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Rachel Rode Sep 2016
don’t tell me that you will love me forever
don’t promise me the world
don’t tell me that my eyes are like stars
don’t call me yours
despite the sincerity in your eyes
these are just brittle lies
and you will break my heart like all the rest
because there is no such thing as big love
there are no soul mates
there is no grand plan for the great escape
so i will not tell you i will love you forever
i will not promise you the world
i will not tell you that your eyes are like stars
and i will not call you mine
and when you leave
maybe it won’t break my heart
This woman speaks in tongues
Foreign languages roll from her mouth
Like summer fog ladled over the rim
Of Candlestick Park
In the not-so-distant
Far far away of long long ago

This woman speaks in rotund sentences
Effulgent with vocabulary
That shimmers with the electrified joy
Of lights over Ghirardelli Square
In the not-so-darkness
Of the clammy and cabalistic night

This woman speaks with her hands
Impresciable, implacable, and inconsolable
As she tries to mold untranslatable words
From air that is as thin
As the promises she’d preferred
And purchased with the shards of her heart

This woman speaks in lyrics
Arpeggios of adjectives and alliteration
That tumble acrobatically with the intricacy
And grace
Of a hummingbird in spring
On the kiss of a blossom
Rich and fragrant and giving as
This woman speaking in tongues
The Anybodies May 2015
Quiero que me mires con esos ojos
Esos ojos negros y profundos.

Quiero que me beses con esos labios
Esos labios que repiten mi nombre entre suaves suspiros.

Quiero que me toques con esas manos
Y que no toques a nadie más.
Arianna Nov 2018
Pizzicato brainwaves
Oscillate across the table,
A nervous duet
For piano and harp.

How close!

Can you feel
The quaking of my heart
Changing tempo:

Subsiding sweetly to adagio,


          ­              Affetuoso

Skin to skin
From my fingers,
Inching andante
Into yours...
A follow-up/"Part II" to an older poem. :-)
Madison Aug 2018
Not all depressed cut,
Not all sad shed tears,
Not all strong fight,
Not all monsters roar,
Not all young are innocent.
Some just work harder to maintain a mask.
We are here,
And you have reason to fear,
We are the best liars,
We can manipulate the greatest con artist without batting an eyelash.
Watch out we are coming.
This is a dark and serious p poem but that didn't change the fact that In was tempted to put "and we're *****" instead of " And you have reason to fear" ****
city of flips Jul 2018
wants to be my friend, for I am poet-woman nineteen.

she is sweet but sad. super sad.

a good poet who wants to guide me.

but there/theirs is the odor, not faint, of wants wanting,
the pus of corruption behind the curtains,
the Wizard-ess of Oz's
special blackout curtains.

seen how easy, how her illusions,
my medium rare rejections,
morph into her delusions,

and her delusions devolve into
her conspiracy theories.

"SHE will be my mentor, poetess lover, teacher for no charge!"

my parents thinks it's great, she wants (to be) skin in my game.

my parents will find this poem accidentally, exactly,

how I do not want
to be skinned alive.

for I am poet-woman nineteen and still! now, long past
the point of being fooled, the point of no return.

and see no point,
have no intention,
of returning to either valley

no more con the my mind into letting my body

that ain't me babe.
Lore and Legend Oct 2018
Contentment: a state of happiness and satisfaction

Here again I find myself
Always longing, always seeking
Trying to add myself to life's bookshelf

Even when I obtain what I think I want
And it seems I should be happy where I am
Some OTHER longing shows its face and taunts

I ever find myself straining at the bit
Seeking something I cannot find
Forever feeding the fire ambitiously lit

But maybe what I have is beautiful to see
Maybe I should pause a moment and reflect
On all the joyous blessings already given to me
No matter where you are and what you are longing for, always remember where you started and how far you have come.
Arianna Oct 2018
It pulses and twitches like a nervous heartbeat,

The throb
Of your fingers

Tapping an absentminded concerto
Against the mahogany,


With the throb of my own

Fluttering disquiet ⸺

Palms outstretched
Taut, tense, and waiting
At the bass-line below the table

To catch the tempo of your consciousness
On the harp strings of my fingertips.
A combination of some random jottings I made awhile ago and reworked into one text.
onlylovepoetry Mar 2018
Friday night immodesty

theater on East 4th street @ 8:00pm,
so the girlie stuff commences on schedule
90 minuets a-priori and the medley music
(adele+amy+alicia+ pink bach for some zing)
a harbinger, a pioneer Greek heralding of
Friday night immodesty

the clothes laid out upon the bed, the shoes,
pumps selected and already on,
(always a puzzler to me,)
the subdued lower east side jewelry possibilities,
on the dresser drawer,
indifferently hoping for selection, but
casually beaming quietly,
like those kids waiting for interviews in the waiting room
of the college Admissions Dean’s office,
all with serious smiles
and tiny tearing eyes

helloooooo, I am in a poetry polo with my best jeans ready to go
2 hours before the curtain calls out,

she sits at the makeup mirrored desk,
clad in only her underneath garments of varying utility,
when I sweep in imperially
and with one hand twist gentle her hair upwards,
her neck nape which is again
the sujet of a poem aborning

like a Greek lyre strings, pluck, the tiny hid hairs never seen,
her instant moans at the never fully expected motion poem,
beg more mercy but no quarter given despite repeated cries
of you’ll mess my makeup,
the best defense known to a lady!

god gave men two thumbs to lift up,
simultaneously stimulating,
slide down each of the thin black brasserie strap invitations,
upon each, a writ,
upon her flesh colored shoulders,
“what was she thinking!”

my lips,
now polar explorers, those power (filled) poles side by side,
(east/west for the designer was a smart
bipolar guy-person);
the lips play silent night progressive jazz,
tinkling with higher noted keys,
nape to shoulders moving down to the back’s prefrontal lobe,
the small of her back, the body’s quivering,
a con-federate flag of surrender

her last defense swept aside, we drink honey and milk,
celebrate the week’s mellifluous finish with immodest touching,
the lower east side will belong tonite
to only the hipsters, the millennials,
as our hips are milling and  otherwise
pre-theater and post, occupado

some hours later, watching TV and eating delivered Chinese,
she laterally and literally arm punches my arm
intensely to mark her discontent,
still annoyed,
for I

1) messed up her makeup,
2) best blouse to the dry cleaner and
3) the tickets wasted, and worse,
hits me again!

after I laugh and giggle upon proffering
most modestly, most assuredly,
seconds of

9.21am Saturday
thank you all who liked this tale of
the poetry in the details
of our lives.
ryn Jan 2015
             *the *future is...a tornado of uncertain-
          ty• a swirling vortex, in its centre is
me•such power and speed, can ne-
ver see•can never foretell, it's hid-  
den debris•like clockwork, it will        
   make contact•by the second, bra-        
cing for next impact•the past is...      
  yet another•wild winds that echo      
     my mistakes as reminder•this twis-         
      ter within...tearing with no remo-    
           rse•destroying confident strong-
             holds, breaking feebly boarded
           doors•can't ease the
    en from the inside•won't stop beating heart had
        died•the present is...only this  
   frail little body•fighting huge 
battles that come incessantly  
  •fending off the future, con-        
    taining the past•not know-            
ing how long.......this disas-       
ter would last•but I'm still      
   here.....still holding integ-         
   rity......•still fighting this       
war waged in history's        
folly•will i be settl-
ed? will the winds
ever abate?•
will i ever
      come to    
will i
ryn Feb 2015
       o    (              (             (                  
O   )     (                      )        
            )                (      o
    (              (      (                       O  
   )     o              )   O       )        o
(    O              (     o      (         ) 
)    o                              )    (
**make me a cauldron of a witch's
brew•let it bubble and boil...;
simmer and stew• allow the con-
coction to churn•feed it with raw an-
guish and spiteful spurn•whisper my wi-
shes into shady ingredients•scatter them in
to render it potent•stir it wild...with an iron
ladle with a wooden haft•raucous incanta-
tions of a long forgotten craft• give
me a vial of the witch's brew•let it
**** me or grant me the gifts
promised in lieu•
Shamans, in an attempt to find a word that all cultures could understand, to represent, universally, the subject; married the languages by root.

Each attribute or thing that the beast is said to do, have or have power to do or over is found as a definition in a language of the individual roots.

Take Sanskrit for instance. "Dra," is "water and combine it with Sumerian, "Gun, Gon," and you get a "water-born," beast who "writhes, twists or wraps around," which is the Ouroboros Serpent as shown in ancient images.

The secret to all ancient myth or religion is in interpretation of language into foreign languages over time.

And, yes, it is very creative, appears complex due to time but is just humans trying to describe observable nature.

None of it is meant to be taken literally unless you literally live six thousand years ago and speak in an ancient tongue.


Keltic, "Con, Kon," makes the Dragon, "All-knowing." *

And we know from Plato that Greeks
stole their root words from the Celts.
Plato's own words in,

'The Cratylus.'
All mythology is born from the language of trade and existed as a pre-science.
M Suárez Jan 2012
Piensas en el ayer
El ayer en diamante
Lágrimas de oro
Anhelos de piedras preciosas
La voz diurna
Las miradas suicidas
El olor centelleante
El tacto preciso
El gusto con la lengua seca
Y crees que fue una pesadilla
Un amargo café al que olvidaste,
- sin querer - ponerle azúcar
Un olor a quemado,
de una fuente imprecisa,
pero cercana.
Los dedos entumecidos,
de tanto cansancio.
La vista nublada, perenne, constante
sin significado alguno.
La garganta irritada, rasposa,
de no ahorrar las palabras.
Eres un espejismo para tus ojos
No existes
Solo piensas que tal vez
Una vez más
¡Gracias a Héctor por ayudarme con el título!
The Anybodies Jun 2015
Hubiera deseado que las conversaciones duraran más, que los minutos pasaran más lento, que se volvieran horas a tu lado.
Porque aún puedo escuchar tu voz de madrugada entre sueños, confundiendo la realidad... diciendo tu nombre entre suspiros entrecortados.

¿Por qué se siente así la soledad? Tan cruel y abrumadora, porque todos en algún momento le tememos.
Nos quedamos con la última palabra y sin aliento para pronunciarla.

Guardamos nuestros secretos, y después de un tiempo se vuelven un nudo en la garganta.
El dolor es bello... drogarme con tu recuerdo también lo es.
The Anybodies Jul 2015
Esperar... ¿Cuánto?

¿A veces no has pensado que mis palabras son como cuchillos atravesando tu alma?
Porque no piensas que el tiempo no es cura para el dolor, menos remedio para el rechazo.
Es como susurrar contra tu propia sombra, qué tan solo te sientes.
Es a veces llenar el dolor con una falsa sonrisa, como gritar en un lugar donde nadie te escucha y estar solo para que nadie entienda cuánto sufres.

                                                        ­                 - Bryan Fuentes
The Anybodies Jan 2017
hace falta papel
hace falta tinta
las letras brotan solas
hacen falta horas

          alma salvaje y nocturna
          merodeadora impaciente
          que niega entregarse
          a un Morfeo ausente

    tristeza que evoca al dolor
    que evoca al sufrimiento
    donde el osado se regodea
    al leer las palabras impresas
    no con tinta negra
    sino con lágrimas y sangre
    de un simple ser

                                                  no será la primera vez
                                                  que el osado se desvela
                                                  un dolor igual
                                                  al pago de su sacrificio
                                                  por entrever los sentimientos
                                                  del que también fue osado

          la noche nuestra musa
          misteriosa y atractiva
          como canto de sirena
          belleza de los mares

por siempre devota
mi alma a tu luna
antaña luz
a tu filosofía oscura

                                                  profeta­ milenaria
                                                  de adorno espectral
                                                  poema­ interminable
                                                  co­n descanso finito

    canción y plegaria
    llanto escrito
    llévate mi corazón
    y deja mi alma
    triste hasta el alba
Mi alma de viento
mi cuerpo de papel.
mis manos arrugadas
mi piel blanca.

Soy de papel,
papel doblado,
papel de regalo,
mis labios coloreados
mis ojos café,
mi cuerpo tatuado
de versos ajenos
y otros privados.

Soy de papel
un poco desgastado.

Me han escrito en la espalda
mensajes que no logro ver,
me han cortado con tijeras
y me he arrugado con el tiempo.
Me han besado
y me han dejado las marcas del labial,
hay quienes  leyeron mi alma descrita en prosa.

Pero se han ido, se han borrado
eso que con tanta pasión
un día nos unió.

Soy de papel,
papel de regalo,
papel de un cuaderno
Christian Ek Feb 2016
This is classico amor, un amor con mucho valor.
Como tequila y limón, este amor tiene un poderoso sabor.
Baby you make me feel passionate like listening to a Vicente Fernandez song and you feel it hit you in your Core.
Everyday is Valentine's s Day when I'm with you.
Everyday I appreciate you.
You know how much I love to sing to you, how much I like to express how I feel through music and poetry.
Princesa, yo soy tu Guerrero De Amor, el único que sabe como quererte fuerte y suavecito.
city of flips May 2018
please be impatient with me for I am Female, Age 19   Please be impatient with me.  Three quarters woman in a body, a quartered quartet.  The crying viola, off tempo, present but unavailable.  The boys want me. The men, more, more.  The women most of all.  The American Girl dolls on the shelf dusty, witnesses to all my demander’s impatience to take, to own, possess & desire my poses all to pleasure them, wanting  many morsos (small bites).  
Then, when discarded, my body reeks of
con-f u s i o n.  A perfect conjugation,  an imperfect conjunction;  Conning my mind into letting my body be-fused.  

The dolls weep real tears in the city of my mind;  flipping out, they too, are impatient with me, and flip me off for they have no good words to express their utter chagrin.
steel tulips Jun 2016
te adoro en luz sandia, y luz zapote
en el amanecer y a caer el sol
te amare con viento caliente en los días largos del verano.
en esas mismas noches cortas y calladas, te dire como un suspiro lo tanto que te quiero.
te pensare en los días grises de invierno. cuando el pavimento y  el cielo se comen el horizonte.
te estrañare con el olor de lluvia en el prado
y yo te sigo adorando cuando las hojas color candela caen de los brazos de arboles canzados

*I love you in watermelon  and blood orange light,
at sun rise and sunset. i will love you on those long summer days, on these same nights short and quiet
i will tell you like a exhaling breath how much i really love you.
I will think of you on winter days so grey  the pavement and the sky eat the horizon.
I will miss you with the smell of fresh rain on blades of grass, and i will keep loving you when the flame coloured leaves fall from tired arms of trees.
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