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Jack Jenkins May 2017
Am I the only one not understanding it?
Some poems have no likes or views
Some poems have a preview, others don't
Some poems are brand new
Some poems are two days old
There's a temperature gage that doesn't make sense
And sometimes there's a poem that disappears off it

*I'm flabbergasted...
//On this broken website//
I'm really confused by some of these changes... lol

Edit: Oh, the irony that this started to trend...............
Jordan Rowan Jan 2016
Sometimes as days go by so fast
We take time to dwell on the past
Hazy pictures and memories of laughs
Moments in time we'll never get back

Tell me your stories like we first met
Tell me again so I won't forget
Soon I will but not just yet
Soon, I can use them when you're upset

We fight for the times we think were best
When we were younger and needed no rest
When all was ahead, no sins to confess
Heads full of dreams and love in our chest

Somewhere along these perpetual years
We learn to accept that time disappears
Pictures are best kept stained with our tears
What lies ahead will be better than here
Cynthia Aug 2014
The moon reads the abstract of our past
Always refining our path
The stars are the editors of our lives
Always stirring
The breeze sensitizes our memory
Upon the gleaming of the night sky
We journey along the memories of time
Until each star slowly disappears
Without a trace.

Copyright© Cynthia Ulloa
All rights reserved.
Jorge Echevarria Apr 2015
Cigarettes and friends have so much in common
Friends are cigarettes to skin
The longer you hold them temptation grows within
To smoke or watch others choke
Cancer sticks, worse when ignited
So many people smoke and are delighted
To inhale the words of warning
Strangers are sticks and stones their words never hurt
With friends, this expression disappears
As if the pain doesn't accumulate every fiscal year
Running deep into your lungs, skin, and even the heart
Friends can do as much as a cigarette
We smoke our friends as if nothing is wrong and forget
Until our lungs and heart collapse and fill up with regret  
Quit cold turkey, suffer relapses try again later
Anything to soak up this toxic flavor
Friends or cigarettes?
Your choice of flavor to savor
nish Jul 2018
if the sun disappears
and the stars say farewell
would you be the only light
for those left to dwell?
just a short lil something
xcvii Sep 2014
your favorite candy bar is Twix and you like the color black you are scared of complacency and allergic to dryer sheets it is not fair that i know you inside out that i have stared at you for four years straight and listened to you talk and cry and laugh and you still won't ******* look at me like anything more than a plaything i am not disposable i have all of your secrets tucked safely in my chest but you threw away the notes i wrote you i hope they stop making Twix bars and the color black disappears and you drown in laundry detergent so i can watch your throat swell and then maybe you'll need me.
PC classic Oct 2016
someone told me about a girl who goes to coffee shops alone and sips her coffee and then comes back home
and writes about how the sugar always disappears perfectly
and all the human noises she didn't hear but she remembers the song that played and how the sad words broke the trance beats
and when she looks at the stars it fills up her heart
to see how close they shine
even though they are light years apart

accepting this makes it easier to face the next day

our alienation forever peeps through
the spaces and edges of
a cracked culture
-- Aug 2018
sometimes i remember what i think i wanted to say,
what i was trying to say the entire time.

i go to write it down,
it disappears.

i don’t remember what poems i showed you,
but i remember hating myself afterword.

wanting to know how or why i felt all these things,
and you took photos of empty spaces.

you were all big words,
our relationship was your bed and me naked in it,
trying to take up less space
and i guess i succeeded in that-
i've disappeared altogether now.

you hated my unfiltered words
because they made me sound broken,
waiting to be fixed.
you were always trying to put me back together
and i was always trying to be
less than ten thousand pieces-
or at least enough to fill you with.
Carter Ginter Oct 2014
The mason trudges on
night and day to finish
his masterpiece. Clockwork,
he waits like a prisoner
yearning
for the jurisdiction to
fall in his favor. Each
opportunity: he will steal it.
Adhesive to stone and
metal support:
This wall will not
fall. No, this one he will not
let dissemble. Opposing the
prior ruin, plagued
with age and abuse,
the once damaging blows
instead drive this puzzle together.

Attend carefully.
Every door slammed behind
to shut me out,
Each painful stab in your glace
lancing through my chest, into
the black cavity life has consumed
into me.
He will work
to layer his project, this
projection of my cautions, until
the last glimmer of light disappears
behind the last stone in the
last wall. Now a true prisoner,
my mind lies
in contentment.
figurative metaphor for the wall my mind builds to keep people out
Johnny Agape Aug 2013
Can you hear my loudness,
In all this silence?
When you are near me,
Do you whisper to me quiet?
I cannot hear past the sound,
Echoes and echoes,
Chasing each other like waves,
Crashing like thunder,
Shaking the walls,
I tremble and shake.
All the outside disappears,
Into the blindness,
Into the colors,
Into the mindstorm.
Into the scream.
I fall into it all,
I float,
Wait to drown,
Lost in sound.
Till I was up on your shore.
In the quiet,
In the stillness,
I am whole.
My friend wrote this. It's odd how in synch we are, but won't admit it to each other. Or anyone else for that matter.
Rochelle R Apr 2016
Silence

Digging
The search for words
Leaves me empty and blister-handed
Despair and thought swirl in a voiceless dance
Between my ears and
Any will I've had to speak
Disappears where my breath meets my lips
Guttural instinct has me know
There are things that need to be said
Words to be exchanged
Explanations waiting
Perched
Perilously on the edge
Of solving all
And no going back
And yet

Silence. And everything is dead.
The Fidelity of Transmissions

”Cells, the units of life that compose our bodies, are able to make copies of themselves to help us grow, fight disease and recover from injuries. Cells have built-in mechanisms that maintain
  the fidelity of transmission  
of genetic information from one generation to the next, and to control cell division in a timely manner, allowing our bodies to build or rebuild various tissues.”

~~~
when the poetry cri de cœur grows unbearable ,
sound mystery-science calms his tumbling transcendency

alas, here too, his ears sit up straight when stumbling on a invitation to
“come write,” for hid within the science jargon, oft rests a snipers shot

redirecting the didactic mind back to the
everyman’s land where-poetry cells split,,
commanding him to delve into, visit new brain wrenching vistas
“the fidelity of transmission”
at its macro level, for science is micro-poetry,^
n’est-ce pas

~~~
when you love another
the transmission is a slow pour,
or a radical jarring,
the fidelity extremely extraordinarily variable

the loveliest unpredictable

the sip sip of eyelid kissing adoration,
the irrational irrigation of the no-space-between,
when the television remote disappears in the couch crack,
the screen, complete static, perfect complement, to a rigorous experiment of

the loveliest unpredictable

we manually conjoin fluids in her mouth’s petri dish,
stain the slide for observation,
in full Imax color observe the cells busting and doesy-do’ing over to
a new partner, where bonds of fidelity attach a partnership clause to

the loveliest unpredictable

when a child emerges, the first words are
find that remote, just kidding, first comes a comestible demand,
mother’s milk 98 degree heated,
feed me a white solution to any unanswered cell’s questions, what a

loving predictive predicate

scribble this, ****** that, change a diaper,
while debating whose baby’s assemblage resembles,
overjoyed at the experimental outcome,
proofs of the fidelity of transmission,
the outcome notated, but science demands no bias confirmation,
another test required of tissue rebuilding

the loveliest unpredictable

~~~

^postscript
for is He not laureate greatest poet of all,
developer of the scientific architecture,
inventor of varietal sunsets, moonscapes,
individualized singularity of snowflakes,
love making, gravity and the preprogrammed death
of your own cells,
etcetera etcetera etcetera
all just poetry in motion in fluidity,
ah, fidelity fidelity
fidelity
Sat., March 9, 2019
RBWhite Mar 13
The Moon of Fire,shining through her sanity's desire,
She dreams of rest,longing for the moon's fire,
When love disappears and her ghost lingers,
The obscure will dare,dare to tame her rage,
And he will fail,
Because the moon awakens in the fire of her gaze.
This poem belongs to my BLACKXPOETRY series
guy scutellaro Oct 2016
(empty pages and snowflake)




     Jack walks out the door of the bar into the wind swept gloom.
     at 2 a.m. the gray desolation of downtown is gone.
     the rain has finally turned to snow.

     the cold numbs. A candy bar or spoon full of sugar will help
     but if the body’s caloric need for fuel can’t be met
     the legs become uncoordinated
     the mind confused and then uncaring.
     eventually, the heart stops.

     this is what becomes of love forgotten, of the things we  push      aside. jack stares at the  hill of white snow plowed to the corner.
      his dog would be back.

     the snow covers everything.
     it covers the old cars and the rotting buildings
     the sidewalk and its cracks.
     the city, jack imagines, is becoming an adjectiveless word.
     a book of all white pages.
      
      jack steps off the curb into the gutter
      and the street is empty for as far as he can see.
      he starts walking.

      jack disappears into empty pages.
Carter Ginter Jan 2014
I'm running over in my head everything i want to say to you
But I can never get it out when we're face to face
Because whenever I look in your eyes
Everything disappears
And it's clear
That there's something about you that I can't face losing.
But it's time to put it all on the line.
Rose Jul 2018
my heart pounds
my butterflies rocket to the sky
my hormones are heightened
my throat constricts
how is it that i feel everything at once
delight.
contentment.
infatuation.
it feels surreal,
and it's all because of him.
the epitome of human art
i'm intrigued by every aspect,
every idiosyncrasy,
every flaw.
i want to be consumed by every part of him, to the brim.
i want to inhale the peace and serenity he brings,
i want to swallow his touch,
and never regurgitate,
i want to believe in the hope he's awakened in me.
i want, i want, i want.
but i fear.
fear the potential heartbreak,
the loss of excitement if he disappears,
i fear the depth of my emotions,
the abyss of "love" i always lurk on the edges of so idly
is it worth it?
to put all this power in his hands.
and in return,
shower him with the love my heart swells, threatening to burst, with,
and for once.
just once,
feel it back.
-v.la
Hannah Hernandez Apr 2014
This cloud of sadness seems to hang over me, never leaving..just lingering over all that I do. And at some points, the cloud begins to fade..but as soon as I get to the point to where it practically disappears, this hurricane of depression rushes over me and the cloud becomes full again.
"Have you any idea why a raven is like a writing desk?"
~Later, towards the end~
Alice asks, "Hatter, why is a raven like a writing desk?"
Mad Hatter: "I haven't the slightest idea."
Then Alice disappears back home.*
So why is a raven like a writing desk?
Ravens symbolizes death and to me Writing symbolizes
freedom.
But when you think about it ravens fly-- come and go as they please. Writers feel like that when they write at a writing desk--
come and go as they please.
So maybe there's the answer...
Ravens are free, and a writing desk is a place to be free.
But maybe a raven is also like a writing desk because most good poems deal with some type of grief, or joy...Every good poet deals with issues with life and the grief that comes with death. Every great writer has troubles-- look at; Edger Allen Poe, Dylan Thomas, and Emily Dickerson, just to name a few. Edger often wrote of ravens and drank, Dylan also drank, and Emily was afraid to go outside. We all have troubles, but only a certain amount of people can write about them in poetry and make the words be so beautiful. So maybe in the movie there was no answer, but it all seems to random to have no answer. So here's my answer: Freedom and Troubles, Ravens have/deal with both as well as a writer at a writing desk.
Do you know why a raven is like a writing desk?
copyright; McNally Inc. 2010
6/28 Nina McNally
not a poem, just thoughts.
Mellow waves Jul 2018
Shimmering stars above your head,
Invigorating wind rippling through your clothes,
Strapping waves hitting the shore,
Astonishing music emerging from the violin..

But then i wake up,
I wake up and everything disappears
How is that possible? A place that means so much to you disappearing so swiftly..

I truly wanted to live in that moment
I truly wanted to stay there forever and ever..
Mike Groves Jun 2018
This thing I thought I could grasp,
Desperately I try to hold on to it,
This thing I never truly had,
I knew this illusion couldn’t last,

It disappears as soon as we reach for it,
It’s as thin as the mountain air,

For a moment we lie to ourselves,
placing it safely and securely on a shelf, "I can keep this here and never let it go."
Even though it is a forced perception,
A contrived illusion ,the world's largest deception,
Once we leave the room...
As soon as we lock and bolt the door...
we will not be able to see it anymore.

We never realize the freedom there is in letting go,
understanding that no matter what we do, the answer may still be no.

We would be happier admitting this concept is completely fictitious.
We could break this circular pattern, this cycle so vicious.

I've spent too much time trying to hold it in my hands,
Making myself the victim of my own laid out plans.
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