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Jeffrey Pua Jul 2016
D
Sometimes, when I love you,
As you tend to love me back, half-heartedly,
I am one with the half-moon.
And I am reeling, pulling
All the stars to be together,
To be with you, when I'm with you,
Just to be whole.*

© 2016 J.S.P.
Draft.
Po Lista Jul 2016
van Gogh stares into the distance
the trees darken into piercing towers
the moon is the color of a smile
the night whirls with his thoughts
the houses lie
beyond reality's reach

I stare into the distance
within arm's reach
but not wthin the will's
the inkwell's darkness folds into itself
as often as the stars collapse
until its point pierces an eye
that is no longer there
poem's based off this image http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-b2oHOO2ndlY/U_1eVjXpu0I/AAAAAAAABKw/ziWoZEvXJoU/s1600/Starry%2BNight%2Bby%2Balex%2Bruiz.jpg
and my inability to write my essay
Jeffrey Pua Jul 2016
This is your hand, your finger,
The bond of our laughter, the ring
On your ring finger, to draw
     The number eight
Wrist after wrist oftentimes
With our fingers, to show
The inked small heart, a smile, genuinely,    
     Returning back.

These are your eyes piecing all the darkness,
     Heaping, keeping all stars on my head,
Fending off the sheep, colliding all the worlds, opening the close,
     Whisking holes in the cold, cold universe.
The lost words taste, fade, melt
In the whole mouth, like a flame,
     A signal fire.

All is illusion. Love
Is the spirit between two souls
Inside two hearts
Beside two minds
     In one understanding.
It's the only defining truth, that,
     As always, there is.*

© 2016 J.S.P.
Edited.
Jeffrey Pua Jul 2016
It will never be clear to me,
     If stars have shadows,
Or was it the deep, dark night
Altogether, proud
     Of its profundity?

If so, then
Why do I wait for you, you,
     Who turbulently loved me?
How come each of my night
Has to be for star-gazing,
     And yours an early sleep?

Why do I bother,
Staring
     At your closed eyes?

Tell me, why do I dream
     Ahead of you,
Miles, lightyears,
     A future away?

Love, perhaps, is a journey
To contentment. It is either
I am looking for it, or, with hope,
     Finding someone
Who will be contented
     With what I have.

So, If I will do this, bravely,
Just this, just this one kiss,
     Will you kiss me back?

Because if you do, dearest,
     With an impenitent sweetness,
Then I would be running out of queries,
And it will all go down
     To one last question, graceful,
          Unfurling,

     Which I’d rather not ask,
          That I’d rather leave answered.*

© 2015 J.S.P.
Edited.
Jeffrey Pua Jul 2016
In the gut of the trunk, lies a rodent,
Its young, a cheek full of almonds.
The green leaves have already met the fall,
As I succumb to the hibernation of it all.
I cannot love you and love rubs itself
To the heart, to the core, that,
Pity, does not burn.*

© 2016 J.S.P.
Edited.
Aaron LaLux Jul 2016
Fck these words,
no one really reads much anymore anyways,
thought we were on the precipice of a Literary Renaissance,
but I was wrong we’re all too far gone to really care,

fck these words,
should’ve just shot a ****,
maybe then you’d at least give me a few minutes of your time,
maybe then I’d be able to get these thoughts into you,

fck these words,
maybe I should rephrase that,
make love with these words,
let me rephrase that,

fck these words,
fck politically correct,
Donald Trump is winning the election,
our country is the **** of a bad racist joke,

we’ve gone numb,
seen so many murders on the big screen,
that when our own character is assassinated,
we don’t even blink we just shut our eyes,
we will bring flowers to the funeral,
but we won’t tell them we love them when they’re alive,
we’ll write a beautiful eulogy once they’re dead,
but we won’t send a postcard while they’re still living,
lost my adopted father,
saw his wife and daughter cry,
and after missing two seasons of holidays,
I only came out to see him after he died,
and honestly it’s hard to feel connected to a black casket,
so I blocked out the white noise and read my eulogy,
then I flew back to Hollywood after the 21 gun salute in DC,
because I’m a narcissist and I think the world revolves around me,
but I am not the Sun,
I am barely even a son,
I just think I’m someone somewhat important,
because I’ve ****** out my words and thousands read my naked verses,

fck these words,
fck these fckn words,
I swear to God I’ll shut my MacBook for good,
pull that trigger and open up my mind maybe then I’ll be understood,

shock therapy,
self promotion,
suicide doesn’t answer any questions,
but it sure is an all-inclusive simple solution,

pollution,
in my atmosphere,
is there anything I can write,
that will really make anyone really care?

Seriously,
I’m asking a serious question,
share a few moments of your time with me,
and I’ll give you me entire eternity,

my heart is on fire and it’s burning me,
I need some fresh air,
I need some new hope,
I need to not need anything,
anymore,

I am a fckn *****,
I told you that before,
we all are in our own ways,
that’s the reality of this world,

and I try and write to find redemption,
because I’ll sleep with a *******,
then donate a thousand dollars to a charity,
I’m an unbearably uncontainable contradiction of virtues,

writing the madness of us all,
writing with the urgency of a conductor as his train careens off the track,
flying over the edge of a mountain cliff in slow motion,
getting out the final proses before it’s all over for all of us,

fck these words,
fck them until you’re sweating out all your pores,
until you’re coming over and over with these words,
until you become overly sensitive from overstimulation and you’re begging for no more,

until we are both exhausted,
laying there in the thick humid silence of a passed moment,
staring up at forever tunnel vision bright lights everything blurs,
and we become memories of our passed selves and all that’s left are these words…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
www.amazon.com/dp/B01I4621OE

Volume 1 of my new trilogy about Hollywood is now available worldwide.
I’ve decided to donate ALL of the profits of this new trilogy to three charities.
Volume 1 profits will go to a charity that prevents abuse and ****** assault on children.
Please support my new book and by doing so you’ll not only be helping prevent ****** assault,
but you’ll also be helping set an important precedent in making a statement to other artist,
saying that we all need to start giving back and helping each other more than we have.
PLUS you’ll also be getting an epic book of poetry from an epic best selling poet.
Let’s make charity cool and change the perception of coolness for the better.
Who cares what car you drive or what clothes you wear anymore?
What matters is what you’re doing to help those with less.
We live in this world together and can all give more.

It took me six months and thousands of dollars to create this trilogy in it’s entirety,
and all I am asking for in return is a few dollars and a few minutes of your time.
We made the last book I published #1 worldwide and we can do it again.
Simply purchase a copy now for less than it cost for a cup of coffee,
and/or PLEASE WRITE AN HONEST REVIEW about the book.
I’ve priced the book as low as I possibly could with Amazon.
And honestly If you really don’t have 3 dollars to spend,
at least REPOST this message,
or RESPOND to this message,
or something,
anything.
Love.


Here is the link for purchasing/reviewing the book:
www.amazon.com/dp/B01I4621OE
A frustration all  us writers go through...
Amanda Francis Jul 2016
Some people say that they will give you the world!
Forgetting the world exists inside of your head,
with every sense, behind our eyes we create the universe...

Silken shirt slides over bare shoulders, my soul rests upon my skin.
Secrets lay between my thighs and you eat them as if they taste of truth.
A quickening pulse, shaking hands. My body language hides words in the hollows of my neck,
but your tongue can't decode the difference between ******* and falling.
sayona Jun 2016
why oh why,
does my ability only reveal itself when i'm choking on the truth(?) of the inability for someone to love me
why,
does the wall that constantly hinders me from expressing how i feel only tear down when i do the same to myself
why,
is forming and keeping words together only easy when i can't manage to keep my own self together?
why?
Ryan Hoysan Jun 2016
How hard can it be? Poetry can break the normal rules, or follow them just the same, or even yet write its own rules. There is no teacher breathing down my neck, holding my grade in a vice. Nobody is forcing me to write these poems, yet I feel compelled to create them.

Ive got so many words to describe just what I want, but somehow none sound right.

I know just what I want to say and who to say it to, but I can't confront these demons.

How can I have all the right words, but put them together all wrong?
I want to fix the world and tell the world of the people that reside in it, but sometimes there are too many words to condense into a poem, too many thoughts to make coherent.
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