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Luz Hanaii Jan 14
Your spirit a mixture of strength and kindness
such commanding and loving energy
a magnet which has kept me glued
by your side for so long
the power of your voice
makes me feel specially feminine
just the sound of it makes love to my ears
your presence draws the most precious
reassuring feelings never felt before
this love like fine wine
with the years has become
an undying choir of light to my heart
and for you I don't fear to be called a fool
to write the most common cliches
all in the name of love
First published and written on Dec. 20, 2016
ryn Mar 2015
I don't seek your permission...
To write about the what, why and how.
It could be a haiku or come in the shape of a cow.

I don't need your approval...
When I don't sound the least bit poetic...
In my mismatched metaphors or ill-rhymed acrostic.

I'm not asking for your blessing...
When I pen down and put up what I think...
Be it in cloying cliches or in tear drenched ink.

I don't crave for your understanding...
When my 10 word poems weren't filtered through your poetic lens,
Or if my contributions in collaborations lack in sense.

I don't hope for your likes...
If my content does not tickle your fancy,
Or if my words just rubs you silly.

I mean no disrespect...
But don't be too quick to click on the 'comment' button.
Private messaging has been put there for a reason.

I don't mean to cramp your style...*
You're entitled to your own opinions of course...
But if you've got nothing good to say, please save it and shove it up yours.
.
This is a peaceful community, almost sacred to many. All bearing a heart (hale or ailing) are welcome to spill their ink... Regardless of writing experience or poetic prowess.

Bear in mind that people write for various reasons. Some are really good at it, some are just barely starting. Some ask for feedback, some just want an outlet.

So... Be nice. Use the private messaging feature if you really need to offload your thoughts on another's text offering.

Respect and be respected.
.
There are many ideas we lend
Credence to.  Old saws too
Often heard.  We believe
Them .  Think they are
True in a pallid way but
Convincing proof it is no
Longer known. Yet were
Once truly experienced
Now they are tired unto
Death.  What is this but
A forgetting of tiredness
Of unfeeling.  To wake to
A new vibrancy of feeling
Of meaning, of keenly
Knowing.  Look and be
Astonished at how the
Grass is green.  Feel its
Green love.  Let it go in
You.  It is a salad that
You are hungry for.
Eat it with voracious
Eyes as the truth of
Green love.  You are
A horse set free at last
Into the living meadow
Do you not love Him
Who has said I make
All things new (at last)
But it was always so
And it is a wonder and
Cannot be remembered
I love you.  I love you.


For Stanley who loved the green
Molly Nicole Oct 2017
Cracks in my character
Lined with silk
Lovers touch
Like a sharpened blade
Gliding smoothly
Only painful when removed
I'm a story book of unfortunate events and cliches
And the morbidly curious find their way
Into my arms
A comforting fear
A lion taming circus

I'm not sure anymore if this gun
Is still loaded with flowers

But you
Hold me so tight
Squeeze out the anxiety
Catch it
Make me a balloon animal with its breath
You're the carny I've been waiting for
The most beautiful rebound.
Diana Sep 2018
I want a relationship
That's anything but typical
One that defies cliches
And the definition of spontaneous

I want to be so in tune with another
To the point where it feels
As though a piece of me
Has crawled its way into him
Permanently

I want a relationship
That takes a detour from anything
Stereotypical
Such as dinner and a movie for a first date
To thrift store shopping
In the streets of Seattle
At dusk
While ending the night
At a warm cozy cafe
Situated on a quiet corner
In the shadows of the city
Where poetry is either
Softly spoken
Or bitterly belted out
From within one's own soul
On a rugged beaten-up stage
With nothing but a spotlight
Mic
And wooden stool
All while we sip on tea
(Because I don't like coffee)
And reminisce on the moments
Worth remembering
That were made that day together
In between fits of laughter
While secretly dreaming
About the future ones to be made
In the comfort of our minds
As we tightly grasp our warm mugs
In front of our lips
To hide the shy smiles
That dare to make an appearance
This isn't him,
This can't be the face he's left here,
This isn't the face he's used to seeing,
Solidified in the mirror.
It can't be the current one,
Or even close,
It's not at all how he recalls from the ponds he's known.
Not the one admired,
On crystal clear days,
Or the one sang with,
Through some humming nights.
Maybe his memory is just fogged up,
Maybe this reflection is just blurry from the showers,
They'd have burned others skin.
Still this can't be the face.
Not with the potholes for eyes,
Waning moons for lips,
And cliches for brains.
Or maybe things,
Maybe they do just change,
Maybe sometimes somethings sink in the earthquakes,
And are never swam in again.
Maybe sometimes there's no hope for reversal, redemption,
Or some rectifying light to right what's left,
Only hope in surviving the new.
I guess that's all there ever was.
If only he had it sooner,
He would have thrived in the old world,
Found melodies in the days and more mirror-less memories for the nights.
Only then could things be better off,
Different.
older poem, don't turn on your front camera or introspection may occur.
Sam Hammond Aug 2018
Whisky, I neglected you
For mushrooms and amphetamines.
For ket and **** and LSD,
And Mandy too, to name a few.

Needn’t I have looked so far
To be the greatest of cliches.
The drugs and raves led me astray.
For writers, scotch is more on par.

Half your bottle drank away,
Half full in my state of mind.
Every sip; sublime and kind,
Every **** a harshened spray.

Now I’m stuck, a drunken haze
Has washed and swept the ways of rhyme.
In its tide is also time,
As by the sun, the night decays.

Whisky, polished, final sip.
Like the bottle, I am dry.
So, I tried, to write not high.
This poem *****. I’m off to trip.
Connor Jul 2018
Eternity is closed !
- come back another day with
flower smears for eyes and sincere
passion on your
palms          (weathered)

I need another Russian Doll -
Princess to frequent curtains
fashioned from fire & lead
equaling out to crimson folds
which mysteriously call to
the mystical hierarchies of
imagination

Silent requirements signal beneath the steps
which welcome
one (a stranger/
an Ibis-Beak cane & dark coat
stamped with August rain)

They arrive unexpectedly, as if to play the game
of cliches, they carry promises fashioned in foreign ports
tapping my knee
instead of my shoulder
having only known or recognized
entombment
                               (there is no hyperbole which lacks within
                                Nature's haunted heavens)

My strange visitor leaves / glass umbrella
in hand / to privacy / our brief interaction begins & ends with simple eager undertakings implemented
in the afterword  

What is in another's contemplation of me?
whiling in manifest Theosophy -

- Thought form -
Primal child-rage / whisp of violet smoke &
inksplotches abolished, mutually panting.
Our decorated
four-legged hunter
has arisen and impatiently
craves for the Earth to partner at last with
the Sun

..The Sun a blazing dime
I can smell crispness
in the air
Johnny Noiπ Jul 2018
the traditional  Western narrative,
basically ending  where it started;
which is why  Hollywood can tell
the exact same story over  & over
knowing its toolbox consists only
of cliches  &  stereotypes; there is
never any originality in  corporate
product marketed just to fill space
what a waste Mar 2018
I’ve now seen this rerun some obscene sum.
Gone, I’m off staring at the sun a tad too long.
The part that focuses the fun was last seen wrong.
Worn, like the cliches you so casually parade.
Me? I got cataracts to the hate.
I’m dodging them cats,
while you’re stuck stalking their tracks.
Once again I’m late, but this time I think I’ll stay.

I could cut you with a blade of grass.
I’m nice.
Brigade both sides of The Crusades with a laugh.
I’m tight.
It’s all in the way you read the light,
but sometimes that sun be too bright.
Got drive though,
won’t stop 'til they say DeadBeat can write.
MeanAileen Mar 2018
I wish you happiness
and I wish you peace,
I wish you fulfillment
even if not with me.
I wish you good health
and seldom a sorrow,
I wish you luck and wealth
and the brightest tomorrow!
I wish you success
and stress free days,
I wish you restful nights
and many other cliches...
I wish you a happy home
and a passionate wife,
I just wish you all best
in love, and in your life!
Just some words to wish someone special a happy day
Janek Kentigern Oct 2016
Sadness
it's strong stuff...
I've had so much I can't walk
without falling
I can't talk
without stalling
And slurring
Can't think
without blurring the lines
between problems
and mere actualities.
Lacking the faculties
to sort factual reality
from the masochistic fantasies
that lurk at the back of me;
Passively, I watch them attacking me
ransacking stacks of ****
that once brought me happiness
laughing mirthlessly, cursing the birth of me,
tormenting, caressing,
augmenting the worst of me,
Cementing self pity, bitterly nursing the urge
to revel in misery. Rolling in muck
and mire of recent history,
desiring nothing.
In anger I pander to these base demands,
Mistaking mere sickness
For something more grand
Avowing the charge of my own propaganda,
Allowing this world that I loved
to be slandered
Cowed
My friends are pulled down to an
unflattering angle. From here they appear
(no matter how dear)
to be traitors and thieves,
with knives up their sleeves.
I'll believe every lie my sick mind can conceive.

Don't give me the keys
'cos I'll drive off a cliff
Don't give me a pen
Cos I'll only write this
There's nothing unique in the words that I speak,
and this piece is nothing but
cliches,
mixed metaphors you've met before
similes sing of sick malaise.
Tongue out of cheek,
Dazed.
I'm released from policing
my verse,
Sad soul knows no quality Control,
As the heart beats crazily, I proofread lazily
sentimentally, hazily.
Without a **** to give
I chuck away the voice that says
“Don't write if it ain't great.”.

Days achieving nothing
but self inflicted *******
Gouging self-inflicted chasms
between loved ones and I,
apoplectic rage in spasms,
fits of fleeting normality
Bridge defeat, despair and insanity.
Weaponised hatred for all of humanity.
A small inconvenience
becomes a calamity.
Then revert to intertia perverted by vanity.

Next, corner a companion and
complain away the pain and drain your glass again and again without restraint

Explain the ways that your to blame, oh the shame the shame,
Dissect regrets, reflect until you've bored yourself to death,
(let alone the poor sod who kindly nods and slyly checks their watch, before they stammer out excuses,
Hints which I'm too hammered and useless to hear,
Too wrecked to check myself. They've done their duty as a mate, but remember,
steer clear of the fate,
Of getting ****** down into the vortex, of depression and regrets.
We've all got our problems. He's out of cigarettes.)
Whilst here I  reading aloud
still sore texts, to detect traces of affection.

Sad ****, sad drunk, alone again,
Get my coat, forget my phone. The inconvenience provides some light relief,
From the background grief.
Now tomorrow's replete with distraction s and tasks to complete.
The horizons' brightened with the prospect of splashing some some cash, and so much to choose!
Afternoons busy spent perusing reviews,
Megapixels, memory, which brand do I trust?
But I know I'm just
buying time,
Before the consumption high subsides
and I'm back with this background mosquito pitch whine saying "maybe I'm better off dead".
Bite you lip, hold on, its temporary. and whilst it feels scary, remember
Your not sick, you're not dying, your just heartbroken,
trying to move on, and maybe occasionally crying.
And that's healthy.
The weeping ain't that bad,
It's the cold light of day. It's the misguided logic. That's says "you had the best time of your life, now you've lost it,
All that was worth having,
Is behind you, and may I remind you,
You ain't getting younger, it's starting to show,
And times flowing towards the end, the time you spent on earth was wasted, getting wasted, not facing life head on and you'll never change. It's not strange that she's found someone better"
etc etc

You've been here before and each time it gets better. If you could write a letter to your younger self you could share a wealth of knowledge about Dealing with horrors from within.
Emotions invade us, but we can repel them. But you have to embrace them before you expel them.
So whilst it's not fine yet
And whilst I still pine, yeah, I'm resigned for the time being,
seeing the bigger picture.
And we're designed to recover then remove the stitches. No plans go without hitches. At last, whilst they might not go as fast as we like,
In the night take respite cos
Like the drunken high, and this ******* Hangover
This too shall pass
And one day you'll wake up sober.
Mark Sep 2018
Tho' modern pen has lost a cursive touch
and words archaic; poet's old cliches,
electric type has still the phrase to clutch
and render beauty's make through sonnet praise.

Have I then prompt to key my quill to prove
iambic worth has ink for grace so rare?
Tho' words cannot do just, nor then improve
but page her beaut for those that cannot stare.

A lady's fair in metered writ, romance!
And have so in; revered poems of old
now newer peach must too afford a chance
to muse a bard, that none her flair withhold.

Let modern sonnet's ode new blush to art!
And tho' from present phrase, they still impart.
Medusa Jun 2018
Zenia Argos is tired. Tired to her ventricles, but still curious. She might possibly have told the right person on a certain type of night in the right kind of bar that she defined herself by her curiosity. Now she felt that her strange mind and her odd ways probably overwhelmed her and had thereby come to define her.

~^~
Zenia not only felt undefined, she felt amorphous.
Like a ghost in a black silk raincoat and black patent leather stiletto  heels, she stalked through airports and the gutters of various cities. She forgot to ask herself meaningful questions. She forgot to ask herself any questions at all.

~^~
One day in some unbelievably high-numbered floor of a high-rise hotel in a city whose name she had forgotten she woke up in a luxurious enough bed with a body on the other side of it, face turned away from her. Her brain tossed up only this inane phrase, which repelled and fascinated her at the same time.
"Age has it's privileges"

First thought after that was a silly image of an actual ledge, outside of a high rise building such as the one she found herself in at the moment. With a cartoon cat and a cartoon Zenia fighting to stay on the edge, and comically slipping, hilariously falling, and hanging on, in fast forward and then reverse, and she lay there with her eyes closed and watched the vaudeville show for as long as it took to run through it's loop several times.
~^~
Then she wondered why she was thinking in perfume ad cliches, especially ones from decades, perhaps many decades ago?

This prompted her to jump, catlike, from prone, to alert, and holding her gun from beneath pillow, scanning the room.

Nope.

Not a perfume ad.
Zenia Is a result of reading the excellent work of Margaret Atwood, all of it, for decades, but in particular: The Robber Bridegroom. In which she is the villain.
Ziayre Michaelis Nov 2018
Recommended videos, recommended memories.
I used to spend hours on this platform,
Before life got to be so busy.
Or more accurately,
Before living got tiring.
I watch them, following familiar paths.
I remember all the plans I had
For filming.
I used be huge into cosplay CMV’s,
And many a class had been spent
Choreographing character actions to music.
(Let’s ignore the fact that I had no friends
Who would be willing to put in the effort).
I once had a group,
All ready to film to “***** Little Secret”,
But somehow it just never happened.
The desire to create costumes and perform never died.
Here’s hoping this newest scheme doesn’t end up
Like all its predecessors.

On a whim I go through my old notebooks,
Just to see Past Me.
A lot of angst, that much hasn’t changed.
I laugh, finding an early, early template of my primary OC.
Why did I think she could pull off an auburn bob
And blue eyes?
I spy a pentagram, crudely sketched into the margins.
Black Butler, now that’s an anime
I haven’t seen in a hot minute.
Eyes litter the pages,
Still one of the only things I can draw.
Oh boy, here’s a poem.
Title: ‘Understand me’.
I’m not ready to face that embarrassment.
I don’t think I ever will be.

Now this ought to be rich-
My journal from 8th grade.
I can barely make it past the first few pages.
The cringe is just too strong.
I flip through it, critiquing the sketches scattered throughout
(I was really inspired by ‘Rules Are Made For Breaking’).
I’ve really improved!
And by improved, I mean I discovered that humans
Are not blocks with ovals for heads
And sticks for limbs.
Oh jeez, another poem.
Title: ‘Untitled’
First line: “I walk the edge of night and twilight,
Separated by mere blades of darkness”
**** me please!
I tried too hard,
Back in those days.
I wanted to paint beautiful pictures of swirling angst,
But that’s just not my style.
My style is much more straightforward-
It’s refreshing to be blunt and honest
In my writing.

Speaking of writing, here’s a novel
I tried to write.
A mashup of elemental magic,
Ultra-powerful hero (who doesn’t know it),
Unspeakable, mysterious villains,
And all sorts of other cliches.
BUT!
All the characters are cats.
Just… Facepalm.

I miss this old me,
Despite the problems I thought I had.
I wish I could go back,
But unfortunately wishing to go back
Is as useless as thoughts and prayers.
Maybe I can learn to like this life.
… Or maybe I can try to recreate the past?

Another poem. Oh god.
Title: “Drowning”
“I’m smothered in a sea of tears/One I created to torment myself
People sail across its surface/Unaware my misery fuels their fun”

… Yeah, no.
I’ll just try to deal with the present.
Yes, those are real poem excerpts. Yes, I'm ashamed.
A Field Guide to Awkward Silences
The Norton Field Guide to Writing with Readings
A Field Guide to Secure Wi-Fi
A Field Guide to Asset Forfeiture
A Field Guide to “Fake News”
A Field Guide to Lies
A Field Guide to Antibiotic Stewardship in Outpatient Settings
A Field Guide to the Italian New Right
A Field Guide to Getting Lost
A Field Guide to Ripple Effects Mapping
A Field Guide to ****** and Fly Fishing
A Field Guide to Jerks at Work
A Field Guide to Bad Faith Arguments

And so it field guides, and so it field guides
As dear old Kurt Vonnegut did not say
And what field is the writer talking about?
About the farmer outstanding in his field?

Alas there is no field guide to writing
A title blessedly free of field guide
Which would be a feel-good fieldless guideless
For which humanity would be grateful

About as original as Keep Calm
Keep Calm and Say Something Original
Let the last field guide be Keep Calm about
A Field Guide to Burying Tired Cliches’
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.


Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
i.
i hate writing love poetry

ii.
writing about love cheapens it, it
makes the word weak
i want it to be strong enough to express at least 0.0000000001 of what i feel for you

iii.
there is acid within me, and it burns my lungs and all my insides, it lights my veins on fire. it boils up my throat and hides beneath my tounge, searing my lips as it bubbles out into words that do not mean anything. you tell me “say what you mean” but i can’t. i would never hurt you.

iv.
i want to be the first ******* mars, all alone with the stars and the moon and the planets.  ( not really alone at all. ) but i could never leave without you. even in my dreams you’re by my side, serendipitous smile and all.

v.
it would be cliche to say that we belong together. but sometimes cliches are applicable.

vi.
of all i do not understand, this hurts me the most, my tears are suddenly toxic and i make holes in my clothes as they fall down my skin. i love you i love you i love you.
see? i’m making it weaker.

vii.
if we were on mars i’d tell you, let the acid come out but i wouldn’t let it burn you. i would never hurt you. you could leave me up there with the martians and the freaks, right where i belong. that’s why i’m weaking i love you, so that it won’t matter as much when i tell you.

viii.
and i am filled with acid.
Sag Nov 2018
the books of poetry I’ve found on coffee tables and book shelves disappoint me
young adult white boys writing about kissing and oxygen like no ones ever had a drag of a cigarette or thought about a girl or looked at the stars before
they’ve reduced poetry to single thoughts that they pretend are important
And the twenty something year old girls who took a creative writing class congratulate them with a poem of their own
Broken into
Small stanzas
With few words
That mean
Nothing

...

The dramatics are too much.
There is more to human emotion than cliches and empty romantic lines that maybe you should just tweet out instead of, I don’t know, trying to publish a book.

But the funny thing is, oh the curious little thing is, they are published in books. Everywhere.
And where do my rants about childhood trauma or abandoned hospitals or ecstatic adventures get me?

writing poetry in private waiting for someone to ask me if I ever like to write, and I’ll say, I dabble, and never show them a word.
Grace Dec 2018
everything is gold like honey
dark as night
a flame that burned out too soon
as red as a rose or
blood
or my own anger
at only thinking in
cliches
let me break free and see
a world where
the sky is as blue as a reflection of the sky in a lake
no,
no that one's too silly
or maybe a place where i can wade through a field
of murmurs
dark as blackberry jam
or see the sky is orange peels and musky pinks the color of cat's paws
drenching the world in soft bedsheets of sleepy brightness
new, something new, please
give me a forest as green as a leatherbound book
with pages made of tree rings and little words
skittering around, and hunting, and sleeping, and playing
with the other little words
I want to see an ocean that holds reflections
the stars live there, and fishes live within their brightness
planets and corals hold secret worlds
and little creatures and galaxies of nonsense and daydreams
and when you look down you are there too
and they don't really pay you any mind, because after all
there is rather a lot already going on
I want my brain to live someplace new
build houses for new ideas
use old ideas as framing and build, and paint, and have a welcome party for its new residents
make a cake that has chocolate and raspberries and some other ingredients that you don't quite remember
give yourself a change of scenery,
you deserve to know that your mind is as endless as the universe that lives in the ocean
if you would only let it breathe
AngelAutumn4 Jul 2018
If I’m being honest; I say that a lot. Maybe it’s because I can’t tell the real from the not. I can’t tell the difference between my thoughts and yours, but if I’m being honest; I’ve said that before.

I’ve said it all though; I’ve said hello and goodbye. I’ve seen good angels fall from the sky, I’ve seen a grown man threaten to die on a whim, from years of neglect because he said; nobody loved him.

I’ve seen a good friend, stay just to go. He turned to say “Sorry” met with “I know.” And with a sad joyous sigh, he walked out the door, saying goodbye; but I’ve heard that before.

I’ve heard all the sayings, the
“I love you’s”, “I do’s”,
followed by years of domestic disputes. I’ve heard that I’m nothing, I’ve felt like I’m less, and I’m sure that sometimes, I seem like a mess.

But I’ve seen from this life, all that there is. A small kind of greyscale, of hate and of bliss. I’ve seen of this place, all that I can, And if I’m being honest; I’ll see it again.

But before I do that I have to sort out, exactly the facts, from maybe the doubt, and stop saying the words like I’m afraid to be hurt. but if I’m being honest; I’m afraid it won’t work.

I’m afraid I’ll be stuck just trapped in my head, reluctantly writing the things that I’ve said. Talking of angels, of love, and of hate, I’m afraid I’ll be saying the same old cliches. And if I’m being honest; I think it’s too late.
Lawrence Hall Oct 2018
On Monday I will wear my uniform -
A blazer from Goodwill, old khaki slacks -
Knot my made-in-China patriotic tie
And verify that my papers are in order

On Monday I will sortie through the candidates  -
I’m important to them on this one day -
Then work around their signs all slogan-trapped
And rush the doors through a hail of cliches’

And watched by comrades with their helmets blue
Vote for a Merovingian or two
Early voting begins in Texas on the 22nd of October.  Despite the many days and many opportunities and many polling places, only about 50% of the electorate vote.  Apparently the other 50% are too busy complaining.
Bob Nov 2018
Burnt by the Sun that lights the days that I recently started to sleep away
Ashes in the wind sparkle the nights that allow me to hide and drink to the dark thoughts I hold in
Trying to force distance between memories and myself
A life thats been *****
So I contemplate how to use this blade
Save the it'll get better and everything happens for a reason lines
I don't live by cliches
I hate pain so I cut myself to ease the heartache
Enough blood to cause a flood
Clean the regrets from mistakes I made
Old man living lost in life
Keep your couple of dimes and cold french fries
I'm not begging for help
Waiting for traffic to pick up
If I had a sign it would read
God did you forget about me
Why so long for these open wounds to heal
Last one left on the sideline
Couples holding hands passing by
Can I have alittle happiness
Or am I the ******* child
Are you black and racist
Or is this your other personality coming alive
Just releasing some hate you had stored up for me
To far gone to quit
My white flag is red
To far gone to come back
My will is dead
My head fried like an egg on those old this your brain on drugs ad campaigns
This sub **** is not for a dom
I'm leaving you like Jesus left earth for heaven
Moving on to better
Que up the tears and practice telling someone how you miss me
These ears are deaf to your ****
And these eyes are no longer blind to your ****
My feelings won't allow me to continue letting you get away with your ****
It's been going on for to long so it's about time I put a end to this *******
Feedback is always appeciate

— The End —