#reservoir - Hello Poetry

Here is just another thought Going down the stream, Just another thought. Leaking from a tap With the label "purity" Just another trap 　　The obsessive mind gullibly bites the lure, 　　Obscured by clouds connections, 　　Concealing the large picture. 　　　　How every blast creates a reaction! 　　　　Panic attacks to draw the attention. 　　　　Where’s the crack in the grand ***** wall, 　　　　So we can strike down the reservoir? Diverting the river that must belong to all Before our eyes - wider worlds shrinking small; Cradled by the uniformity of lies that appease, Those grazing in the dunes still tarry at ease. It’s no wonder! Insecurity has grown into a most lucrative market As danger becomes the currency on which to place the bet; Release the flow from the control that profits hold fast, Question the junk food that's become the pasture of our mass. 　　Continuous diversions 　　Feeding everyone’s greed 　　Fulfilling false concerns - 　　So easily believed! 　　　　How every blast creates a reaction! 　　　　Panic attacks to draw the attention. 　　　　Will the facts in knowledge’s downfall 　　　　Let us unshackle the repertoire?

0

Mar 28, 2021

Mar 28, 2021 at 3:49 PM UTC

solav

The Leak (2017)

Here is just another thought Going down the stream, Just another thought. Leaking from a tap With the label "purity" Just another trap 　　The obsessive mind gullibly bites the lure, 　　Obscured by clouds connections, 　　Concealing the large picture. 　　　　How every blast creates a reaction! 　　　　Panic attacks to draw the attention. 　　　　Where’s the crack in the grand ***** wall, 　　　　So we can strike down the reservoir? Diverting the river that must belong to all Before our eyes - wider worlds shrinking small; Cradled by the uniformity of lies that appease, Those grazing in the dunes still tarry at ease. It’s no wonder! Insecurity has grown into a most lucrative market As danger becomes the currency on which to place the bet; Release the flow from the control that profits hold fast, Question the junk food that's become the pasture of our mass. 　　Continuous diversions 　　Feeding everyone’s greed 　　Fulfilling false concerns - 　　So easily believed! 　　　　How every blast creates a reaction! 　　　　Panic attacks to draw the attention. 　　　　Will the facts in knowledge’s downfall 　　　　Let us unshackle the repertoire?

30

Gliding on the surface Of this frozen reservoir I pick a stone and throw it Waiting for a breakage Did I hear a crack out there Or maybe it came from the inside? Could the ice break? How warm is the water? I heard it's colder The deeper you go Two stones are in my hands I've never felt as powerful Being all alone Knowing death is watching Waiting to be summoned If I fell in the water Would you come save me? If the ice cracked Would you feel relieved? Jumping on the surface Screaming at the world I pick a stone and throw it I hear a crack again

0

Feb 5, 2020

Feb 5, 2020 at 11:51 AM UTC

relahxe

Cracking

Gliding on the surface Of this frozen reservoir I pick a stone and throw it Waiting for a breakage Did I hear a crack out there Or maybe it came from the inside? Could the ice break? How warm is the water? I heard it's colder The deeper you go Two stones are in my hands I've never felt as powerful Being all alone Knowing death is watching Waiting to be summoned If I fell in the water Would you come save me? If the ice cracked Would you feel relieved? Jumping on the surface Screaming at the world I pick a stone and throw it I hear a crack again

23

Humble I tumble through a silver lining eyes peeking out of a blinding light travels fast further yet to meet at last between two sides of the same mind bodies lying on many tides dancing over water to unwind Today I heard myself mumble "I'm waiting for the moon to drop down crush these stones, flush my sight and make me drown" then flesh turns soft pink into shades of light blue like sunrise becoming the sea's painted sky, wide and true I realize I became one with the tide birds flying in my sight I'm their reservoir everyday they will tell me au revoir and I'll tenderly embrace oceans weary face and make it mine make it mine

0

Sep 3, 2018

Sep 3, 2018 at 9:37 AM UTC

Blade-Maiden

Ocean embrace

Humble I tumble through a silver lining eyes peeking out of a blinding light travels fast further yet to meet at last between two sides of the same mind bodies lying on many tides dancing over water to unwind Today I heard myself mumble "I'm waiting for the moon to drop down crush these stones, flush my sight and make me drown" then flesh turns soft pink into shades of light blue like sunrise becoming the sea's painted sky, wide and true I realize I became one with the tide birds flying in my sight I'm their reservoir everyday they will tell me au revoir and I'll tenderly embrace oceans weary face and make it mine make it mine

27

began with the end of your sentence the dredges at the bottom of the mocha fool yourself into thinking you are not running on less than nothing accept it doesn’t make sense read the symbols you find at the bottom of your reservoir

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Jul 2, 2018

Jul 2, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC

latin

dredges

began with the end of your sentence the dredges at the bottom of the mocha fool yourself into thinking you are not running on less than nothing accept it doesn’t make sense read the symbols you find at the bottom of your reservoir

7

I was drowned in my memories Of how everything used to be, I built a big reservoir inside my heart So I can vividly see and feel them When they turn oblivion to everyone When they turn oblivion to you

0

Jan 25, 2018

Jan 25, 2018 at 6:22 PM UTC

ciel_bleu

Oblivion

I was drowned in my memories Of how everything used to be, I built a big reservoir inside my heart So I can vividly see and feel them When they turn oblivion to everyone When they turn oblivion to you

6

The golfers leave early -- September or October -- it's just you and the hickories, the asters, the goldenrod -- and the reservoir -- the ripples shimmering eastward. Steamshovels and bulldozers labored here one summer, digging a hole for the water, piling up the earth. You walk on the bank they made, seeing beyond the golf course -- the houses and barns, the swampy gray-brown fields of goldenrod, the railroad tracks, the pines. Your thoughts plunge to the reservoir's bottom then turn racing to the farthest field.

0

Jul 30, 2017

Jul 30, 2017 at 3:27 PM UTC

lucius-furius

Reservoir (Day)

The golfers leave early -- September or October -- it's just you and the hickories, the asters, the goldenrod -- and the reservoir -- the ripples shimmering eastward. Steamshovels and bulldozers labored here one summer, digging a hole for the water, piling up the earth. You walk on the bank they made, seeing beyond the golf course -- the houses and barns, the swampy gray-brown fields of goldenrod, the railroad tracks, the pines. Your thoughts plunge to the reservoir's bottom then turn racing to the farthest field.

18

I can't say for sure at what age you suddenly start to really take the world in, but I have these specific memories of being an angsty fourteen-year-old running laps around the reservoir at swim practice. I was so young, but old enough that I really thought I knew what love was, and maybe I did, maybe I knew love in a certain kinda way, a certain kinda love I'm too old to understand now. I ran laps. I remember noticing my breathing, the one-two-three huff-huff-huff rhythmically circulating oxygen as I went numb from the waist down. I remember thinking about this boy that I loved in some way or another. I remember noticing the water's gentle splashing, the way the high, hot sun reflected off its splishing. I remember the sound of runners passing me by, the sight of those I passed doubled over from a "cramp" or maybe just laziness. I remember the way my coach yelled and yelled, pushed and pushed. I remember feeling and thinking so many different thoughts, noticing so many different things. I remember the first time that I just took in so much I had to go home and write some love poems, spilling my guts onto college-ruled paper in some various-colored gel pen. I can't say for sure at what age you suddenly start to really take the world in; I can't say for sure at what age a poet suddenly becomes a poet; but I have these specific memories of the first time I took the world in, and I decided to write about it.

0

Dec 23, 2014

Dec 23, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC

megb42290

The First Time

I can't say for sure at what age you suddenly start to really take the world in, but I have these specific memories of being an angsty fourteen-year-old running laps around the reservoir at swim practice. I was so young, but old enough that I really thought I knew what love was, and maybe I did, maybe I knew love in a certain kinda way, a certain kinda love I'm too old to understand now. I ran laps. I remember noticing my breathing, the one-two-three huff-huff-huff rhythmically circulating oxygen as I went numb from the waist down. I remember thinking about this boy that I loved in some way or another. I remember noticing the water's gentle splashing, the way the high, hot sun reflected off its splishing. I remember the sound of runners passing me by, the sight of those I passed doubled over from a "cramp" or maybe just laziness. I remember the way my coach yelled and yelled, pushed and pushed. I remember feeling and thinking so many different thoughts, noticing so many different things. I remember the first time that I just took in so much I had to go home and write some love poems, spilling my guts onto college-ruled paper in some various-colored gel pen. I can't say for sure at what age you suddenly start to really take the world in; I can't say for sure at what age a poet suddenly becomes a poet; but I have these specific memories of the first time I took the world in, and I decided to write about it.

59