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I knew I
Was
Accidently
Falling in
Love.

But I
Hated          and was afraid of
It.

Yet I didn't
Stop it.
I didn't
Stop myself.

And now
I pay
By the
Angst
Of my
Scars.

I want you to be my Serena.

So badly.

I want you to smell like her.

I want you to sound like her.

I want you to love like her.

I want you to cry like her.

I want you to smile like her.


Haha.. No.
I do not mean
I had an ideal.

It's
Just
A
Fantasy.


You were almost her.

And I love you.
I can't... I am bleeding out from the inside. Flowing like thick, hard water.

Let me know your thoughts.
Third Eye Candy Oct 2018
we soldier on in the endless march of our quietude sprawling the width of our last fake smile.
staring at a focal point so pointless you hardly explode without vanishing.
but never write letters. you tumble into tomorrow's womb like an orphan of yourself.
terminally accidental on purpose
unfathomable.
Emma Price May 20
Wouldn’t say I’m sad,
but I’m certainly not glad...
Is that truly bad?
After writing, I realized this sounded like a haiku... so I counted and it was. This makes me happier than it should:)
~much love
L B Nov 2017
Did I touch you as I left?
That night of beer and music
Almost tipsy,
laughing good-byes

Backing into blindly
I felt an arm... a moment
guide me
before I all but fall
against you
Knew that warmth
of mass was male

You exhale
I sense your being--
behind
Amused
By accidental intimacy
I come unglued
By your flirtatious
catch of eyes
in lowered light
By faint fragrance
of whatever it is
you've drunk or used
to put yourself together

Turning
guarded
Apologize
glancing down


Women always look, though
however briefly
Anyone ever been to this pub?  :D
Andrew Aug 2017
You struck me in mid-flight
With a face lit by dim light
Your hair that didn't care
Flowed like the time we shared
But we fell prey to accidental accidents
Because of your taxing mental acumen
Yet I chose to see through a cute lens
When you spat acid like aliens
More specifically xenomorphs
For a career course
That endeared divorce

Everything was an accident
A train wreck to be precise
Take to the extreme extent
When you saw love in my eyes
Kitbag of Words Jan 2018
an incredible incite (the ruthless volatility of words)

~for L.B.~

the only place of solitaire solitude in the city accompanies me
like a faithful country dog that doesn’t know better to be afraid,
of moving cars, sleepless night terrors and unscripted “dreams”

where image and words say come “follow me” with ruthlessness and no cloying come hither looks and
see and take and recall with perfect midnight blue sky clarity for

the incredible incite of credible insight

surfacing unexpectedly in a intemperate pool of slushy snow,
that will be an ice storm of painful confrontations with naked
inner truths standing outside in sunny sub zero playground

there is great risk.  volatility gone wild. when the speed
governor is removed and you live at 100 mph on local streets,
when the merest slight of an accidental incidental touch
transforms into an incite incident and hell is the threat
that you will not die today and your own words will ruthless
pull from the nerve places where sensible and sensual cannot
coexist and this write this script is a poetical insight inside, an
incredible incite and what your spilling is spaghetti sauce blood
when you left your brain on broil, instead of the faking daily of
slow simmering ineffectual intellectual words that just don’t
cut the crap. your addiction complete, you cannot live without
the incredible incite, the ruthless volatility of words,
otherwise why rough write what you see
in the blind
beyond the blind


1/6/18 5:03am
Twelfth Night, Act 1, Scene 5
“I took great pains to study and ’tis poetical
Grace Jun 2018
I cant tell you how much the hush hush hurts,

the gaps,

[the deliberately left blanks]

the silences that make me scared of saying words out loud.


It's the switching of meanings that does it,

all the tip toe awkwardness

the swift, unconscious side steps.


It's the whole long stretch of silence,

the whole deliberate

accidental

hush hush of something I never even knew the name of.  


It's the casual,

forgettable

drops of slights

that I'm still turning

over and over.


It's a hush hush never intended to be malicious but

the quiet twists and tears

and so I can never tell you how much the hush hush hurts

because the silence keeps me hush hushed too.
Working through some things I guess. It's hard to address the hush hush when you know it wasn't malicious, just accidental or a result of a different time. I wonder if they even know about the hush hush? I wonder if they know they kept it? Anyway it's something I need to work through and poetry helps or something

Note: So we talked about the hush hush without words but it's okay, maybe it's how we do things best. And the hush hushed becomes a thing of vibrant, rainbow colours and it's lifting off my shoulders and I think in a glowing kind of way that maybe there's something in this that will be okay. And I wonder how you knew but for now it remains hush hushed because I can’t quite talk about it yet. I wear it instead, I wear my colours instead and maybe that speaks enough for the moment. (Fourteenth of September Two Thousand and Eighteen)
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2015
Time: 7:30 pm
Temp.: 68F

~~~
overlooking the runways,
festooned by
accidental heavenly whimsy,
or humanistic whimsical inten-sity,
all the the planes and trucks are flashing
electrifying speckles, of eclectically synced
red and green

it is not my holiday,
but no matter,
like every New Yorker this day,
I am happily celebrating its
double U,
unique, unusual

"record breaking warmth"

yes, the Fahrenheit is outtasight, and by the dawn of
early eve~night,
the Centigrade is spiraling in reverse retrograde,
as the temp eases on down, just below seventy degrees,
on this dewinterized twenty fourth day of
December, two nought and fifteen

traffic is light, the terminal, an unbusy, slim shadow of itself,
the maddening crowds gone, now all are among
the dearly departed and either/or, the newly arrived

so composition of the observational, brings cheer and smiles to my faith,
(I mean my face),
the crowning quietude of clear skies, the absence of street smart
city  bustle and hustle,
the languid atmosphere at the gates,
(where seldom is heard an encouraging word)#
makes me reconsider the true meaning of
the au courant phraseology of this day

"record breaking warmth"

for there is indeed
a calm invisible warmth suffusing all tonite,
chests glowing from fireplaces within,
contentment chamber containers in both hearth and heart,
and I am thinking
miracle,
about all the human warmth
on this celebrated evening,
holy night

indeed,
it is breaking records of
recorded human fusion,
the united commonality of millions warming
his and her stories world-over,
that your personal poet is
warming to record
# but not tonight, as I am
unbelievably,
upgraded!
SC Kelley Aug 2018
I write about the stars too much.

I blame you.

Eyes holding galaxies in sweet captivity.

That starstruck feeling when you look at me.

Lips that taste of constellations.

Ecstacy of cosmic proportions.

Words drawing me in like a black hole.

Your body, like a goddess swimming in stardust.

Accidental perfection parallel to the Milky Way.

Your laugh as bright as a thousand supernovas.

Heart made of stars, filling the space in my own.

I write about the stars too much.

But really, I just write about you, the best of them all.

~S.C. Kelley
For My Love
onlylovepoetry May 2017
twice by god's accidental interference,
our crash vehicles, super sized shopping carts,
connect, we are manger-penalized for unnecessary roughness
and disturbing the supermarkets peace

what better way to judge character than to examine
a single persons shopping cart  contents?

hers,
all organic, milk, heirloom tomatoes, even the Chardonnay,
grown upon the farms of the island and vineyards on
the forks that shelter the isle from the ravages of the Atlantic

mine,
Hebrew National franks, yellow mustard,
very classy brioche buns, a six pack of Corona Light,
and funny colored, funny looking, rusted russet potato chips

with a tremulous smile, and an overly loud, derisive sniff,
pronounces me dead man walking sooner than later,
to which, I respond,
then, teach me, where shall we dine tonight?

later that night,
after a thousand kisses of her fluttering eyelashes,
she props herself upon an elbow and
in a tone sincere and caring,
extracts from the poet promises of
natural exclusivity

from now on, healthy, natural only, organic and pure,
from the soul soil of our shared habitat

her suntan skin, garden-digging hand, I clasp,
softly climbing on top of her,
announce with total genuine sincerity and solemnity;

I swear it, from now on, all my loving will be sourced locally

rewarded with a laugh and a gentle but hard enough,
garden to table (with her free hand), head smacking,
I noting nod, good naturedly
that both the laugh and smack,
as well,

sourced locally,
sourced lovingly,

which then seeded
this new only love jointly authored poem,
planted in our mingling blossoming crashing
bodies


5/29/17 i
12:43pm
L B Oct 2017
Andi Balise combined a half page of a short story, “Thanks Going Without Saying” by Liz Balise, with half a page of an essay by Klee, “On Modern Art”, from a book called Modern Artists on Art, 10 Unabridged Essays, edited by Robert L. Herbert. With some small edits and line-breaks comes this miracle of a poem:

Painting a Function Different

I peek out over the railing of reality’s magic
Beyond the porch-floor
Minerva hangs her wash
making the invisible visible
Eighty two and three quarters deaf
she doesn’t notice  
But this is, in fact, reality
Has always been this way—
Bent and bird-like existence  
Balanced on two twigs—always busy—

Her task, is the ******* of space  
Cutting coupons, crushing aluminum cans, ironing
The three phenomena which I must....

Things no one notices—
climbing on the abstract surface of a picture
Switching the curtains  
God! I wish from the infinity of space..she wouldn’t…!

It figures that—
Rusty, her cat, is weaving in fortune or misfortune  
I try to fix them—
Her ankles now
And she curses at accidental quality
from the corner of her mouth
which has only one form
Clothespin or cigarette?  
Long johns and animals and men in heaven
and bureau scarf and sheets—all, non-infinite deities
surround us translucent, contained
  
I decide what to get for her birthday—

We are good friends
through painting a function different

For me?
Predestined necessity.

Minerva?
forgets her manners
and eats like a survivor—

Thanks going without saying.
Thank you to my friend, Minerva for those years we shared living by the river.  And thanks, to my daughter, Andi, for seeing this poem in an academic assignment.

Art is what it is, imploring us to touch its experience.... It asks no approval.  It seldom gives reasons.
Johannah Jeanty Jan 2018
Valentines Day is stupid;
Picking on me
Curse that Cupid!
No one loved me
Since you was killed,
Hate this day until...

This day has end,
Curse is over
Got no friends;
A cursed clover.
Coma won't let me awaken,
Hate myself till that day when...

I see your smile:
Shining, glowing.
You'll still love me,
That I'm hoping.
You won't come back,
That I'm knowing...

Your memory keeps the tears flowing,
Forgive me accidental sinning:
Didn't mean to **** you again.
My wife, my lover, my best friend.

Valentine's Day's forever
Forgive my?
What?! No! Never!
to be continued?
A story about a man who accidentally killed his wife, and went into a coma from heart-brokenness. His teenage son tries to do whatever he could to bring his father back, even go against reality itself...
These persons exist, but I'm pretty sure the reality part isn't true, or is it?
The uniVerse Sep 2016
This world is not meant for dreamers, poets or lovers
only to be torn apart
slowly dissected by death's scythe
worn down by the language of life
words, weapons and worries
all designed to destroy us
losing yourself in a flurry
a chaos of accidental karma
taken by the hand and led astray
I never wanted to harm her
I just wanted it my own way
a perfected illusion
trying to mould life to suit our ideals
but it's those same ideas that ****
torturing us during the night
and rotting our insides by the day
the maggots of the mind
make bait for the fishes
the world is full of sharks
this world is malicious
as I wade through the dark
you devour me whole
spit out my bones
and consume my soul
then leave me alone
for there's no more you can take
there's nothing of value left
when I rise I will be awake
or else my name is death.
https://www.instagram.com/p/ByYSl3DnKIR/
Kitten Yvad Jul 26
You don't know
how good it feels
that it stopped
in my heart

before it
blazed me apart

you dont know
how good it feels

i was burning and it
was silly, we are silly, yes



though my scorched
skin was eerily real

like a dream i made up
and I couldn't
un-make up
now finally de-materializing
from wood and steel




i dreamt fervently forever
of you holding me

then i dreamt of being able
to step away
begged, cried, pleaded, if only
for a few minutes per day

intoxicated and unsettled
you gripped me
hurt me held me i know
you didnt mean
to hit me

you don't know
how good it feels


not to be addicted and
choked up and missing you
intoxicated by your scent





haunted by
the things i will never forget
of you

they held themselves
over my head

you dont know what its like
to suddenly wake
away, out of that bed




there are things
i now know of you
ill always remember

you do glow so softly

but in this alternate dimension
you burned me, with kisses, to
ashes and embers

you dont know
how good it feels
not to be rendered defenseless

by your love
when that is not
your actual intention

love, you dont know
how good it feels
to leave this
accidental dimenation
Lacey Clark Oct 2018
Raised faux-religiously in a catholic school by convenience of neighborhood (though, I loved the plaid and I wanted to do Eucharist but my mom explained I wasn't catholic, so I dabbled with the hymns and cursive) by my two *** moms and some 'extra kids' (fostering, etc) in Spokane. Homeschooled later (and seriously religiously, Vacation Bible School, NO HARRY POTTER and no saying 'stupid', a lot of neighborhood scootering) by uncle auntie and my two home-made and hilarious cousins (siblings) in Nevada. another private school in the Wild West with my grandpa and grandma (maybe religiously? they took me out to Mexican dinner religiously). And scattered across the West, Mid-West and South for all the rest. Public schools interwoven and equally traumatizing in between states.
One school in florida was known for fist fights and head lice. I kissed my first boy there. and girl. I left for what I thought was summer vacation and never came back. Another accidental move.
I had been squeezed in-between the palms of each coast for high school (plopped in the midwest).
In Wisconsin, I popped like a pimple and broke some major skin. Tried to end my life a few times. Psych ward after psych ward. Pills. Pills. Pills! A nurse took me aside and said "i have hope for you" and it was the first time i felt seen. met hard drugs to replace the cutting- they felt like long lost friends. Easy to pick up.
And recovery was like feeling your face after a satisfying shaving... and not a scratch since.
Now gliding along the West Coast in Academia's matrix. Politics and community engagement and the center. Clean. In the Heart of the City. Biking with helmets. Shoebox studio apartments. Nose in book, nose in food. Day job with a class of kids who I love and who love me. Space to grow, assess, reshape. Optimism. Peace. Stability.
Dutch Nov 2016
I was written off before I was born. My mother didn't want me. I was a mistake. An accident like black coffee spilled on suit. I became a stain that couldn't be wash. I felt the neglect in the womb. I was all alone. But I born and raised well by the woman who I thought considered me accidental. She wasn't ashamed of me. She was frighten that she couldn't protect me. And here I am dead in the streets by the police who couldn't protect me either.
He slipped too many times for it to be accidental,
Gurgling underwater; and sinking from the vessel.
He too, had supplied the deaths aboard the deck,
Where drowning and breath paddled; all atop his neck.
Do you know his struggle, until you've met the sea?
Where fish swim past on their way, and you clamber just to breathe.
Sputtering on bubbles, his exhaling's a crusade,
But please don't feel bad for him, that's just an average day-
All feedback is welcome and appreciate!!:)
M Aug 2017
You are like an accidental good read that was left undiscovered
The kinds where I never want the story to
come to an end
The kinds where as I flip the pages, I do not feel like I know the plot better, but rather, there's so much more to know about the story
The kinds where I know my heart would feel heavy as I'm reading the last page because then I wouldn't know what to occupy my waking thoughts with except how morose I am that it had eventually come to an end
The kinds where years down the road when the pages are foxed, I'd reread the book and fall in love with every single word all over again
And although I know that you'll definitely be an accidental good read turned best piece of writing I've ever read,
I keep you on the shelf, unread,
because I would rather feel contented just seeing you sit prettily untouched than be left devastated to see the blank leaf at the end
Nat Lipstadt Jul 14
I get her, she writes me,
so eloquently,
”the nub of me; gist, manifested poetic”

one of the many poets I have never met,
one of the many poets, by whom,
I have been suchly, justly, richly and correctly
accused

this mesmerizing judgement,
her-over-easy, mini-essay so succinctly
assaying an accidental ability mine

explodes
a happy passageway to my brain,
a new aperture, the neurons firing at will,
the tormented inquisitor’s unasked question,
how did this happen to me?

rocking the Sunday morn cradle’s calm,
ok, ok, write me, write me,
demands my no longer free will,
utilize the free wi-fi of we fidelty

the bay, surgically barely treading water,
its surface of multitude of small waves
but now an entire ****** expression bidding welcome

the breezeways genteel,
smilingly
invites and push us into its
directionless & tideless soothful embrace,
to the shoreline we goeth,
to watch the occasional crossing vessel intruder,
woking the waters gentle

its white path residual wake foam-formed,
then almost instantaneously absorbed, bubbly bursting,
a history of a million moments awakened,
then, instantly returned to restful sleep,
akin to a newborn’s gurgling happy dreaming,
wiped clean away off to
Peter Pan’s it-never-happened-land

this carnival trick sideline of deep tissue knowingness,
sensing the essence of the who and the whom within,
with no data to go on other than their poetic collection,
the hidden meanings of the spaces and places between
the gene sequencing of their wondrous word-fullness
DNA poetic children, freely given,
and well taken
by me

I cannot explain it well enough, but then
a strayer thought breakaway,
a prehensile comprehension insertion
proffers itself as an explanation
intruded,
and here,
extruded

the perfect world exterior before me observable
thrusts itself through picture windows onto my demeanor,
a ****** addiction of mine, my soul enslaved,
cannot bear to be taken away from

this vista,

which begs me,
bring all those you know!
here, to share, this precious precise nook
where eye insightful incisions elicit poems-by-command

but I cannot, bring you here,

so I see~imagine it better through
your eyes, then
your
gist
is in my stubbed pencil nub, it is
your
poem’s destiny manifesting,
penciled through my scruff edged fingertips,
which-when-then transcribed to paper, to history,
‘tis all you
who writes,
not I

for now
you
are the solitary vessel waterborne,
you,
you
are the captain and I

but a
Samson-nite, burdened, baggaged and blinded stowaway,
hopeless, yet still see-worthy,
with your guiding eyes,  
keeping me to keep
your copyright righted,
onto its course true



7-14-19 9:43am
in shelter, on the isle
she’ll ken her authorship by the title
Tommy Randell Mar 29
Confidential friends
Accidental Lovers
No coincidence then
We stopped calling each other

Started cryptic texting
So no-one would know
Families unsuspecting
Our perfect dumb-show

Until in the end
Even we were fooled
As confidential friends
We broke our own private rules

When being together
Was no longer enough
When the rooms we shared
Became prisons of Love

Sad to relate
It was a flimsy affair
Joy turning to hate
Impossible to bear

A story long old
Of confidential friends
The heat gone cold
Just a game of dare in the end
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