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David Watt Dec 2012
Bound to a memory thats quickly fading,
Your on your knees deperately praying.
Keep the past so crisp and clear,
So the pain keeps raw the hopless fear.

Take your pleeding to a higher might,
One with boundless un-clouded sight.
To Keep you locked in this eternal moment,
Making time cease being your torturous opponent.

Lost in his eyes seconds so splendid.
Defy every whim that fate intended.
For in two days your eyes will close,
Never to bring his cheeks to that subtle rose.

Kiss a smile that makes you quake,
deep down knowing every coming mistake.
For on this morning that you remember,
A fury burned in you as red as embers.

Words were said that you can't unsay,
Your temper could not abate this fray,
On the road that was slick with ice
Blood red rivers ran in a sickening slice.

The lights went out and the world got colder,
The ice moved in ever the bolder.
I miss your eyes that warmed me to my centre,
Now ever sore and fetid from this haunting splinter.
Skye Marshmallow Sep 2017
Standing there,
Light bouncing gracefully,
Off your auburn hair,
You are more than I could ever imagine,
You might be when we first met,
But now you're here,
And I let you have all my secrets without a thought

You are never far, always near
In case I ever (always) need you,
You don't tell me you love me,
And nor do I to you,
Simply because we don't need words to see it

We fight for each other,
Defend till the very last breath,
And cover the charcoal tracks,
Of acts maybe we shouldn't of commit,
We gift each other with smiles and laughter,
And acts of care not visible to the passerby,
But that can be seen bright and colourful in our eyes

We share endless calls sitting on bedroom floors,
Scattered with reminders of each others presence,
Lent books, borrowed clothes and past birthday presents,
All coloured in by you

You're not a loud bang of care,
But a quiet friend who is always there,
Whether I need you deperately or not,
So don't think you'll ever be forgot,
By those who paint in gold,
And who's love is told,
Because though they are magical,
And light up unknown fires inside of me,
You will always be the glowing orange,
And even in the background,
I'll still hear you just as loud.
An ode to the old friends...
KAT COLE Mar 2017
its like walking in to a dak woom with no lights room and deperately looking for a light swiththat isn't there.
Like chiking on every word you say, terrifie of the resoce that spills through your ****** cracks=ed lips.
I cant close my eyes.
i see nothng at all.
I feel it all.
Everthing in its place that;s not supposed to be there.
walls necorted wall decortate with fist chaped wholesand shatter glass judt lkr nre carpet.
I close my eye and i see his face.
All of the face.
His long beard cover in whiskey, her thin hair, the way she said, "im going to kiss you  like adults do."
It swollows me whole.
It take my minutes, my hours, my days stripped away from me.
I am nothing to be to be cared for,
I am nothing but dissasociated mindlessness.
You stole it all from me.
Every part of me was ripped away like fragibe bir bines.
Drape me in this body bag of satin sheets.
I'm too sick. Like a flu in my mid.
there is not cure.
Daan Dec 2014
On big days like these I think
extra hard and long about the meaning
of a song or the missing link,
the mystery that's leaning
in and whispering closely to your ear.
So very quiet but just loud enough for you to hear.
Do it, is what it says. And you get conscious,
you get a little curious. Furiously do you
want to know.

And when you find it
you deperately want to show, all and anyone
what it is, this marvelous revelation,
this heartstimulating, sensational relation.
The connection that you seem to see
it's personal and means more than anything to me.

All the unfitting things that take over apart
from this concept, kept ruining the troubly vision
that you have. Faith was losing to the misperception
of this world.

I miss you, lover, I miss you, family,
I miss you, friend and stranger, hovering
closer and closer to me. I'll miss you but you're free.

They don't understand, but why would they.
They live without the burden, the outcast feeling
that you have or do they hide it, I don't know.

I miss you, stranger, why'd you have to go?
Luca C Sep 2019
Maybe I'm tired.
What if I told you I couldn't remember the last time I've gotten more than seven hourse of sleep?
Would you believe me?
I could be lying to you.
I could be lying about staying up, starring at my ceiling with bloodshot eyes, thinking about what a girl, with purple hair and a heart, that once used to be so cold, told me words that i never wanted to hear.
Even if it might have only been in a dream
Evenifitdidntmakemefeelanything
Imtootired
Tofeelanything
M­aybe you'd believe me if I described it with intricate detail?
How
The air was cold and the blanket I slept with didnt quite cover my shoulders or my feet
How the coldness touching my skin
Just matched the temperature
Inside my chest
and how
The side of my bed dipped from
Broken metal springs
Just like my bones
That felt close to dust
Because of the exhaustion
Dripping
Off of my being
How
the red numbers on my alarm clock were six minutes too far
From the present
and
How the metal rings on my right hand
Cut into
My skin
But not enough to break the surface
How the hours passed
And i did not blink
I could not look
Away
From the glowing stars I so oh
Deperately wanted to return to
To recycle myself into this earth
And maybe have a slight chance
Of giving back
Some
Of all that I have taken from it
If
It meant
I wouldnt be so tired
But I could be lying.
I could be.
What if I am?
If I told you I was, would you believe me?
Maybe not
Because only someone who has felt like that can put it into pretty words? So I musnt be lying?
This is the age of sin. But you choose the lens you look at the world through
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
god... don't you just love
the ones with subtle ridicule reflexes
in speech?
   only half an hour ago
i was picking beer from
a supermarket open fridge,
testing it against my cheeck
for the proper temp.
when being asked by
   the shelf-stacker
        to pursue his venture
  into stacking: making the bottles,
by labels, aligned...
   well... i was actually dipping
my hand into the back of
the fridge that: upon pressing
against my cheek
    were, the proper temp.;
ah... the bottles...
   corona... mexican beer...
and i do wish i could carry
a knife, to then buy a lime,
   and shove it down the bottle neck,
like...
           the guy who died
from suffocating on an oyster...
drinking in public...
   you mean... england...
in an area where there was
a stabbing incident,
  on the pave that i walk...
and i'm alone...
walking the streets at night...
and i'm glug-glug-glug
halfway down a bottle a beer...
anti-social?!
        ****... lay-deez und grunts!
we've arrived at mars!
   you're welcome.
   if this doesn't sell, i already know
that i'm broke...
            but you can't exactly
call today, with this afternoon,
a normal day...
         my "cerberus" managed to find
a sparrow in the bushes...
   while cooking a prawn carbonara...
so i chased him to the end
of the garden and said: zostaw!
       maybe this writing is what it's
supposed to be...
          i can't manage to comprehend
what happened after...
it's not exactly chicken farming...
out of curiosity...
       ever held a dying sparrow
in your hand?
        ever tried the vain attempt of,
first: ensuring the cat dropped its
play-toy,
      secondly: ease a bathroom tap
and implore (unconsciously)
   for the bird to take a sip?
oh... i forgot... big people deal
     with watching old people die...
or maybe just the odd Cain
mad on introducing euthanasia laws...
because... did that *******
of a grandson ever listen to
his grandfather talk ******* for
an hour and hid a yawn?
       sure as ****, some of them made
it into safer hands than familial
ties would ever allow...
      death by a synthesis of ******...
or its equivalent...
          but did p'ooh bear nanny
ever get a visit fwom her
            p'ooh bear grandchild?
evidently post-mortem doesn't
allow "care" to be discussed in journalism...
see...
          i remember that
hamster i was fooled into dropping
believing it could fly...
   but this sparrow i held in
my hand...
           seeing it transition from
shock...
       closed eyes...
   to a momentary state of surprise...
eager to sip the water flowing down
the bathroom tap...
             come to think of it...
it might have drowned from
taking a sip...
       as you do...
               little into the lungs and...
****!
          but when i shouted the cat
to drop it...
                   a secondary excavation:
can't change that machine of
utility...
       no matter how much you feed
it... the natural impetus is still there...
yet in my hand... a dying creature...
  and it literally started a spasmatic
last-resort mechanisation of
its body...
               a choking effect is
probably the best way to describe it...
   it wasn't a mature sparrow,
god knows where the nest was
situated, but you could tell:
the beak... was still "fresh"...
      i.e. yellow...
          not bark stiff deep
brown mingling
                                         with grey...
the cat would have eaten it,
and i, oh so deperately wanted
to be a brooks hatlen...
    then i remembered the hanging...
ah yes... the pitiful life...
       plenty of them that are dead
who wouldn't think so...
       a sparrow dying in your hand
is no big thing...
       it's not an earthquake...
most certainly...
                  it's not even an attempt
to cry...
               it's unlike having petted
something that invokes
                 a loss of a part of you,
embedded in the animal...
      beside the sparrow...
                  and we seem to be on confessional
terms... sámāél...
     now i hold what you hold
in your right arm...
   the rite of passing: a birth, a life,
a marriage...
                            a death... and a wake...
albeit less within the constraints
for the care for man...
        but more: on the frivolous...
             jittery side of existential affairs...
sure as **** i burried the sparrow...
right next to where i burried
   my former night companion...
   having hacked off a piece of a tombstone,
having taken to use a shovel...
to actually invoke him
to set tone to a blooming plum tree...
   hard though...
holding such a trivial aspect of reality
in your hand...
        and watching it die...
     how does death even amount
to a conspiration, in such a microcosm
of a sparrow's body, beheld by a mere libra
of a hand...
                      with what i could hold
                                                    in my right?
i tended to,
        what expired...
          but upon seeing the agony:
i first wanted to see a quickened extinction
by crushing it with a stomp...
     but then i chanced an intimate
realisation of shared breath...
      no one really writes
poems about sparrows dying in their
hands...
                                   do they?
   apparently when death happens:
everyone is always elsewhere...
                        certainly those behind
typing desks.
   - because chickens i will eat
and i can ****...
              but sparrows?!
                            fowl eggs is one thing...
  but looking for sparrow eggs?!
             that's borderline sadism if
not, just that.
    - no!
        who has had
    a sparrow die in their hand?!

— The End —