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 Dec 2016 Esther
Alvin Llanos
What is wrong with using "not"?
It is a negative to an eloquent adjective, verb or noun.
Simply the opposite state of being; which one should NOT frown

For programmers, "not" is a logical complement,
which helps us filter-out things we do NOT want.
And is used sparsely and NOT to flaunt

By simply twisting our thought at 180-degrees,
it's used to portray an abrupt reversal image in our mind.
A quick look at a mirror, and NOT you will find.

Affix a k-, yet "knot" still sounds the same
but it will help keep our things secure.
From our pretzels, shoes and the ribbon-wrapped gifts we procure.

Add an s-, and the children will be amused;
defiance is in its nature, is it NOT?
That is, to disgust their friends with each others snot.

So, to be or NOT to be.
Written on 11/22/2016.
 Dec 2016 Esther
Jaanam Jaswani
hey, ma. it's been a while.
i don't know if you remember
the sound of my chirpy voice
anymore.
it still comes up, every now and again;
when i'm baked beyond my brains
when i had just cracked the rankest pun
when i'm tangled in a boy's arms, lost -
lost. just like you ma.

i wonder where your mind takes you
when the ringing in your ears doesn't seem to go.
when you dissociate into the otherworld, and
the lashes of your
third eye sweep me away from your vision.

i thought the power of the universe was
supposed to be
abundant.
yet i have lost you to the vortex of your gods -
the same ones that leave
only the wind
to rock me to sleep.

ma,
i am pockmarked with your bad habits.
i lose touch with reality
myself, looking for the warmth of your
recognition.

i guess space is too large
for me to find your meditative corner.
or perhaps
i'm just looking in the wrong spaces.

space is nice because you have
no weight on your shoulders.
i miss the feeling of having
no weight on my shoulders.

when i grow up, ma
i want to be just like you.
lost.
 Nov 2016 Esther
Rapunzoll
my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.
© copyright

NOTE: i've noticed people sharing this to other sites without having spoken to me about it beforehand, I do not give permission for this and all poems are copyright, keep this in mind.

------------------------------------------------
my mother never actually said this to me, but i figure i'll probably end up saying it one day if i have children.

it's pessimistic yes, but i know there are exceptions. please don't take to heart. it's more a criticism of myself than all poets. :)
 Aug 2016 Esther
Anonymous Freak
I'm having tea with Life,
And his band of Disappointments.
They dine at my expense,
And they're a hungry bunch of guests.

Tea turned into Supper,
Where the Disappointments drank
My finest wine,
And Life wiped his cruel mouth
On my tablecloth.

You can't have supper without dessert,
So they ate up more of my
Food for thought.
And if you stay for dessert,
You may as well spend the night.
So they did
And burgled my pantry of hopes
For a midnight snack.

One night was lovely,
So Life cackled, "Why not stay two?"
And two turned to a week,
And a week turned into
My sickeningly merry guests
Moving into my dreams,
And inviting in Doubt,
To live with them too,
And of course
Pay no rent.

So I watch my chaotic household
Of a skull,
Where Life has made himself at home
And brought all of his friends.
I stare dully at my ruined
Dining room of thought,
Which they have dominated.
And look wearily for a spare idea
In my raided cupboards.

I've never been one
To evict friends,
So I suppose they're here to stay.
But learn a lesson from me,
And don't ever
Have Life over for tea.
 Mar 2016 Esther
SøułSurvivør
My mouth is wrapped in razor wire. The less said the better. Whole worlds are caught between my teeth. My eyes are somewhere between moons, and my nostrils breathe the mist of demons. My earlobes have the jewelry of vast continents. And my throat is strangled with amethyst tears. My hair wraps your shoulders. My pearls touch your belly. And my hands? They flutter like leaves in the wind to catch galaxies. I long to say the three words. But deserts live on my tongue.

Yet it takes only a moment to say goodbye.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 3/7/2016
This is a new style for me. Let me know what you think.

I actually do have a problem with my mouth. A tooth broke off, and it grates against my tongue. Hence the poem.
 Mar 2016 Esther
Taylor Lynn
It was a whisper in my day, seven quick
words against stark white to remind me who I am:

I am the words spilling from the point of
my Pilot XGrip, carefully ordered to represent
my wandering mind.

I am a mess, the pile of laundry huddled next
to an overflowing dresser, a muddled sea of
organized chaos.

I am movement caught in the stillness of a
photograph, the buzzing blood flow of
finding moments.

I am summer, a sticky shirt and 4 am with
your arms draping over my shoulders for
the second time.

I am flapping wings and shattered thoughts, a kiss,
and eyes one inch from mine yet I have no idea
what color I am.

I am you.
And even still I am him,
the you that came before you.

I am six months ago, the night I teetered on
the railing long enough for him to tell me how
pretty I looked.

I am the stairs he joined me on, the hide out from
the party he invited me to and I couldn’t quite
fit in with.

I am train seats
and crossword puzzles,
strange professors
and picnic tables.
I am orange cheese puffs
and little kids answering
grown up questions.

I am you,
the other you,
the better you,
the you that got away.
 Feb 2016 Esther
Anthony Carrasco
We held each other
like breaths under water,
day old infants in their mommies arms,
and dreams we never meant to wake from.

You touched me
like I was your instrument,
a texture you were testing to buy,
and a newly used pan after cooking breakfast.

I loved you
like my favorite tv show,
warm blankets on a subzero night,
and the tattoos I designed with you in mind.

There are no amount of
     similes
I could say to express
how much I miss you,
yet here I am again
writing like an author
striving for a movie deal.
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