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Josh Cooper Apr 2017
At the stroke of Love we
        both became poets and...
At the strike of a heartbreak we became a
                  a Sad
                   Sad
              Sad Poem

Now we both think and believe love is pain...
Always and inevitably painted and scripted in painful vowels
        And all promises in it nothing but broken dry ‘vow-wells’

Our bodies lying next to each other, yet, windows to hearts shut
The sun in our eyes turning ice-cold
This
is
the
Afterlove
              where...
Without one another, we
           keep kissing each other’s shadows and silhouettes
Baby, could there be a life after love? In the Afterlove...?
xmxrgxncy Jan 2016
It's like a leech
It clings to every memory I own, it infiltrates all my senses

I see his face everywhere in the faces of strangers

I hear his final words to me through the sigh he gave as I told him I wished we could have worked, that he should keep me in mind should he change his

I smell him every time I sit at my piano and think of the times we spent poring over Faure and wishing the recital were over

I touch him every time the white keys glide under my skin and the black ones poke my fingers into submission

I taste him on the tip of my tongue as I try in vain to forget the past

He was my train wreck and thinking of him makes me hate myself, what he hated, what he told me he wanted and then told me he would never want in a million years.

So I pushed him to the back of my head,
But his afterlove
Just clings
To my heart
Instead.
Another parallel piece, true story.
CJ M Jan 2016
I’ve grown to like her body, but can’t fall in love with her mind.
We’re not on an equal playing field, no love for the lover, but it gets odd every time we talk.
So we stay quiet.

Originally, I could make love to her mind while we gave thoughts that pierced the order of the world’s system, but I can’t even sense a happiness anymore. We’re no longer a pair, no longer a connection.
We are mismatched.
I feel it, but can’t touch it on my plane of existence.
Raindrops drum on the base of my window sill as I write to the winds, words not flowing well enough so I force them as I force my tears back into my skull.
I’m a timebomb- limited and dangerous, and, sooner or later, I’ll explode.
I taste something bitter between my lips as I make winds flow around me. With my thoughts on my sleeve, I begin to feel
Swooned.
My winds block out the sounds of her
Tears wash away her long lost kisses
And my aching heart throbs enough to get rid of the pain of the thought of her nails on my cheeks as we stared into each other’s souls.
I gave you my heart, love. What was it you planned to do with it besides break it? I wanted the love that you could provide, I wanted to hold hands and speak sweet nothings, I wanted to argue about dumb things and hear you claim to hate  me before we’d make up and become best friends again.
But I was wrong.
Maybe it was bad luck, maybe it was Karma, but I was wrong about you. You weren’t the fantasy I thought you were, you were a chip in my armour that I had no clue about. You were my freedom, but you revoked yourself.
You were my love.
And now, love, I’m afraid we’re in a state of afterlove. I love you, but don’t and so forget my words of sweetness, my ****** jokes or, as you put it, quirky personality.
Your space in my heart has been revoked.
On a wave again, just lettin it go. This was actually a while I was makin it in class yesterday, but while I was continuing it today, I decided to change the title to "afterlove" So, avenge, Here it is lol
Kurt Kanawa Apr 2014
now that i'm floating away
from the one i love
i find it harder to breathe
from up above

now my honey
tastes like diluted tea
and my *******
barely tingle me

now my heart
rarely thumps or skips
and i feel nothing
on these lonely lips

now my blue roses
are fading to white
and my sunrise eyes
are dying with the night

now that you're gone
i can't
i won't say a thing
i want
i need you back
and all the life
that you bring
Joanny Sanchez May 2015
All you do is hurt me all the time,
But i don't know why I still try.
It's like I don't learn that you're never going to change,
Because once I see you my heart still feels the same.
I don't know why you even came.
It's like I lost all my pride, something I exchanged..
So I guess I am to blame.
But they say the grass is greener on the other side,
I just have to learn how to leave you behind.
I'll learn how to love again and be kind, these trust issues is just something you provide..
I just.. i just want to see you calling and just press decline..
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
half an hour? i don't know, i think it was more.
it felt like yoga for masochists by the end of
it... but then i was "repenting" for something
i did 2 nights ago... ****** off 6 times in
the space of a few hours to rekindle the memory
of that fatefall night in st. petersburg...
i ended up with the superficial palmal branch
aching (flexor / abductor pollicis brevis / opponens
pollicis)... basically the grip...
there is scaffold outside my window at the moment,
the roof is being fixed... it's march and
winter can still bite at you, esp. if you're a scaffold
post in the night...
            i swear, it must have been like 40 minutes
in this "yoga" pose...
        the concept of the anti-crucifix?
       it could have been it...
               buttocks perched on the windowsill,
feet crossed propped onto the arm support on
the chair... then the right hand gripping
a scaffold bar, then leaning toward:
what would be considered a dumb drunk trying
to do theatre by falling off a windowsill...
             but **** me! scaffold posts in england
and in march? you realise your hand can elevate itself
to the sort of grip that a crocodile jaw is capable
of... i was perched in this "yoga" pose for the already
stated 40 minutes or so...
                   i wasn't keen on impressing anyone
in the vicinity spying on my in the night...
          in the meantime i read the article about
cynthia nixon playing emily dickinson in her new
movie...
camilla long writing two critques at the movies,
the films? personal shopper starring
kirsten dunst... oh wait... stewar...
           and the revamp of beauty and the beast
starring emma watson...
    then it got weird as my grip on the sub-zero
metal pole of the scaffold tightened and i was
still dangling on a "cliff" edge of the windowsill...
(god, the things you do to write something,
    downing a raw egg and then jogging on
a treadmill would probably imply more to the writing
process... evidently i'm not that kind of person);
the next article? diana vishneva complaining
how current ballet dancers aren't gruelled to replenish
the standards of tradition...
              she's 40 pushing to state: i'll be dancing
till 60...      if only footballers had the same optimism
to knuckle-buck their craniums into another
dive... oh right... soccer... apologies for the trans-atlantic
confusion... tiptoeing into a foul tackle...
                   i don't know this fetish with mermaids...
i also fancied a ballerina... vertical splits... light as a feather...
kama sutra 2.0                   mermaids though?
   it's like this meme that was trending way back
in 2008... two pictures... mermaid on one side...
fish head with female genitals on the other...
  which would you pick?
                     saying that... i've seen bolshoi productions...
well... one... but one is enough after you've seen
the english ballet theatre in the royal albert hall
  performing swan lake...
more like a stampede of mutant centipedes...
or just wildebeasts... but i blame the venue for the stomping,
i could hardly hear the orchestra playing, but fair enough...
the royal opera house probably has better surface...
but then... the bolshoi production was pristine,
nearing silence akin to cats prancing...
                  what i am willing to consider is comparing
the bolshoi to the mariinsky...
            i have no idea how the two would compare,
first time i heard of this ballet house (pardon my ignorance
if you have heard of it prior to me, today)...
           and then it was onto sarah crompton's
article on the english national ballet...  
                     once again: i swear i heard a stampede
          of wildebeasts in the royal albert hall...  i'm not sure...
the surface was too hard? why was everyone clapping?
               i know that swans are a protected species
of birds under their patron that the queen is...
                a bit like that gymnastics question...
                                        i just heard a ******* massive
centipede wriggle with the number of swans
on the dancefloor... they play tennis in this arena,
so i don't know: too multi-purpose to allow a ballet
performance?
                 so back to the yoga pose... gripping the scaffold
bar and leaning off a windowsill with my feet propped
onto the arm support of the chair i'm currently
sitting on... finally! the former pain
                in the arm moved toward the
   flexor carpi ulnaris... and that was the end of
the "yoga" session... not that i feel guilty in the first place;
     just something that happened...
                     funny... if i held onto the scaffold beam
a little bit longer, i'd get to read pop album reviews:
   - james blunt (the afterlove)
                              - spiral stairs (doris and the daggers)
          - the dime notes (the dime notes)
           - zara larsson (so good)
                              - the jesus and the mary chain (damage and joy)
what?! they're still active?! **** me...
                       - spoon (hot thoughts)
       - charli xcx (number1angel).
mike dm Jan 2016
here comes the weird af
ancient tonic yum
don't fight it jus let it stream through
megaflora ninja nook harpoon
never saw it comin
gonna do some quick love surgery on yer babblin' brook
make it run real real good again
unforever it with
botanical finite tunes that come-n-go so beautifully
petals on the floor bruise
wilt like legs and arms in that afterlove hue
this monkey suit is cool sure but we can't overstay the visit
origami god only folds so many times
but mossy mother womb awaits you always
there where the river unfolds my lovelies
so dip your toe in
fuckitjusjumpin
as this rock swims one more time
around that one star we call sun
dm micklow

— The End —