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My corner piece of mind,
is all that I can find,
when i look for a reason,
to pass this unhealthy treason,
so that my heart might realign.
Confinement is refined,
along a static spine,
my body's so warm and yet I'm freezing,
at times I sit, dealing with being,
each thought of mine is fined.
I need a change of season,
that can give me just one reason,
to take me up, to show me blankness,
is not a faithless shed from clearness,
nor a sign that you have weakened-
All feedback is welcome and appreciated!
janelflorendx Sep 2018
then suddenly, he was there, stuck and stringed on my mind,  pieces by pieces picturing us, a poignant lady, involves a troubleless subtle man who always has something to find,  never have i though imaginations could happen and be this defined

kisses i yearn every shot of *****. laughs i ought to see but pretend as if an uninterested someone i can be.

hugs i want to steal from your back eveytime i see you washing dishes, what allure do you got that suddenly made me felt like a maniac


your fingers sliding on my face buried by messy hair, emotions held for so long, resisted in so many ways, but there we just went bare, kissing in a gloomy night,
we didn't mind being aware

baby were you happy when u said it was all just for fun, or were u just drunk and spun?

i was left conjecturing words that came to me as a command, command  not to give a slightest care, banish the memoir for it was only a sinful tear.

how can i forget if heat from your body left lingering on my heart. tingy feeling of longingness and resistance, will this romance be just an endless glance, wont there be any chance?

oh i wish i could do something to set this confusion and love apart. ill always see you more than a man and a fragment of an art. please do know i will always love you from afar
for a moment there, in that four corners, i felt peace.
CK Baker Feb 2017
late night by the holland sill
white framed and frilled
alongside the meadow
down by the grand
where cat fish
and cow pies
and silly yellow bees
make their stay

there are swings now
and an empty barn
(with quiet corners
and broken walls)
echoing chambers
that speak to the past
...and little dogs
not big ones

the plaster cracks
and wheat sways
from a warm west wind
it’s about time
for that late afternoon pour
you know how it cleans the soul
old percy would say

and flanders
the holder of those pigs
who fed us good
with sow and milk
as we plowed the
dusty fields
into the
hot summer sun

i can still hear the screams
of river dreams
the grand slams
and flints run dry
the barks
and breaks
and bends
a world past
with forbes
and dolls
and crab apple trees

think i’ll take a trip
up the back lane

they’ve cut the brush
and opened the line
chichee Dec 2018
Lovely unpretentious silhouette
all bruised under dusklight.
You've got a laugh like
Honey-gold
spilling into
cracks in the pavement
I could walk you back
to the station.


Don't rush this, fool
Box this ((something)) up in it's
corners.

Keep those
Five centimetres between our fingers.
Inevitable distance.
I'll worship you behind
bulletproof glass.
Not yet, not yet

We love in fractions,
dripping into our hearts until it
spills over.
An Ode to the Early Days, when anything seems possible.
Inspiration from Station by Låpsley
Shane Leigh Jan 2018
This is not poetry,
and this is not heartstrings
playing sad lullabies
in the deep spaces of your mind.

This is not poetic;
this is not reading
stanza after stanza
wanting to know what's at the end.

This is not rhythmic,
nor sensual or smooth,
nor is it flowing like words should
from the tongues of those
that know which words to use.

This is simple.
These are words
that make sense
without peaking around corners
or hiding behind luscious similes
or over-used metaphors
and out of touch symbolism.

If this is not poetry,
then
I refuse to dub myself
a poet
and will continue on,
but write prose instead.
© Shane Leigh
Enjoy (:
sara Jul 2018
I wipe marker off the board, and
I have a painful tendency of quickly growing bored.
I can't erase the ink-spots lingering
in high-up corners;
to spare the self-defeat, I teach myself how to ignore them.

Ignore the marks, and stains, and pains
pretend I'm wiped clean, all the same
with little left to lose or gain:
I leave them; growth is self-restraint.

Perfection is a non-existent notion,
so they say;
yet, unobtainability is all I can create.
For in my mind, these false ideals make tame desires stray,
and self-destructive pleasure is my antidote to pain.

I think I'm like a little plant
of stunted growth, just seeds to start,
my plantpot made from breaking hearts:
before I grow, I say I can't.
Before we accept something we must first wholeheartedly reject it.
/////
like England winning the world cup lol

////
Joking, I just use humor to mask my emotions x
CK Baker Mar 2017
there’s a barnacle scar
deeply ingrained
on the basalt stack
at mark thirty two
whispering summer winds
scented oil
cotton and roe
drift
as waves brush
and shape
the sandstone shore

the briny air
and lost erratic
set a tone to this
pollyanna portrait
it's andrews undulations
and gifted benches
its concessions
and traces of the barry burn
its sculpted driftwood
and sanko lines
make this picture
almost perfect

children play
as venom spews
from the caterwaul pair
those odd looking mates
casting smiles
with arrested despair
settling shots
swiping bugs
dipping and darting
as photo men
and muscles
and long neck seabirds
make their turn

the hunched hoody
and his sorted sidekick
get their fill
(of moss and rubble ~ chubby and kelp)
nice to meet your acquaintance
the pho man would say
an odd drop
and ironic turn
from those horrific corners
of timeless desperation
down by cannon bridge

harbor seals
and carriage horse
are fronted by
raven shade
jolly tides pause
in quiet bays
(with curious looters
and *** pickers)
sand merchants
and field totems
all streamed by the light

cirrus strands
blanket the
outer edge
hovering craft
and shimmering willows
bolt the evening frame
blood orange
and tethered
with a filtered glare
bottle-nose dolphins
and seabirds
(and shifting tides)
are all settling in
for the long night stay
Cindra Carr Jun 2011
The blood loses its grip as the dreams of fire flow closer.
Alain’s face fills the gap my heart created with her dying breath.
I’ve lost hope more often than I’ve kept count.
Each moment slipped her away.
Every stranger’s touch faded the fresh memory of her breath upon my cheek.

Her heart was mine to the last moment.
Her blood pumped away wetting the field of battle.
I dreaded each day I woke knowing she was gone.
Time would not heal my wound.
It scarred and built numb spots of deadness.
It made it harder to feel.

I will see her.
I will touch her face in wonderment.
I will kiss the corners of her smile.
May the Mother help me.
Alain is waiting.
And I am looking for her.

cc2011
Eléa Jan 7
and if i stayed hidden
and if it meant a world to me
anyway with my light i can see:

in your slow steps, in the
quick that you try to disable,
the lines of your face, your
dragging elbows

each crinkle tells me, as you stand
underneath me
how you love, and discern,
how you smell the poetry of
carpet squiggles

your skin already; marks the
way you stand on tip toes, if some one
asks you -- with joy, relief
with questioning grief

and if it's so much the last;
you cant stand enough to touch

i'll laugh; *
and all my little
dotted rays, will reach you

and your elbows will start dancing beside you
and finally you'll see
each part of you is full of joy
each ; and you
can; i imagine
         have release
ArielMarriel Aug 2018
Why does poetry haunt me?
What does it want from me?
It lurks in the corners of my head.
It hides under the bed.

It whispers in the night so I can’t sleep.
It torments, taunts and creeps.

It used to be so innocent.
But not anymore.

I fear poetry is becoming
something I abhor.
**** you, poetry.
King Panda Oct 2015
found
grounded bird closed in
ribboned-box and buried
underneath a willow snapped back
to finally relax
to decompose and nourish
by the lake in drooping shade
the felled leaves pile
candy wrappers gray snow in
parking lot corners
with pumpkin spice scented candles
with charred letters skirling up
the arm dropped to sizzle and puff out
white beanies
flannels
leather boots and jangly bronze-leafed wind chimes
I sit on the patio and listen to you speak
the chill of your words
perched like a squirrel barking on a fence top
hibernation preparation and breeze
the gospel of your autumn

it’s lovely.
Debbie Brindley Aug 2018
Shattered shards of broken
hearts
crumble to dust
As ghosts of yesterday lurk in the corners
memories of passion and ****
Dust drifts gently through the
atmosphere
Caressing stars as they pass so bright so clear
Jenay Jarvis Feb 2013
So again- the thoughts,

they drifted and tumbled,

like roots

into the corners of my mind.

Like city cracks,

they break through cement-

forcing themselves downward.

Things pour out that way.

Last minute thoughts;

the insecure earth.

I look towards the sun;

yet,

I stay grounded.

I wish for skies,

stars,

galaxies…

*I would open my mouth,

but you’d only see dirt.
patty m Jan 2018
Through the Looking glass
Alice stands in all her splendor.
Her hair a curtain of silver rain,
her soft skin aglow in subliminal light.

A compelling fever rises
as Thomas tries different ways to pull
her up in memory
while writing himself into the tale.  
Poor Thomas delirious in his dilemma, he knows
this will be no easy seduction.  
How fiercely urgent his desire rises
as he longs to end our heroine's self-imposed abstinence.  

Hot April morning ambush,
and our intruder has beguiled our sweet Alice
with heated kisses sweeter than ripened fruit.  
A wildness stirs in the bloodstream.  
Now he slowly and lovingly explores her pristine body
as she shivers beneath his delicate strokes
until high trills rise to fevered pitch.

Pleated line of sky
muted corners softly come into focus.

Loathe to let her go,
passion stirs in his depths
slowly now he tastes her secrets,  shares her pleasure.

Tight buds of anticipation tenderly plucked,
his fingers find the stem, a measure of moisture;
Nimble fingered harmonies play pleasure symphonies
accompanied by soft echoes of youthful delight  
Warm and breathless, crystal rainbows paint the inside of her eyelids as she grows sleepy in afterglow.

Soon he's torn away, his pale poet's face conveying pain
received from this  now cool disconcerting beauty;
Though he touched folds and frills of every petal,
his chapter is immediately erased and the
original story reappears.  

She may have slipped down the rabbit hole,
but forever ladylike and pure is our sweet Alice.
There was a tiny tea light somewhat hid and tucked away
Was lost; To be forgotten in dark corners of my brain
The other day you called me breathing into it new life
A weak and dying flame now once again stood strong and bright

Tried quelling it with reason; Doused with plenty rationale
No matter what I threw at it would not leave or dispel
Use thoughts as tools or weapons; They are thrown out by the mind
Attempting to slice through the bonds to flame the heart did bind

But no where in my cognition is something quite that tough
In any way could **** that flame or from these bonds be cut
This statement even would be true the weakest of its days
But as I'm talking to you with each word you fan the flame

Was living out a lie and yet was unbeknownst to me
I thought my love for you could die if left and just let be
However, now I know too well this lasting present truth
My eyes saw you and ever since, I've been in love with you
Written: October 23, 2018

All rights reserved.
[Iambic Heptameter format]
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