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Breanna Smith May 2012
I lay awake in bed one late night
Letting memories wash over me
When a memory wondered into my brain
A memory of my childhood
Back to late nights
Just as this one
When I was cuddled up
With my soft big blue blanket
It was torn at the edges
One edge missing completly

It kept me worm in the winters
Made a great fort in the summers
Held me tight during nightmares
Wiped my tears when I cried
Let me rest in its vast softness
Made an elegant dress for dress up
The best padding for play fights
Made for the best tug-of-war
Between my brother and I
It made me feel at home on long trips
Kept me company
On the couch when I was sick

Now where is my
Cuddly childhood blanket?
In a box in the attic
Waiting for once again
When it can be held tight
In the arms of a child
Umi Feb 2018
The nightsky is alike a mighty mansion of the stars which then
twinkle in elegance, beauty and transience until the dawn outshines them in a graceful manner.
As the night turns away from the sun and from her light, danger
in our imagination could await, from the corners of our very mind.
Yet the stars make up a soft blanket, a cover of the calmest of light,
which could bring peace to a soul which is performing a rampage.
All the constilations, all the names and forms which reveal themselves, are but a heavenly spectra for those who are nocturnal.
Or for those, whom have meet the cruel fate to be allergic to the natural, straight forward, warming and blissful sunlight.
There is no soul with no protector, in the nightsky such would be
a bright,piercing star, standing proud,manifest its location is over you
Holding many wonders, the beauty of the night comes with shooting stars, which at times shortly sweep over the heaven before fading.
Wishes are made upon, hope fills their hearts, for a better future
or a fulfilment of their desires, tangled up within the depth of mind.
Night becomes bright once the moon shines, in its fullest posture.
Becomes dark once the rainclouds drive near, calling in thunder.
But most importantly, it is a time of rest, from all this earth beholds


~ Umi
Gary Brocks Aug 2018
Last night into the room she crept,
awhilst I lay in bed and slept.
My dreams there caught on sleep’s broad reef
she breached sleep’s net, the blanket thief.

Copyright © 2004 Gary Brocks
180828F

My wife woke me by wrapping herself in our blanket.
I couldn't sleep, so I decided to try to capture a bit of William Blake's voice.
Vanessa Gatley Nov 2018
Bundled
Love
Ah
Now
Keep
Everything​
Together
Mr Quiet Sep 2018
You are,
The joy in my life,
I feel,
Only comfort & delight,
With you.

You are,
Like a blanket,
That keeps me warm in my,
Cold room.

Please let me have this feeling longer,
Even though I know,
We're gone soon.
When You Used To Call Me Mine
Part 7/14
Jen Dec 2018
My mind drifts at the thought of what it would feel like
To share your blanket with you;
Letting words cover me head to toe with your many layers.

Hidden pockets of warm down filling,
I’d get lost there forever if you’d promise to never let go...
in 1992, a child is born
and handed a gift.

he opens the box labelled "life"
and examines its contents.

a blanket hand-stitched
with hope, perseverance,
and comfort

draped over a teddy bear
stuffed with fearful nightmares,
and heartache.

a blue jar labelled "sadness",
containing fluttering butterflies
symbolizing joy.

a ticket for the rollercoaster
he's finally tall enough to ride,
with no warning
of the endless ups and downs.

that two-minute rush
of adrenaline
followed by hours
of motion sickness.

this child
is now twenty six.

he is staring at the empty
box labelled "life" -

at the worn-out blanket
lying next to
the teddy bear's stuffing -

at the shards of blue glass
and butterfly corpses -

at the torn up carnival ticket.

he regrets ever accepting this gift.

- v.m
this is a very real story of a very fictional box and a very non-fictional human.

now, this very real ultra violet remarkeyable is here to tell you that you have been given your very own box labelled "life" for your very own unique reason. all you have to do is discover what that reason is. only then, i think, will you truly appreciate your very unique little box.

my butterflies are alive and well. i hope yours are too.
f Feb 2018
i am broken and scattered across seven continents
but give me time;

just a second
to gather myself;

you’ve got me stuck in the empty spaces
between the pages that nobody talks about
and i can’t write because my fingers are broken
and my hands are so numb

and all my melodies fall flat
because i can’t spin a beautiful cloth out of
this **** tale

nothing can thaw me;

wasn’t it yesterday that
you held my hand at a crossroads
and told me
love,
it doesn’t matter where we go
as long as i’m with you.

and the winds were harsh and my heart was cold
but i want to say you were right.

"love,
it doesn’t matter;
as long as i’m with you."

but i’m not with you
and i’m floating
because my hands have gotten used to
the cold
but my vision is blurred and i think
i’m chronically dizzy because
you probably took a piece of my mind when you left

why did you leave?

i am going through the motions,
and i am breathing again
but nothing feels real anymore
and i can’t even tell if you ever really existed.
Dell Dec 2018
People are changing as I stay the same
Leaving me behind as they grow.
I was only ever a game.
I've always known
That it was a matter of time
Before I became old.
They pulled and plucked at my
Heart strings
Until worn and broken.
They dirtied me for
Their own pleasure.
I was new and pure,
Now I'm used and nobody wants me.
Everyone has grown out of me.
Like an old baby blanket.
This is my first poem so Hello guys gals and non binary pals.
Cné Jun 2018

paint me
with the wet tickle
of your tongue
lingering with affection
savoring my fervent flavor
in bold strokes
of your obsession

color my essence
in heated hues
sending shivers
down my spine
in anticipation
of your warm breath
against my flesh
with every blissful caress
to ensue painted petals
of animation

with your supple lips
gently blur the lines
of my curved hips
softly stroking
the subtle shadows
of warm depth,
blushing
quivering thighs
as I gasp
of breath

plunge in
a primer coated palette
dipping your stiff paintbrush
deep within
the folds of my blanket
manipulating
a trembling image
of your voracious ****.

craze me
again and again
in breathless
****** glow,
your sensual brushstrokes
gently murmuring
layer on layer
in alla prima flow

delve deep
into my eyes
paint splattering
the passion
of my soul
drizzling silken strands
of love
in their entirety,
polishing me whole

and then
in blissful backwash
admire
the tangled limbs
interposed
of your
completed masterpiece
in smiling
sated repose

Adrian Betz Jun 2018
Tell them soon I won’t be home this night
And relieve me of the burden, the bitter farewell
Comfort them, a calming voice such as yours
Will be all it needs to keep sorrows away

Tenderest tides, so timelessly fleeting
A yearning verse with an endless story to tell
Purple moonlight, the shores of a cleansed sea
Woeful the sighs sung to the horizons afar

Eternal solstice
Harbor of the distant, pale blue sight
Come under this softest blanket there to see
Where the tale of the first scribe came to be


Separate seams holding the same cloth
Then I saw my closest company wake
Fear not, still, before you I will hold my world
Hand in hand with my messenger, my friend

Snow-white stairs, a valley of figurantes
A stellar choir with the quietest piece to play
Come now the breath of a warmly greeting fall
Inviting me to witness the cycle begin anew

Eternal solstice
Harbor of the distant, pale blue sight
Come under this softest blanket there to see
Where the tale of the first scribe came to be


Sing me to sleep with peaceful times
Another one then might finally begin

Eternal solstice
Harbor of the distant, pale blue sight
Come under this softest blanket there to see
Where the tale of the first scribe came to be




©2018, Adrian Betz
Gary Brocks Aug 2018
We spread our blanket on uneven
ground, bodies embracing in descent,        
                       They lay on the boxcar floor,
                        fingers twisted, clutching slats.
transfixed by the spell of evening,
limbs entwined, interlaced,
                        Barbed wire pressed punctured palms
                        faces creased as old photographs.
We stretched in dawn’s light,
poured coffee out of cups,
and left as it merged with the dust.
                         bones upheave turf and loam
                         fingers grasping, sheathed in soil.

Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
180828F

At the time of writing, the war in former Yugoslavia was occurring. Pictures of ethnic extermination camps, barbed write, mass graves, Happeing again. Happening despite the awareness and vows after the holocaust, that such things must never be allowed to happen again. An awareness that had grown stale. Do the horrors of history, even in our ignorance or innocence, ultimately make even the smallest of our acts, some how complicit?
lmbf Jul 2018
Her touch is warm like a fuzzy blanket. She wraps one around in the cadence of her voice; it's like an old song one had forgotten about, quietly humming in the foreground. Her smile beckons, both as a siren and as an old lover. One listens to her speak and wonders about all the galaxies whirring around in her mind.

And when I look at the curve of her spine and the ***** of her chest, for the first time it makes me want to explore that place. It is the sacred place where kings and queens are written into existence, where love and pleasure and sometimes even pain collide with an unending force. I wonder what she could do to take me there. And I think of what I could do to make her escape this broken universe with me, if only for a few moments.
// Summer Freewrite Sessions 2018
Dark Fjord Nov 2016
old or new,
where's your's -the blanket to love
to care for me,
the sad swirl,
shhh is a lightning's way-
and it made me smile a little.
stars
L B Jul 2018
An early evening gust
broke the back of the day's blaze
Still 90 degrees at eight
in orange haze
Sweat runs down my neck
Through the gorge between my *******
The wind lifts my linen shirt
runs its hands along my sides
reviving memory
of Forest Park
of a blanket in the grass

Where the pines trace
so many faces
Crackling popping kids
stolen matches, running
screaming victorious!
Blowing tin cans up with fire crackers
Bicycles, sparklers, fireworks at dusk
That whole afternoon
I spent hammering caps

Noise really makes us kids
really
especially
annoying

Mom wants us out!
Gone! All of us!
No needs. No excuses!
No cookies! No slices of bologna!
“No more Kool Aid!
Out now!
Out!”

That evening I tried
to dismiss the itchy sweat
of ******-sister-Suzy-matching-sun-suits
at Gino's family picnic
When some kid
(I don't know?)
between the rigatoni and the sweet corn
Some kid
tosses a sparkler
into box of fireworks
I don't know?
whether to cry or laugh
I was pretty scared
Rockets going off across the lawn
and onto porch
Craze of colors through the trees
Some at eye-level horror!
But the sight of Aunt Nedda
diving under picnic table
Stockings, garter belt upended
Capsized beyond her caring
of uplifted dress

Some images just stay with you, ya know?

July 4th always lands for me
on a firework's ***
"Caps"  are little red rolls of gunpowder dots, originally made to give a snap to toy guns of the 1950s.  We figured out that by layering them and using a hammer, you could get a bigger *****.
r m Jul 2015
as vast as the galaxy
with stars swarming
like a blanket of cloth
with twinkling dots of threads
we roam the earth
gallantly
with hearts individually beating
with breaths individually taken
and in the middle of the crowd
is me, thinking of the statistics

seven billion people in the world
and i chose to love
the one
i
cannot
have
thinking of that one person, again and again, like an after-thought that lingers until i cry these feelings all out
// july 2015
ThePoet Jul 2015
My bed was
fashioned
into a grave,
my blanket
was fabricated
out of dirt,
and now my
sleep is calm
as a wave,
I rest in a
place where I'll
never be hurt.

© Sarah Ahmed (ThePoet)
ryn Dec 2014
Pinholes
punched through
my
canvas of night

An
array of stars
strewn across
Darwin's
blanket of black

Quiet
and
reassuring
are my
Northern Territory
lights

Like salve
to my
mind,
soul
and
inconspicuous cracks
I can see more stars here than I ever could back home...
Incubus' "Wish You Were Here" came to mind.
Matt Jursin Nov 2009
Backed in.
Upside-down yet right-side-up.
My "Days Off" are never enough.
Backed in. Feelin rough.
Being alone in my quiet place is often tough.

My mind wanders, getting lost.
Missin out on bein about.
Locked up on a cold, cloudy, winter day.
No doubt.
No trust, no love, nothing to clutch...
I hold my blanket and pout.
Loudly.
No friends wander in and out.

Undoubtedly this pen holds no cure for a broken spirit and a broken heart.
I guess this just falls under "Vague Art".
But it's a new start...to an old art.
I should've known this'd be harder than being a martyr.

Underestimating the already underestimated.
It's my time to shine.
Mesmerized by the bright light.
I try not to fight it...this paper, My Shrine.
Im an **** person with a handsome mind, intertwined with the devine.
My life, MY throw, MY time.
It's never this easy to draw strait lines...-----------------------
PJ Jan 2013
Sitting happily in my big green chair
Accompanied by my beloved tattered green blanket
With Green tea warming my stomach

Sleeping on the soft green grass
In the middle of summer with the scent of green
Big green leaves atop tall trees cover me in shade

Laying down at the beach with my soft green blanket
Feeling green deep inside me, so fresh and new
Lighting that happy green leaf and ******* it down, dizzy

Touching his damp green t-shirt, heart pounding beneath his chest
From the tips of my toes to the top of my head, I am green too
Green is such a wonderful color to be
Jordan Rowan Jan 2016
The night sounds of fallen angels
Building stairways back to home
And the radio plays softly
Like a crooner left alone
As the night falls into the velvet shades
And beats down the bedroom door
Of all the visions that come to me
It's of one I'm hoping for

The postman closes up the station
And the buses get cleaned with rain
The asylum rests and barely breathes
As the countryside goes insane
Prophets speak of peace
On the dim hue of TV screens
Of all the moments that seem real
I still wait to watch my dreams

Imposed upon the westward wall
Are the silhouettes of weeping oaks
Swaying in the wind that talks
But they only tell me jokes
Swept beneath the silver stars
Sleeping on blanket clouds
Of all the space above me
I feel as if I can't get out

Headlights and passing trains
Sound like time passing by
Gone are the hearts inside
Like the years beyond my eyes
Sounds from the suburb city
Blow like sirens in my mind
Of all the thoughts within me
Only one freezes time
Becca Lansman Jul 2018
My body and mind are at war
two beings occupying the same skin

the diverged desire firing bullets into the heart
creating a cacophony of chaos within me

One--
******* the jar of peanut butter
hidden by the blanket of dark sky
hugging the fridge like a newborn
caressing the chocolate bar wrapper

Two--
crouched over
crying in the shower
pinching my skin until bright pink, hot
with anger

trying to resurrect myself into someone more holy
trying to starve
out the monster within

only to find myself back on the bathroom tile singing gospel songs into the toilet bowl.

a cyclical strom
that will not stop raging

like a perverted lover
always, somehow
dragging you back home.
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