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Rachel Ueda Oct 2013
13
first kiss
with a boy
man?
drinks in our
blood..
so
young....

14
second base
groped me
high on
hate
so
numb

15
our lips
weren't used
for kissing
I've had enough
so
done

16
self respecting
and confident
loving...
finally
so
happy

17
Just kidding
That was a dream
a temporary fantasy
Torn by real love

17.5
Real love
What I would give
To not know your
Sweetest remedy
20
Love within myself
Is the sweetest I have known
Peter B Oct 2017
Three middle-aged men
had told a ******* the train to shut up.

She wasn't even loud,
they were much louder than her.

When she got off at the next stop,
she friendly waved at them.

She won,
she beautifully won
that old, ***** game,
played on the train
by the three middle-aged men.
MeanAileen Jul 2018
When I look into your eyes
I see more than just brown...
I see pools of dark chocolate
in which I want to drown.
Like shots of aged whiskey
they intoxicate me-
I forget all my troubles
and for a moment, I'm free.
They make me feel warm,
so safe and secure.
No longer a sinner-
they make me feel pure.
They're the color of sugar
when caramelized,
with a devilish charm
that has me mesmerised.
Much like the earth
drenched in rain-
with unstoppable force
they now flood my brain.
To be lost in their depths
is where I long to be...
but those perfect brown eyes
were never meant to see me.
I love his eyes
ThePoet Nov 2015
There are no limits within a dream
Insanity at its most extreme
Imagination aged the child
It made me strong, it made me wild

I have ocean secrets growing deep
They're mine to ponder, mine to keep
Creativity taught and raised the kid
It gave me hopes in the places I hid
King Panda Sep 2015
play
parallel range of
solitary confinement
omnipotent panic linking
experience
developed underwater
predictable anger
theories of the
mind
jammed in a mason jar
left to ferment
for years near extinct
then
ahhhhhhhhhhhh…
release of the rotten
the aged and
contracted
this involuntary drama
where you call
only to say
*bye
see you later
Bhill Mar 2
Drip, Drop, Splash

Drip, drop, splash...
Water, as it finds its final resting place below.
Falling with fellow (drops),
Falling off the cliff side, (drip)
Falling to form very special, beautiful waterfall, (splash).
Coming out into the light.
Waters from storms aged years ago.
Making their way through the tiniest of sandstone cracks.
Having been inside the mountains above for eons.
Not seeing daylight for all those years,
What a surprise, when finding themselves
falling and falling,
to make,
Drip, Drop, Splash...

Brian Hill - 2019
Inspired by Poetry in the Park @ Zions
This was inspired by a storm waterfall in Zions National Park today while going to Poetry in the Park poetry class....
Kristaps Sep 2018
Broccoli in a white lamp shade
cast shadowy face tattoos
to mark the unjoustly.
The festival in background
is throbbing in directly contrasting sound, to the art nouveau it's sleeping with.

Each vegan burger stand vomits exquisite neon. However
the collage itself
is apologetically brown.
Theatre masks and DJs, VR and a Just Dance floor set,
a sprint before midnight, a sprint after discount ethanol;
so I gaze and perhaps ponder for a friend.

And yet when counting the heads,
I find I needn’t more than my own to hands
for the few middle-aged supermarket clerks
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Impressionist colors rising out of chocolate brown,
stretching chartreuse necks upwards.
Intertwining vines clutching each other in a desperate rhapsody of life,
all waiting to display their Creators’ palette of pure color.

Orchid and yellow chalices hold the morning dew
as all are christened in jeweled morning light.
With blue and white snow you carpet the ground
blanketing hillsides with hope of Monet.

Orange tongues of fire licking up towards the sun
while jade blades battle as new growth crowds in.
Blossoms hang full with a living harvest of yellow,
awaiting transport to another.

Stalks of dried grasses stirred by the August wind,
dancing to the rhythm of the warm stirring breeze.  
Summer now ebbing away in aged colors muted with brown,
returning to the muddied ground once again.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Anton Mar 13
Jamie keeps a middle aged white man imprisoned below his house as an involuntary *** slave.
Jamie also donates a few hundred dollars each month to human rights organisations around the world.
Sam spends a few hours most weeks attempting to draw people’s
attention to both local, and international slavery.
Sam neither donates money to human rights organisations, nor keeps slaves himself.
Whilst most people who are concerned about human rights issues have a problem with slavery, there is some disagreement as to the most effective way to address it.
Some are of the view that Jamie, despite his direct participation in slavery, is doing more for human rights than is Sam. The theory is that by donating money to human rights organisations, one can offset the harm associated with keeping a slave, and in Jamie’s case, since the donations are significant, Jamie has accrued a human rights violation credit.
-Frightening thinking
See www.messedupthinking.com for more
Mark Oct 2018
Recoiling from the mirrored death, I gasp;
since when did time then bring on wrinkled fears
where skin unmolded youth from out its grasp
and left behind this cast, reflecting years.

That sudden, darken dawning sight unveiled,
but wounds overt, are not as quick the eye
yet how I'd missed my failing, form detailed,
immortal dreams had schemed; to age defy.

Ah! Best my early days knew truly not
for I had lived as ever I'd be fair,
and if that time revealed this torrid rot
I would, then linger onward, tho' of wear.

I'll take this crinkled skin, for I were young!
And spent as tho' to age, knew not my tongue.
Angelina Aug 2016
Right now, as we speak, there's a little boy, aged five
Pushed aside on the corner of his mat, where he naps
His fingers are clenched onto shredded crumbs of bread
He managed to get his hands on this morning despite his mother's constant nags
About having to save the last few bits for his new born sister  
Ashes and rubble are his best friends ever since he can remember
Disturbance aches him no more
For everything he's ever known are dents  
He wouldn't know what the other side of the rainbow looks like, let alone both
For he's never encountered a rainbow during his yelps of pain
Pressure, abundance of destruction, humiliation
His innocent weeps never reach aid
He is now used to it
No more room to present emotion
For everything he's encountered will forever be frozen in time
He wouldn't know what peace is, ever
For contrarily that would be foreign to him
Therefore, somewhere in this world, silence takes over
This little boy whose whole life has been built on lies and disruption
Peter B Sep 2018
He passed away in 1791,
aged thirty five.
He never saw a car,
never heard a noise of a machine.
His lungs
never breathed a smog.

He didn't wait
for the industrial revolution,
wild capitalism
and their awful consequences.

He left much earlier,
saving his senses
from the ugliness of the world,

from the unpleasant times,
which were soon to come.

He didn't die,
he only withdrew
from the end of the world.
karin naude Mar 2013
freedom in art
freedom in heart
freedom in expression
freedom of soul
deep understanding of expression
nourishing the mind
ever challenging
forward, keep moving, forward
freedom lived
freedom experienced
no words needed
the body moves, demand visible power
painful endurance for tender moment
graceful beyond delicate
captured in time, echoes for ever
what time, what space, its an illusion
eyes surrounded by deep dimples
flowing hair, expressing mouth
ooh how elegant the wine has become, well aged
the body demand respect in movement
the heart resilient
the mind always moving, wanderer
oh how beautiful the art of freedom
Paul Hansford Jan 2018
Even from behind the glass,
you can smell the chemical
that keeps the moths away.
A vast mound of matted sheep’s wool
you would say, except (they assure you)
it is original, all two tons of it,
the human hair that was left
unused at the end.
The rest went for socks
to keep workers’ feet warm.
All grey now, sixty years on, it has aged
as those that owned it never did.
They went naked to the shower room,
clutching the soap
they would never use,
and then to the ovens.
A lorry’s engine drowned the screams,
and the Governor’s wife tended her flowers,
making a garden “like paradise.”
This is at least the fourth major re-write of this poem .  "A poem is never finished, only abandoned."
mybarefootdrive Oct 2018
In the secret passageway where we had been hiding out, avoiding the end of term Information Technology lesson Hannah and I explored our similarities and differences.

You were a scholarship girl, a bright 12, to my slow to develop, 13.
You turned to leave,
leave me with your pearls of wisdom
utterances which would simultaneously excite and unnerve me.
Do you know I looked up the word lesbian for the second time?
You rattled me, poking at me, un layering like an onion.

I extended my hand before my mind could take on the full summit of actions and direct consequences, of implications.
My body took the lead, you whipped around, your mouth agape, ''Hannah'', a hoarse whisper and a quizzical yet knowing look.
You held my gaze and we both knew at that moment the truth that lived between us.
Ash Jul 2015
They say there's no such thing as;
time travel,
Yet gazing into your sullen aged eyes,
I see the pain this world has caused you,
the memories you wish you could erase,
I see the glint in your eyes past adventures have left you,
As if I was reading a bittersweet;
mystery novel,
Or watching a replay of your life,
Though your eyes are pools of;
chocolate and locked up secrets,
I can almost feel the bruises and;
aches this world has left you,
Your eyes are an abyss of secrets,
I've been ****** in to your  alluring;
past,
Lost in the small world in your eyes,
Ive found its too hard to come back
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