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rgz Oct 2019
It's not a feeling I understand
I feel I'm the best she ever had
And when she's with a new lad
I won't be too sad
I just wish him luck carrying my bags
Poems can be lies too, right
Jamie Riley Apr 2018
They look out from the terrace.

At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.

Sun beams brighten motley roofs
on tessellations which blacken beige
in blurry air.


An artificial cloud.

“Look,” she points, “Let’s go!”

She takes him and they fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.

Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.

“They’re coming!
"¡Ya vienen!"

Excitement and fear.

The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.

Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.

Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and drive the mute beasts's sounds.

Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;



he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner.

Long strides

too fast to follow.

She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge

She turns and the fear is paralysing.




He­ hurdles the stairs
and explodes
when it rams her
to and fro,
thrashing her head
against the wall
where horns
sin and gore
cement and brick.

He clasps the tail
and heaves its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine -
they slip and slide
in fractured glass;
he finds a horn
and yanks the head!
He's yanked instead
near dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to punch and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer,
fast and frantic,
flying flustered
by the frenzy,
finally finding



"¿Que ha pasado?
  ¿Quien ha sido?
  ¡El Balbotin
  y la Chicha!
  ¡Que una vaca
  les ha pillado!"

"¿Estas bien?"

Dizzy she's there
with searching hands
and scolding.

"Podria haber sido peor"
This poem is about an incident which happened to my Grandparents, Fermin Yanguas Ochoa and Raimunda Ramos Frias.

It was during a bull run in their village (Fitero) in Navarra, Northern Spain. 1972
Megan Jun 2018
I miss the late night drives,
With you by my side-
I miss the late night skies,
With glowing stars like glowing eyes-
I miss the late night highs,
With the bonfire for light.

Oh and how I am now-
With none of the above.
Oh and how I am now-
With Nothing I love.

I just miss the you and the smile,
The rush of love gone wild-
I just miss the hands in the cold,
The warmth of something to hold-
I just miss us naive;
not wise and old.

I don’t have the time though,
To think of these now.
I don’t have the time though,
To wonder about how.

It’ll just be me—
Upset again forever.
It’ll just be me—
Learning to love another.
It’ll just be me—
In the end loving myself.

But then again
          I’m still left
                    With Nothing
                                I love
I feel unnecessarily angsty and such ****
Delanie Oct 2017
I just want to walk over yellow leaves,
red leaves too,
watch their damp fabric crinkle under my heavy steps,
and continue down the road.
My jacket and shoes tap with the sound of a fall rain.
You said it was over,
but it hasn't hit me yet.
this path that I follow is spinning
moving with the music that blasts through my headphones.
it's funny,
I never thought I would let you get to me
but you did.

— The End —