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Hg Jun 9
i fear my spider hands
and the words
they spin to webs

they twist and twine
injecting rhymes
in every word that’s said

they type and type
and type biting venom
from in my head

i stay awake all night
writing till sunrise
stabs my bed

i feel arachnophobic
of these fangs
that can’t be fed

but everytime you grip ‘em
you squash ‘em
till their dead

with you holding my hands
i'd drop my pens and
my distress

with you holding my hands
my spider eyes can
get some rest
©Hg
She is so special,
This girl I haven't met yet,
Not in dreams,
nor my head,
Is she something I comprehend.

I've heard,
She's out of this world,
but believes in the things that happily end,

Oh to be in love,
with an imaginary friend.
Another older poem I Just remembered from my long lost phone. May it rest in peace, and return as much content as I can muster, in time.
bulletcookie Mar 2016
Where do birds go at night?
When winter's silent furies
turn Hawthorns white,
cotton light on ground and grade.

Where do birds sleep till dawn
while pillowing clouds, twice height,
slumber across this evening sky.

Where do birds go to dream?
Swirling, feathered flurries,
to shiver off frostbite extreme.

Then upon a morning light
to round and wakeful nigh
with muffled wings burst into flight
tree branch waved goodbye.

-cec
(12262016)
Daisy Marrow Nov 2013
Unfortunately, the sun does set at night
and I am no longer able to see your face in the sunlight.
As I reach out my hands to find your cheeks
silk honey skin greets me.
You open your eyes and I see them perfectly.
They're blue like water that has frozen over
I see myself drifting away in the seas chillingly.

Sweetheart, don't leave the bed tonight.
Lose yourself in the sheets
and drown in all the oversized blankets.
It's too cold outside to be alone this time.

It's 10 pm and I want to stay here forever
I will not grow tired of you
It is not possible, you see I smile all the time when you're near.
Let's grow old to the grey,
Never let this get boring.
But for now, sleep with me here until the morning
2013
Umi Jan 5
Noon; I swear by what the angels write,
When I met you the world bloomed in me, with flowers far and wide
Ahh of all times you have chosen winter to come
Its so cold here that I cant even feel my thumb
The snow falls into a pretty pile
Lets go and sledge, then drink a hot chocolate after a while
But in reality, I am sitting here on my chair
Trying to write new poems, ideas are quite rare
With pen in hand I will try my best
And see this as some kind of  a test
Until I may or may not run out of ink
Until I may am not able to think
And until I just want to sink into my bed
Ah my pen, you are so pretty, you're elegant and sweet
Documenting stuff with you is really so neat
Please pen write on


~ Umi
A poem for my pen
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