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Meka Boyle Sep 2011
There's a subtle discreetness in the way you say hello,
Your true feelings hidden beneath heavy formalities.
The overwhelming question of "what if", lingers in the air,
Cradling you within it's suffocating grasp.
Oh, my poor shackled bird, don't fight the fineness of failure.
Embrace every mistake and half spoken truth as your sole provider.
For life is too short to require commentary,
Time is too elusive for the formulation of perpetual game plans.
Don't waste your minutes in the routine of the expected,
Cast yourself unto the unknown, be swept away by the ambiguity of life.
Jenn Linh Jul 2017
I have this rage inside
This heat so hot
It won't come to settle
As it sizzles
    As it sparks
No. I can not hide it
Nor can I break away from it

Furiously burning
Overpowering my intentions
Engulfing discreetness
Exceeds in all means of assertiveness

This dark I can't escape
As I plead to..
Hold me tight
Inflame my light
Take me now far from here
Inferior I allow ..and to you my captor I surrender my body before you for your venture

I'm yours
This hunger may you feed

To long for predominance
To be enrapt with ones soul this loves on a rampage untamed and entomed inside.

Pulls of the darkest deepest lure
Captivated within the eyes

Conceptual plays
Passions trick

Inflicted desires upon only you and I  

To have nothing more than yearning..
Truly despaired
This tortures astray
It runs where it cannot hide.
Don't fight it let it confide.

Within her template a fortress resides
And within her heart eager temptations lie

Grasp her depth and pull her deep
Sway her mind while her body falls asleep

Frame her up while you undress her posture
Patience for the crave she seeks or this may be a disaster

Lie still while she slides her way
For temptations that are raging
Temptations that are teasing
strike suddenly at signs of dismay

Her body turn limp
    Numb like never before
Both body's working up a sweat
And without a single movement more
I'll just hit down to the floor as I stammer
As I wake..
No!  .. .may that not have been a fake

© Jenn Linh
Completely crashed and fell to this.. still editing
Soft winds push up against me
The near future is my enigma
Hard metal crushes my hand
Soft blonde hair in the clouds

Shiny glass rubs against the sand
Emerald stars amazed by dirt
Affection-ism shown by laughter
Black leather quickly collapses the tunnel

Lovely heart fooled by discreetness
Diamond body melts the core
Cotton surface makes everything better
Waterfalls revealing closing emotions

Quietly I saw no end
I am sorry for wishing I were dead
Graceful appearance makes me crumble
Months it has been since I did not want to crumble

Handed by me pressed up against sand
Do I miss these times I had
Sadly there is no retribution
Forward unto motion I see the floor
andrew juma Feb 2016
Rouse thyself up introvert
I know thou be just like me
Thou canst be heard in thy silence
Thou be wise in thy discreetness

Speak thee now
I give  thee the power of the ink
Write what thou thinketh
What thou learneth
When thy lips be sewn

Thy knowledge runs deep
In the deep of thy heart strength abides
Much more strength
That overcomes the voices

Write thy thoughts
thy formula for strength
Speak thy mind now

Before something dreadful
Takes this from thee
Something is looming
Stormy clouds are getting darker

The world is getting colder
Speak thee now
I give thee an uncorrupted art
An invaluable mouthpiece
I give thee poetry
andrew juma Feb 2016
Rouse thyself up introvert
I know thou be just like me
Thou canst be heard in thy silence
Thou be wise in thy discreetness

Speak thee now
I give  thee the power of the ink
Write what thou thinketh
What thou learneth
When thy lips be sewn

Thy knowledge runs deep
In the deep of thy heart strength abides
Much more strength
That overcomes the voices

Write thy thoughts
thy formula for strength
Speak thy mind now

Before something dreadful
Takes this from thee
Something is looming
Stormy clouds are getting darker

The world is getting colder
Speak thee now
I give thee an uncorrupted art
An invaluable mouthpiece
I give thee poetry
Dear child
Steph Portuguez Jan 2020
A minimal interaction merely coincidental took her to the sentimental, yet quiet lightly, semi-permanent fire, the affection for the imperishable. A minimal corporal translation, a dance towards a portal, a fervor to pair and properly resurrect.

The compost has been added, the fecundation has begun, the methodical development goes against the unfolding and beyond. The maturing is inconceivable, an initiation determined to dilate, jag and stain. A gamma of sentiments, a commotion with skills to afflict, an opening with a phantasmagoric impatient and tone deaf.

A parallel black hole, a wooly, scruffy, disheveled globe. With absentia of her specific use she'll roam. A drowsy critter, greater for its sluggishness and loneliness, unquiet for the incubation, the heat and the certainty of your motherly protection.

Medically oppressed to the obligation of live on, welcomed by a sublime lukewarm. A unique lullaby from the impecable chanter and so on.

That's how you nourish and exalt the delicacy, the consciousness slightly expands to the magnificence. This universe with billions of new galaxies, it expands with minor steps of your new innocence.

This apprentice with exceptional obtuseness, her leader replete with sageness and discreetness. The trail scatters its roots towards the rude plot. The captain aims with firmness to a rational outlet.

An enduring labyrinth you must traverse, a map with invisible lines and a myopic with no sanity nor quandary to march. Her compass does not fatigue with the disdain of the repugnant, unawared, insolent vagrant with no prosperity.


The pink portrait lays in an imaginary castle once dreamed by a dragon. This enclosed a precious legend, her bravery prevails and the growth of a rotten embryo, this **** with no significant phases, with dull patience. An ancient savant donkey, engendered with tender.

That tenderness was not her only role, her exuberant potencial to vastness and to the raw venture she accustomed herself. To the darkest and unimaginable brutes she dared to conquer, a non-existent God, she dedicated to redeem and master.

Her royalty and infinitude, this benevolence administrated my chemical sensitivity, always in me will entail. A kingdom without entrance to those venturesome to tumble. The iconicity of the most notorious infinity and empress, in the pink portrait will forever rest.
A scribble to the last letter
For the man on the hill,
Touching the heavens and the earth
Crowned by the morning sun

I moan, oh! old one!
For my acquaintances with folly,
That now am tatters of shame
Blown at by the winds of laughter

Oh! these streets of many faces!
In this big court room am bound,
On a stand, by mockery
In the jaws of human cruelty

One side step many times
Off the rails of discreetness
A youthful adventure I thought,
Swayed by the inborn naivety

And so, I write,
My weary too heavy
That I seek the counsel of stars
To guide me out of my piteousness

To the man on the hill
Dave Cortel Aug 24
isn’t it ironic,
to feel a quiet sadness
at the very thought of going home?

to go back home
is to return to our discreetness
to return to our discreetness
is to become a secret once again.

i remember, you once told me
you loved me
but i never showed that i, too
was falling in love
for a man’s love for another was
deemed a sin
and we hate to see our mothers
cry, condemning us.

i never wished to forsake home altogether,  
but just this once,
i long to stay a while longer,  
to remain by your side.
for isn’t this already home? 

they say home is where we find
our deepest comfort,  
so why would i bother to go back  
when i already feel i’m in my safest
just by being with you?
Bri Neves Jun 2012
All our worldly concerns like “dress to impress”
Aren’t as compelling as one might
Suggest.
All of our tongues from which flavors burn
Cool for a moment if only to
Atest.
We love ourselves, but is there room
For anybody else?

We wonder and we wander, so conflicted, so
Consumed. Is there room?
Is there room for space beneath a blockade?
Is there room for a resource once we’ve failed to trade?
Is there room for a skylight? Is there room for a window?
Is there room for a fence? For a garden? A train?
Is there room for a crashing—even room for a plane?
For a little apprehension in discreetness, pretention refined?
For uncertainty to seize and sketch a new line?

Is there room for a golf course with no goals to score?
Is there room for a surplus? A healer? A sore?
Is there room for transitions, abrupt and alive?
Is there room for a smooth one to sweeten the hive?
Is there room for my words not to speak, but to be?
Is there room for an actress? A worker? A me?

(Is there room for me?
Could you please save room for me?)

Is there room for my cruelty, my ugliness, dreams?
Is there room for my whispers, my slyness, my screams?
Is there room for expressions that paint out my face?
Is there room for the wisdom of the ambigui—vague?

Is there room for a melting of gray?
And the paintings of landscapes
To blur, glisten, fade?

Is there room to be together? Is there room to be alone?
Is there room for distant travels or an inconsistent home?
Is there room to be a “know-it-all”? Is there room to be agnostic?
Is there room to be the dullest point? Is there room to cool the caustic?
Is there room to stand untainted? Is there room to take abuse?
Is there room to fake it ‘till you make it’? Is there room to praise misuse?

Is there room?

Is there room for spoken bits of hardships, easiness unsaid?
Is there room to catch a net of life? Is there room to render dead?
Is there room to illuminate the sinner
Or to cultivate the sister?
Is there room to watch time’s thickness grow?
Is there room to question, room to know?

Is there room?

And could we please
Move soon?
David R Apr 2021
There once was a rare flower
A bloom that flourished in shade
Few could see its power
And that's how it might have stayed

For its planter derived pleasure
From floweret's love for obscurity
And as a golden treasure
Delighted in the bud's soft purity

but within the perennial's gene
there was a cancerous spot
a desire to be known as queen
to be recognised and not forgot

so there came a well-meaning person
who beheld the bloom's beauty
and opened it up to light and sun
thinking he was doing his duty

he wished all to benefit from its sweetness
all be blest by its aroma
for he'd not appreciated its discreetness
true secret of its persona

for the secret of its pulchritude
of its grace and its allure
was its modesty in its attitude
which kept it chaste and good and pure

and so the flower that once was
a bloom of rarefied scent
withered because of one faux-pas
and its own malcontent.

many a winter and summer passed
since the flower had stopped blooming
as by-and-by it became overcast
other foliage, it subsuming

but slowly within the darkness again
it awakened and started thriving
this time it'd learnt to contain
detrimental want and driving

to let its nature bloom 'n flourish
while none knew its charm 'n grace
and its concealment would it nourish
in its small secluded place

for there are souls destined 'n made
to act as king or queen or ruler
whilst others must act within the shade
'n thus know their loving Jeweller

As car must have a steering wheel
an axle, brakes and engine
as a person has a heart and a heel
a brain, veins and tendon

so the world of souls contains
the hidden and the visible
and this world has many planes
of Unity indivisible

each soul is perfect and complete,
with radiance incomparable
and no soul need with other compete
for its uniqueness irreplaceable.
BLT's Merriam-Webster Word of The Day Challenge
#pulchritude

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