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 Sep 2017 tm
franny
i hate you
 Sep 2017 tm
franny
i hate you,
i hate the way that you beat me when i come home late
i hate the way you yell at me when your wrong
i hate that you are always mad
i hate that you think you are superior to me
but i love you,
i love that you love me
i love that you gave me life
i love that you support me in everything i do
i love that you would give anything for me to be happy
but despite all of this love and hate,
i can't be your favorite daughter
i can't pretend to love you when at times i can't like you
i can't support you anymore
and most of all
i can't continue to live with your suffocating, pestering, raw, unperceptive demenor.
i'm sorry
 Sep 2017 tm
Britney Lyn
Stop
 Sep 2017 tm
Britney Lyn
I just want everything to stop.
Including my heart.
 Sep 2017 tm
Crestfall
Together
 Sep 2017 tm
Crestfall
You're too emotional.
I'm emotionless.
Together, we're human.
© Crestfall
© I Barker
For the Catan to my Miran.
 Sep 2017 tm
Zoe Green
My Piano
 Sep 2017 tm
Zoe Green
My piano sits against the wall

Hardly ever played at all

Things are stacked upon her mantle

Where once was music now just shambles

Creaking and clicking keys are everywhere

But no one seems to care

Who could love a piano untuned

My piano will fall apart soon

I look at her from far away

And my piano seems to say

*you too dear, are such a sight

for you see, you and I are just alike
 Sep 2017 tm
Attineo
Strong
 Sep 2017 tm
Attineo
I want to make quiet music
that is so strong
you want to play it loud.
 Sep 2017 tm
SøułSurvivør
music
 Sep 2017 tm
SøułSurvivør
music lives
music breathes
music loves
music grieves

music courts
music shouts
music wins
music pouts

music grows
music clings
music clicks
music rings

music sings
music sighs
music weeps
music dies
Try this style if you want
A challenge. Use a word
Like poetry or art or whatever.
It's not as easy as it looks!
 Sep 2017 tm
A Thomas Hawkins
This is not my poem
Sure I sat here and wrote it down,
but its not my poem.
Yes, yes I took the time to memorise it so I could see my words reflected in the expressions on your face as I read aloud...
but its not my poem.

This is your poem
You wrote this
You wrote this with your smile
the curve of your lips wrote this
the sparkle in your eyes punctuated every line and measured every pause, perfectly.
Your lips formed every word, sounded every syllable, created the melody that echos in my head as I write YOUR poem.

The rise and fall of your chest first catches my breath, then takes it away completely. Sensibilities and caution tumble down your back like rain in a warm summer shower that falls from a star filled sky, the heavens have opened. My heavens have opened. Caution is now a distant memory, like something once heard but long forgotten, something you knew you once knew but know you no longer have to remember so while there is at least an awareness of it, its passing will not be mourned.

And there, pooled in the small of your back, nestled just above the curve of your buttocks, lies hope.

The hope that the beauty I see in you, in us, in everything since we met isn't a mirage, isnt a projection of some one sided fantasy but that its real. That its as real for you as it for me and that I'm not alone. That I'm not alone in the way I feel and the way I think and the way........ the way.....the way I love. Its hope that knowing how I feel, how much I'm in love, in love with you, the hope that hearing me say out loud the very thing that I've had to fight telling you on a daily basis hasn't scared the **** out of you the way finally admitting it to you has me.
But this isn't my poem.
This is your poem.
You wrote it
and its my gift to you.
 Sep 2017 tm
A Thomas Hawkins
Sparks
 Sep 2017 tm
A Thomas Hawkins
Sometimes
                                                    a
 ­                                                spark
                                         ignites         a
                                       flame,
                                       other times
                                                        it
­                                                    simply
      ­                                sputters  out
                   ­                leaving
                                behind   nothing
                              but                        ­a
                                wisp of smoke
                                  and a hint
                                    of
                     ­                sulphur,
                                       the only
                                        evidence
           ­                           we even
                                      tried.
               ­                            ...
 Sep 2017 tm
A Thomas Hawkins
Let me in so I can write poetry
in the goosebumps on your skin
And tell a tale of where we are
and where we did begin.

My kisses would form letters
in a braille that briefly lingers
That I might read as I go along
with the light touch of my fingers

Let me in so I can write poetry
in the goosebumps on your skin
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