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It was too quiet
And my heart was too slow
Should I fight to stay
Or should I just let go?

It was hard to understand
How could this be
I said I loved you
You said you never loved me

My heart feels like ice
But my skin is on fire
Now I must let go
Of what I used to desire
Poetry is always the epicenter of my expressions,
My soul's sole extension
The way I give subvention
To my tension
To give confession to my transgression
But my pen is now empty
The bottle tempts me
I pour my drink to fill
Only to find the emptiness of the glass
Matches the emptiness of the heart
The emptiness of the pen
My mind as blank as paper
My thoughts fleeting as vapor
All I can think is how I miss her
How I miss her voice that's been gone so long
How I miss the care she would give to me
How I regret that I would forget
Just how much she meant to me
& now I lament what should have prevented
Halving my heart and her heart
Never to be together because I blew it
I blew it
& I can't stop writing about you, my friend
but there are only so many words
They cannot transform this pain
They only perform for others to read
& that will not make me whole again...
So here's to the good years poetry has brought me
Here's to the good memories of you and I
I say goodbye to what once was
Because it just hurts to write
I only long to be numb
//On anxiety, life, love, and her//
I abide
Sunny
Inspite
Of agony
I caress
The Aurora
Inspite of cloudburst
I show the globe
Stupendous adoration
Inspite Of distress
My heart
Abide
Unclouded
Inspite
Malicious
I have this fire
Burning in my soul
I
wasn’t born
For the cold
Who am I as a man  Still yet to  unearth..... I found love where it doesn’t belong!
Snift into my mind,
as she passed me far behind
floating on petals,
just get old,
in loves special way
her hair turning grey as mine,
her lips red so full.
I should try to take her out,
let life take its course,
cry to my self later, as she puts me out
like a burning ***,
still smouldering in the ashtray of life,
man I am old
not white but grey.

Grey Nickers.
Love P@ul ***.
Light is now the measure of time
No clocks, watches, cell phones
All man made machinery are of no use
Civilization collapses within these walls
Treated like cattle, slowly losing grasp of civilized habits.
Grows inside anyone here a primal state.
In fear of taking the path to a medieval time
I lock myself inside my own utopia.
Like cavemen, hiding in a cave, crafting instruments out of pieces of bones,
Gathered around fires, playing games, measuring forces to take the alpha male position.
Why don’t I adapt? Have I gone too far down the yellow brick road? Should I have not tasted of the apple?
I won’t settle for less than the world. They seem to know not beyond the cave we live in.
Where has time gone? It seems to be going backwards
At a speed greater than the one of thoughts.
Is this an utopian apocalyptic future, or am I back to the stone age?
A brisa que teima em não chegar…

Insetos que pernoitam com ervas daninhas,
Formigas que teimam em sementes arrecadar,
Cigarras apaixonadas com zumbidos de encantar,
Estrelas do céu abandonadas e sempre sozinhas…
Mas queridas e amadas pelo brilho do luar.

E eu continuo sentado para a brisa receber,
Vivendo na harmonia e amando cada ser.
Contemplo tudo e vejo eterna beleza,
Nas coisas pequenas existe grandeza.
Os passarinhos no meio das vinhas não parecem perturbados,
Lagartixas castanhas, lagartos esverdeados…

E tudo com a noite fica adormecido,
Outros seres despertam sem qualquer sentido,
Rãs, sapos e grilos que grande alarido….
A brisa chega com leveza e sem contas para dar,
E eu aqui dando beijos a tudo que eu quero sempre amar…


Victor Marques
brisa, natureza
 Aug 2018 The Masked Sleepyz
nish
------------------------------------
 \ why is it that time slips /                              
   \she slides and slithers /
     \right through these  /
        \ infinite crevices  /
          \found all over /
             \my greedy /
                \ hands,  /
                   \ like /
                   /    •   \
                 /       s      \
              /            a       \
           /             n            \
        /                 d              \
      /                                      \
    / in the dainty hourglass \
  /sitting aloft my skew shelf.\
-----------------------------------------
I wanted to try shape poetry again, and I have to say this was MUCH harder than .leafing
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2633672/leafing/

It took forever to align the slashes to give this poem shape, without them it didn't look like an hourglass.
I hope you liked this poem and I'd love it if you commented some links to any shape poetry you've tried out.
Hope you enjoyed :)
,how do you know when
(a human is too broken?)




<•>

human too broken?

like the light bulb, removal from its fixture, a simple shaking revelation of the tinkling filament spent, something that cannot be repaired, the only option is replacement and that makes
you cry

the empty box of oatmeal raisin cookies, you find secret’d,
hid by you, not to be found by you
at the bottom of the kitchen garbage,
but box betrayal, by the chartreuse tipped box lid sided
peeking upwards, asking, silencing screaming,
what did I do to deserve
this degrading

like the blouse now too tight that it brings stares as the buttons strain, unwelcome attention unintended,
you know it but still pretend not to see,
for you both once loved that silky guise that so
heightened the high tender, the match of your pink rose skin letting, no! making
your eyes glisten, like broken filament glass, on the sidewalk,
recalling the pleasured admiration,
rain remembered from the
prior priority of a life consisting of only
perfect gifts

so mean revert to the poseur question; this is how...

remove the human from a fixed place, whimpering-threatened,
you may hear clear the crackle cackling  of the innard shards against the misperception of a body intact,
even if you do,
no repair service you want,  can be found, see it nowhere,
is it even
anywhere advertised?

the body presumed intact is secret’d under a tactile coverlet,
holey scupperrd holy cuttered
so that the cells and bicuspids, the threads
no longer function in a tandem,
you keep it in the closet closed,
in the back, deep hid, where,
when it screams why,
it can be safe ignored,
because  ‘betrayed’ is no longer a word,
in your globe's dictionary,
the parental controls activated by you to
save your own inner child’s unconstrained confusion,
it has been removed


so the broken glass, the clothes you dressed each other,
if not weep-well,
well enough hid,
the fit is off,
the fit is off,
the coverlet ripped so bad and neither cares
an unexpected poem, unplanned, needing work
aug 4-5
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