours their soul to make
readers see and feel the beauty of the ripple

one soul that can and will write
their way into multiple lives

a warrior who fights to conquer
their greatest enemy, self-doubt

a drinker who wishes to
forget reality

a crafter who hears, sees, sniffs, feels
and thinks through their fingers

a sadist who loves to whip their
readers with twists, turns, pain and agony

a ******* who revels in the beautiful
agony of words, drafts and revisions

The writer's language is all that and more
It can bring as much agony as well as galore
And a special few truly understand that
the writer's language is anything but bland

The writer's language

The Writer's Language

It truly is second to none


The writing craft...
One I love to hate and hate to love. But I can't deny the good it's brought me
as well as the bad!
Also, to everyone who loved, liked and reposted my poem 'Naturally',
you guys are ah-mazing!
I logged in and saw 30+ notifications which made my jaw drop!
Seriously, it makes me feel warm and fuzzy that people love poetry as much as I do! I can't thank you enough!

Be back soon!
Lyn x
Stagger Lee May 2018
Praying breeds compliancy to evil lost in a flowing yellow river of inhuman insanity,
steel rusted chains sway in the devils mine,
supernatural whispers constrict your atmosphere,
ghosts strangling your reality the driving force of your ambition,
skull crushing fear that swallows us whole,
nothing more than an illusion of fictional time and space,
we are crippled by seething imagination of our internal false prophets,
rage into the cold crisp night confronting eternal salvation, laughing in the face of disaster, where the sky’s call your name awaiting a patient death,
never look back, our lives forever expanding past comprehensible understanding,
time disappears, existence lives on
Bryce May 2018
When Bach and Amadeus
Died in their sleep and agony
I wonder if they knew
What they had achieved

Was it worth the cost?
When the Alps were 145 centimeters
distant from today
and the earth still folds your music
In between its subducting page

I want your great stratovolcanical violins
To extrude pumice and grindstone
to crush sweet music in between
Mt. Rainier and an unknown garden
made somewhere deep
in my quantum dream

The sky takes your notes
It is a great teacher as well
and swell, it does

It tells
me a quadrillion dreams
in every iterative puff of smoke
In every collapse of possibility
of every cat ground to paste upon the street
and all the ones that purr locally
In the arms of some caring soul
A lesser spirit dreaming
In the arms of their god

You play with a broken leg
or an unattached eye
or shaved cilia
And yet still
Your skill
Outmatched
none but ourselves
Lunar May 2018
the easiest and hardest thing
about falling in love
is being a writer
it's been almost three years of having feelings for jul. i told him in a letter that i used to like him. but now i feel like i've told the biggest lie ever to him; to myself. i wonder when will this end.

hey jul, i never regret falling for you.

(j.m.)
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