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Logan Robertson Aug 2018
My little-lost friend
is that you I see
at times
sleeping on a park bench,
shopping carts
and effects anchored.
Homeless.
With your eyes holding shame,
brown and sad.
I can't help.
But see.
I see you inching,
inching along on the earth,
pitch black and poor,
weathered, severed
and dirtied.
Lost in time.
Mouth open.
Where open hands may be closed.
I do pass by you every morning,
thinking,
thinking of you.
As you drum your thumbs
to your own music,
in your own darkened world.
Where the albatross rest on your drooping shoulders,
as you piggyback what olive branches there are.
I can't help.
But think.
As you sit shrugging
in those same brown pants
and redshirt,
holding weeks of grime
and stench.
No doubt,
holding passerby's
casting eyes, thoughts
and conversation.
Sometimes,
I can't watch.
But hope.
Yes, hope and pray.
As you go looking into the pockets
of thrash,
digging for change,
literally,
hopefully,
three ways to paradise,
please,
yes, sir, please.
And maybe.
Just maybe.
You will find better
and parkgoers can use the bench again.
That would be a nice olive branch,
to give back,
my friend.

Logan Robertson

8/1/2018
He whispered
"The Supernovae
will strike
your thick bones
your tiny fingers
your frail body
it will wake
onto you."

He murmurs
with teeth-gnashing
hands clenching
"The Supernova
with pale-blue
Stardust
showers and purifies
one by one
even my
dirtied
eyes."
Type 1 and 2 (Supernova)
Graff1980 Sep 2018
A spark
unspoken,
heart reserved
burns for at token
it has not yet earned.

The dove
dirtied
by the dust
starts at the sound
of us,
and goes
shooting up.

Freedom
is the fiercest passion
unfettered by reason,
it is to live
in reactions.

I touch her skin.
My fingers gently move
across her curving collarbone.
With impassioned wit
I extoll
the virtues of
unrestrained lust.

Our thoughts burn bright
pushing us on
towards a scorching light
of devious delights.
It incites chaos
bringing destruction in its wake.

Though happiness reigns
for years and days
others feel a deep pain,
feel betrayed
or grieve the loss
of those they loved
who ran off.
Nathaniel Aug 3
Queue the laughter.

I'm building a justified war-
Sorry little animals dirtied and poor.
Eat portioned joy you faith-filled fools-
Soured with lemons tasting of ardor.

Perhaps my beast feels shame-
Wither my ego or find he to blame.
Sink the crescent ship below blue-
Fill the sea with smoke and flame.

The dark woods are a bear's back-
Smelling breaths of heady lilac-
Rummaged pines sticky with lines.
Here, there rest no lies or fact.

To let you know of what's today-
We are breaking the yoke in a brand new way.
Sword-toothed sharks battering at our waves-
Keeping the skeptic fish at bay.
Oh in the cave there's comedy is still being written, have a lot to release.
I have dirtied my hands
with the agony of faith.
Digging deep to find commitment,
smoothing soil to hide despair,
heaping mounds as facsimiles of evidence.

Add water, and dirt turns malleable.
I squeeze a human body out of the black clay,
breathe life into it,
then write my name in the residue;
mud covers all but the letter "A".
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.
Here lies a coiled ball of twine, mud, and dry dirt.
Soaked and cold
waiting to be held by a warm pair of hands,
but who could hold such a thing as this.  

It doesn't scream “practical” in a resourceful voice
nor does it mumble "beautiful" below its breath.

Maybe art, maybe someone will walk past it in an alley and think ART,
pull up some plastic crate from the back door of some neighboring restaurant, and surmise they ought to sit and contemplate it some more.

The longevity of thought could be employed, to elevate this alley clump. The red bricks, a red carpet leading to the dirtied yarn, who but it could hold service better than a priest.

a yarn grave marker
for the all the dirt clumps floating in your head and those tucked behind the pulmonary trunk.

There you could sit, and perhaps feel inclined enough to reach out and take it into your two palms.

Hold the thing few people might want to hold for fear of rethinking beauty.
Lauren Bloss Sep 2018
The sound of the blistering gunshots pound in my ringing ears,
Bringing on a headache of a thousand wounds,
Impenetrable by the outside force,

The sight of the innocent fallen colors from the opinions of others brought to a vicious reality and physicality that would slaughter the purest of souls,
Bringing fear that is everlasting and never forgotten in my mind that shall remain forever damaged,

The feeling and sense of the souls that hammer my barely beating heart,
My breath burning slower like a fire dying out,
I try and scream but all that would come was a faint and distant shout,

The uttermost terrifying taste of the foul air,
So bad that the puke climbing up to my throat shall retreat before execution,
I mutter to myself This is not fair"

The most agony and torment any individual may be so unfortunate as to experience,
The smell of the rage and the misery filling my nostrils as I try to keep striving for what I have arrived here for,

Before I stand once again I notice the blood on my dirtied and culpable hands,

I fall to the ground so lost that I have forgotten to feel the unforgiving wound in my chest,
The guilt stabbed harder than any bullet ever could and ever would,
And as I took my final breath I vowed to myself,
To never fight over opinion and shame ever again,
Or I shall die once and for all.
This is a metaphor, however, I wrote this to allow you to decide how you interpret it.
Bryce May 13
Standing upon these novel halls
The man, waiting
Seeks temperance and a kindness from God

He says,

"Give to me the gift of your knowledge and I will smite your enemy--rebuild the garden and replace those fruits long lost"

And his request echoes impotent through a voiceless hall

He cries, wails, churns and smashes
his dirtied knuckles on the walls

He yells, buckles, whines and sputters
Choked and lost in miserable,

The flanking rooms locked and dark
With constant voicing, gently call

"Who upon ye has the gall,
to name me Father"

And he is quiet.

------

In Moscow the Siberian fall grips the air
A wandering Dostoyevsky speaks in exhalations to the crack of gunshot in the dawn

A brief tightening of callous rope around his dry poetic throat

And at once his words sought to cull
the exquisite embers of furious retort

And he is silent.

----

The kindness of a failing city-state
Conveyed on the precipice of a bay
Jack teethed his frantic dharmas
And said to Them,

"What terminus of road
Would ever serve my unwinding soul?"

And as his gut trembled a final thought,
His eyes turned skyward, above the clouds

Where it was silent.

----

Dorigen, repenting the patient shores of tranquil sea
Accusing the chalk of its blackened soul
Traces the subtle dance of gulls
As their drowning feathers face these ageless things
whysper'd deep upon the winds

And she is Silent.

---

Basho, with a wanderer's grin
In solumn steps between the grains
Shades the path of unfamiliar road
And every poem steeped within

Where clouds are soft, where crickets sing
Past warbling stream with cadence grim
The Dao, leading ever onward

Says to him,

"Like water, do I rain."

---

Milton, his misted eyes
No light to guide their failed sight
Trace an ancient knowing glance
To Crown, his subtle circumstance

No soul in life
could see the might
Who gave this man his funeral rites

And when his words fall deaf at last
On his forgotten time and wishful past

He will stare deep into an inky void
And see
The stars for what they are:

Light, dispersed between the dark.

---

In the waning tide of Cresent lune
Twilight casts a gentle hue
Below the hill the city glows
The Palatine, gold and new

The ides, with consequence they come
And with them carry the will be done
Augustus' silent retinue of one
Notes a sky of draining sun

For Rome claws at all of Gaia's *******
And from sea to mount and desert dune
Ancient Africa, nascent Gaul
To Rome, will they forever fall

In darkness, the Palatine shadow loomed
Over web of flame-lit avenue

For the roads all led to Rome that night
For one small moment God guessed right

Cesar's legions on the fields of Mars
Clashed swords and drank to their Centurions
As an Era waited to see the dawn
And new blood to baptize the marbled Columns

And in the farms
beyond Rome,
The shepherds walked their sheep to rest
Where families returned to their homes
With stories of the day's parades and jests

And in the time
Between the days
When Rome slept and the crickets mated
The world was cast in velvet night
Lighted solely by constellation

And in that moment
God became
silent.
---
Nyx Oct 2018
Photographs of naked bodies
Positioned across a bed
Seducing one other
By the gleam in our eyes
Dressed with the desirable color of red
Our lips dripping with pure lust
Forever but a mere inch away
Eternally unreachable
As pretend is what we like to play
Trace the outline of my body
Feel the softness of my skin
Dine upon the devils wishes
Give in to this lustful sin
Embrace the coldness of the night
Be intoxicated by our heat
Eyes glazed over from this dream
Slowly lose your willingness to fight
Taste the sweetness upon your tongue
Allow us to quench your thirst
But once you taste heaven gates
You will eternally be cursed
Drunken off the beating sound
Of our hearts within perfect synch
Pleasure induced by feeling Pain
Holding on tighter to that chain
Bruises and bite marks
Littering the skin
Relinquish your demons
Fall captive to that sinners grin
Harsh whispers in the dark
Lips pressed against your neck
Tempt me with such sins
my darling

My dear the night has only begun
Decipher what you truly want
As it seems our game of play is done
Both lost within an ecstatic dream
It appears that neither of us have won
Dirtied souls are all that are left
Without meaning or for reason
What have we done?
an echoing question
The devil replies with a taunting voice
My darling you have become undone
With a sly grin he walks away
Eroding into the dark of night
While the tainted souls
Together with their hands holding tight
A game that they were destined to lose
We have danced with the devil tonight
And it appears he has won.



~
It was a late night and the words were just coming to mind
So I ended up stringing this odd piece together
Keyan R Oct 2018
I know you're trying to forget
The lonely words we spoke
With no discussion of repercussions
Phrases that clung to our skin
That daring sin that dirtied our souls
Let me clear my throat

I don't know if it's that I regret it
But the memory still lingers
You told me that I was one of the people you wanted to meet the most
Touching lips, fingertips on more than just hips as we rocked the boat
We overwhelmed each other in more ways than one
And you got what you needed

We retreated to our own lives
Our own beds, simple friends
I asked you:
How you felt,
Where we stood,
And you decided to leave me
Feeling assure of your feelings
Now I bare these caring feelings
Alone
Never date those who have a broken heart; They'll always try to break yours as well.
Bryce Jun 21
Lying poets, they take their words to street
And sweep their hidden eyes to the pissant stone of curb
And drink in the sound of vehicle
Dreaming to be heard as loudly
But soft
And dreary
As the cloud
that casts its watchful shadow
Over the golden hills at the edge of space
And perpetually disposed themselves
Of any real fluidity

The sun pecks at the skin of the earth, as the waves of heat dance for her
And I become lost in the very essential part of it
That runs across the blades of grass in a quiet park
Where children scream gleefully and rub up against the chain-link
And the dogs empty themselves in feeling

The church bells, a trolleycar, the hobo collecting cans from an oasis of free trash bins
I drink the taste of **** and flower fields in the sweet summer sun

I could not believe what I had begun

The dream of Milton, my friend Kerouac, the Republic
The marble columns on Sansome
They are a treat to my ever-aging eyes
Seeking something in the dirtied troughs of heat
In the summer sun

But when will I be done?
Larry Potter Dec 2018
Drown me in white
Peel these colors off the wall
Untaint all the dirtied halls
From this room of memories
I'd bid farewall so soon
While I go looking for the silver moon.

Unpaint my muddled past
Erase the black and blue
Wipe off these cluttered hues
I'd view my new world
In an empty kaleidoscope
Crooked mirrors of bended hopes.

I'm starting anew
Beginning from the endings
Of last year's unravelings
Always looking forward
Left so certainly unsure
Chasing an open-ended future.
Happy New Year!
JP Jun 6
What I want
Is a breath of fresh air.
I have a ten-year plan for it too.

I can just picture it
On a once-white and polished porch
That good times scratched and dirtied
Over the years.

Just one or two friends with me.
We'll about those times
Of gasping for air.
nitelite Nov 2018
by his betrayal to the dormant blood flow of life
in moonlight who preaches insanity, anarchy,
who taunts the wicked mind in its present neutrality
where the provocation is of being blank and yet overbearing,
such accentuates the interim shadows etched into a dirtied slate,
thus that light that kills makes his mind primitive, soul, sedate,
and apart from all, his body who became its own ruler

spectral projections in his image surfaced
as the fingertips ripped through its own ribcage
and dethroned His Hapless Majesty in repressed rage
and an animated husk continued forth
even though the hostless spirit was delicate in its wake,
so free from each others' demands, the two had liberties to take.
and so thus they spent decades in total alienation

but in time, like a king with no subjects, the Mind wavered so,
and the Frame, like a guardian with no duty, faltered the same,
and like clockwork, fate had cursed the two that one became,
and by the moon's blinding and blank light a revelation held
that craving ensued for the beings to become whole again,
as the Mind haunted folklore, the Frame men,
as a means of searching, to reunite and rest as an ultimatum.

and they keep searching
a mindless body, and a bodiless mind
perhaps never to reunite
in punishment of denouncing their being
it was a truth he sought,
though never foreseeing the truth he forgot.
it was a race to command insanity and misery.
happy late Halloween! (very late)
this was my take at storytelling and a little bit more of an ominous, more folklore-y kind of tone, which i felt was decently timed with Halloween.
this kind of storytelling im not super used to, so any suggestions/feedback (public or private) would be super appreciated!

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