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Victor D López Dec 2018
Unsung Heroes

Although I stand on the shoulders of giants,
I fail to see much farther than the bridge of my nose.
The fault in mine. The shame is mine.
For I am unworthy of you, my beloved dead.

Emilio (Maternal Grandfather)
Your crime was literacy,
And the possession of a social conscience,
That made you yearn to see your beloved Spain remain free,
And prevented you from suffering fascists lightly.

You did not bear arms,
For you abhorred all violence,
You did not incite rebellion, though you
Rebelled against the foreign and domestic enemies of freedom.

As best I can tell you were an idealist who,
In a time of darkness,
Clung passionately to the belief,
In the perfectibility of the human spirit.

You would not abide the lies the regional papers carried,
And translated news from American and British newspapers,
About the gathering storm,
Sharing the truth freely with all who would listen.

You gave speeches, and wrote speeches delivered by others, in support of a doomed
Republic collapsing under the weight of its own incompetence and corruption.
You were warned by friends of your imminent arrest and offered passage back to the U.S. or to
Buenos Aires where so many of your friends had already found refuge.

But they would not get your wife and nine children out,
And you refused to leave them to their fate.
They came for you, as always, in the middle of the night,
These cowards with stern faces hiding behind machine guns.

They took you prisoner, not for the first time, to the Castillo de San Anton,
A fortress by a most beautiful, tranquil bay,
Where they tore out your nails, one by one, and those their
Gentlest caresses while they asked you for names.

You endured, God knows what there, for months,
And were sentenced to be shot as a traitor at La Plaza de María Pita.
But the Republic had friends, even among the officers of the fascist forces,
And one of them opened your cell door on the eve of your execution.

You had contracted tuberculosis by then, yet, according to grandmother, you
Managed to swim miles across the bay in a moonless night, to safety in the home of
Another patriot who risked his life and the lives of his family to hide you in
His root cellar and made a trip of many miles on foot to find your wife.

He found your home and told your wife of your unexpected reprieve,
And asked her to send some clothing and some shoes to replace your ***** rags.
You eldest daughter, Maria, insisted on accompanying the stranger back on foot, taking
Clothing and what provisions she could quickly gather and carry to you.

From time to time you accepted the hospitality of an overnight stay
In the attic or hay loft of a
Republican sympathizer as these were not hard to
Find in the fiercely independent
Galicia under the yoke of one of its own. But mostly you lived in the woods, with active guerrillas for years.

You lived with all the comforts of a hunted animal with others who would not yield,
Your only crime consisted of being on the wrong side of a lost cause.
I hope it brought you some comfort to know you were on the right side of history.
It brought none to your wife and none to your youngest children.

As you paid the long penance for your conscience, once a month or so, after some
Time passed, you visited your wife and children. You were introduced to the little ones
As an uncle from afar. They did not know the bearded wild man who paid these visits
In the middle of the night and left wearing dad’s old, clean clothes.

The older ones, Maria, Josefa, Juan and Toñita, all in their teens, told the little ones
That their “uncle” brought news of their dad. The younger children, still wearing the
Frayed cloaks of their innocence, accepted this, not questioning why he stayed in
Mom’s room all night and was gone before they awoke the next morning.

Your grief at playing the part of a stranger in your own home, of not embracing your
Children on whom you doted, one and all, for their protection and yours, as there were
No shortage of fascists who tried to ply them with pastries and candy,
Seeking to use their innocence as a weapon against you.

Your parents were relatively wealthy business owners who farmed the sea but
Disowned you—perhaps for your politics, perhaps for choosing to emigrate and
Refusing to join the family business, or perhaps for marrying for love in New York City
A hard working girl beneath your social station in their eyes.

You lived just long enough to see Spain delivered from war,
Though not freed of her chains.
You were spared the war’s aftermath.
Your wife and children were not.

No books record your name. Most of those who knew you are dead.
Yet flowers have long perpetually appeared on your simple above-ground burial site in
Sada that holds your ashes, and those of your eldest son, Juan, and second-
Eldest daughter, Toñita, who died much younger than even you.

Your wife has joined you there, in a place where
Honor, goodness, decency, principle and a pure,
Broken heart,
Now rest in peace.
You can hear my reading of this poem and some sample sonnets from my Of Pain and Ecstasy collection in a simple YouTube book trailer by visiting https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5FXkhtOltEc&t=6s
Michael Hoffman Aug 2012
I would rather be hysterical than vulnerable
to what most people call love.  
I would rather couple with strange women
on an Amsterdam getaway
than let one more man
try to own me.

I prefer to ignore my own psychodynamics
in favor of endless talking cure analysis
and occasional astrology cult ******
that promise to speed my eventual evolution
from wounded *** object to invulnverable starchild.

I don’t need a Beverly Hills shrink
to tell me my narcissism and depression and squeaky voice
are symbolic of never having the power
to set a boundary between me and my father
who doted over my puberty
with slobbering praise and veiled lust.

Everyone who knows me for more than a week
sees my father throwing me financial bones
instead of apologizing for what he did
and the more I take his money
the freer I feel
distanced by automobiles with dark-tinted windows,
a house with a skull and crossbones doormat,
a silver .45 under my pillow
and not one single ex-boyfriend
about whom I will ever say a kind word.

I have created emotional and psychological invulnerability;
all men are now my father
and all men pay the price
of never being loved by me
and I pay the price of never being able to let them love me.

Now I just play with partners
and when they inevitably start to use the “L” word
I start to run inside
and I bounce off the walls and mirrors
of my own emptiness
and I go on a photo safari to Africa
where I pretend to understand the meaning of life
and I put out restraining orders
against the men who insist that I explain
and I have come to rely on legal and monetary fences
to protect me from
the truth about my deep loneliness.

I’ve never had an ******
never said I love you twice to the same person
and I think
as long as the money’s there
I won’t have to.
Sharkey Poems Apr 2016
Pretty Little Cup Cake Store:
I walk through the door.
Somehow I think it will
Cheer me up.
A white iced-pink sprinkled cupcake
Will help me forget.
While unwrapping the trendy black and  baby blue doted baking paper
Will bring back the past again.

But, even I know it is a ruse
A joke I play on myself.
You know the owners are some super hot soccer moms whose family invested in their latest project.
Those **** bakers with pretty white aprons
And size two retro-pink waitress uniforms;
Smiling and cooing at the lavender infused cake
That makes this treat go down so smooth.
A gluten-free icing with a garnish of kumquat.
This will land their pictures on the local news.

I am not a size two.
I will just as soon eat a nutty-buddy by Little Debbie
But, this trendy cupcake cafe, makes me feel I am one of those
Pretty ladies in the retro pink waitress uniform.
Kinda like a celebration, for a party of one.

I am not a hot pretty stick chick
I will buy four, five or six of those pretty cupcakes.
Pretending I am buying a hostess gift.
But, the truth.....
My husband forgot that we married
8 years ago this day.
I will pay too much for too little product: but the cake box is cute
I will sit in my car
Eating, till my teeth hurt.
I will rationalize; that I will cleanse tomorrow.

I will go home.
He will ask how I am, while staring at the TV.
"Shussh" he will say, "I'm trying to hear."
There is no use to remind him
He will play the tired "I'm-in-the-dog-house game."
I prefer stuffing four, five or six pretty little cupcakes
Into my mouth then listening
To his tired apologies, weak little lies and false promises of a planned
Surprise.
Instead; I will go to my room; then my private bath:
I will stick my fingers down my throat
And cough up my life.
Jack Piatt Mar 2014
Turquoise blues guitars
Laughing baby elephants (that paint)
Melodies singing lullabies to sleepy baby elephants
(tired from painting all day)
Blank canvases full of blackberries on the inside
The antidote to love
All the dotes that didn't get doted
And all the ones that did
Playing badminton in the backyard of Cupid's summer home in Manarola
The ruby that died to make Dorothy's slippers
And the shortest hair from the Lion's tail
Wine filled grapes
Water balloons filled from hot springs and melted mountain snow
Two spokes from Steve McQueen's "Great Escape" motorcycle
Three kisses from Ilsa Lund
And a smile from Sabrina Fairchild
Tom Robbins' typewriter (it's magic)
A flying dragon
A dragonfly (grounded for not doing her homework)
Jenny's phone number
The pillow that hit the floor at Cecilia's that afternoon
The third stair from the top of the Stairway to Heaven (best view)
One of the lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
And a grain of salt from the sea the other is swimming in
An olympic size pool full of melted crayons
A vile of sweat from the ever fleeing muse
A refrigerator the size of Rhode Island
Full of magnificent lines of magnetic poetry
Poetry (all of it)
The monster under the monster's bed
Every foul ball ever caught by any kid
Hammocks (any and every)
The cardboard boat that never stopped sailing down the gutter of the world
The secret to everything
(kept securely under the bed of the monster, under the monster's bed)
Santa's real address (you won't believe this)
The blue ink from the blueprints of Atlantis
Golf carts with no maximum speed
The energy dust left from dancing, hugging and smiling
Freshly climbed trees
A warehouse the size of Antarctica completely filled
Wall to wall with raw, unfiltered laughter
Beer
Everything that was left on the field
Passionate embraces and embracing a passion
Apology free, but full of forgiveness
The wild of the wilderness
The tame of the un-tame
Language
Intuition
Conception
First kisses, waves and winks
Goodbye hugs and thrown in kitchen sinks
Art
Music
Pain
Puddles that have been danced in under pouring rain
Empty film cans
Films on screens
All of these ingredients
Are what makes up
*Dreams
(c) Jack Piatt 2014
Jonathan Surname Aug 2018
What a rash of time we've wasted.
Drunken, displaced it all.
The hiking trails up solemn, summer
ridge lines. Jagged arrowheads lifted
out toward the sky and we feel gifted.

A crack in the rock a millennia old.
The dangers of going it alone;
the spy who came in from the cold.

Two open throated eulogies and scatter her ash.
Two years of time spent together, now memorized pash.

Sifting through sight lines of our mediocre city streets.
Sweating up the summertime together-alone,
and getting twisted as we jam to louder growing beats.

We took our hands and divined a place on the timeline.
Steady rocking for two revolutions until
she set over the horizon beyond the sunshine.
Look for her and see her in every which place.
It's never her figure and never her face, but
shower curtain blurs and the curls in hair of other girls.
She exists as every brunette that I'll never forget.
Not that I'd want it.

They say, "She loved you. That much is clear."
What a romantic gesture to abandon me here.

If you can read this from your heavenly repose. My heart has grown fonder and still it grows. I'm sure you can see me,
the struggle of having to be anything at all.
Your number is somebody else's now. There's nobody to call.
Summertime gives way to Autumn,
I'm sorry if you hurt having to see what I do now.
The glyphs in my mountain roots.
My rotting bark and lost spark.
My constant stops and false starts.
My swelling, my welts, the harm I cause.
You're not to be blamed, darling.
Not a single word from my tongue nor do I entertain
the thought of others who wish you disdain.
I've lost a bit of myself in the guilt and the shame.
Truth be told, I'm not sure I'll recover and be the same.
A jilt is one thing, a turn down is fine.
But I lost who told me she was mine.
I should've doted more and been more attentive.
You fell in love with me because I was romantic.
So where did I fail you and how can I improve?
I just want to make you happy,
I just want to show you.
There was no need to quit the way that you did.
We could have taken a break,
you could have hibernated, hid.
But it's fine you chose the way you did.
Now you're the punchline of my dark jokes.
"Oh, I'm sorry, no, I only kid."
Repeating myself like I've forgotten what I even said.
Loving is hard when you've never felt it.
But it's harder than that when you feel it and lost it like I did.
Do you think you can forgive me?
I don't know if promises will be kept forever.
poorly written poem about an anniversary i hate to be alive for and the two years before where my life peaked

six years is much too many,
but still i'm here
sadly
kali ma May 2010
Little Penelope Persnicketty was a girl that grew up down the lane.
Her Mother doted on her so much, you would think her insane.
She took such care of her prized daughter pet.
Father never mentioned in the picture, a World War II vet.

Penelope Persnicketty was rather peculiar.
Every single thing she owned was pink, even down to her school ruler.
Petticoats, lace and stockings all a flamingo hue.
The dresses seemed so old fashion, never saw anything new.

She always seemed like a damsel in distress
Mother Persnicketty hand sewed every dress.
When she wasn't sewing , she held Penelope tight.
We rarely saw her out of her mother's controlling sight.

There was one thing Mother Persnicketty couldn't control.
It was puberty ravaging Penelope's little soul.
Hair appeared places it shouldn't.
*******? Penelope wished for them but couldn't

Finally, the secrets began to unravel.
The Persnickettys packed up for some European travel.
In the fuss, we saw the forgery and what else her Pandora hemmed.
Made a daughter just by writing in the letter F instead of M.
Tamara Miles Jul 2014
Somehow, I managed to get to my thirties
without eating a cherry --- a fresh one, anyway,
raw, untamed, unshelved, and forgodssake,
unmarischinoed.

I had them in pies, gooey, sickening, too much
syrup, and in sundaes --- again, not real, a turn-off,
saw people tie the stems in knots,
I had the impression, I think, that if people
had to do all the things they do with cherries
to make them flavorful, they must be really
**** straight out of the bag.  
I made my mind up that they were unpleasant
and I would have nothing to do with them.
Even, or especially, in chocolate-covered cherries,
which my mother loved, so I wanted to love,
I could at best eat the chocolate around that
thick viscous sugary embryonic fluid
wherein lay the embittered, unborn and unloved cherry
and not the coveted prize.

So imagine that day when, careless at a cocktail
party, or at someone's house, hungry, I nibbled
at a fresh one, deep red and whole, gingerly working
my way around the stem and coming awake
to ohmygod what have I been missing all these years?

They still seem brand new now, every time, a delicacy,
something wealthy people indulge in and so not really
belonging to my world.  They beg for the company
of wine and the most delicate cheeses, they ask to be shared
and doted on.  The keep revealing themselves,
on the plate, unadorned, and they keep reminding me
to try something else that I have never tasted,
like complete and utter honesty, or looking at myself
naked, without judgment, even at the innermost
feminine parts, upside down with a mirror until I see why
they say making love for the first time is giving away
your cherry.
A poem for anyone who is afraid to try new things.
Six purple tulips,
Stand proud and tall,
They are the lucky ones,
Who survived despite it all,
They are cared for and noticed,
Treated with respect,
They always get more water,
Than the others can get,
So no surprise then,
With treatment like this,
They bloom far more early,
And can afford to take a risk,
And is it really all that shocking,
That out of all these flowers,
The ones that are most beautiful,
Are the ones doted on for hours.

Five white tulips,
And one more with a hunch,
Sit lower in the vase,
The feeblest of the bunch,
They all knew from the start,
That they would never live,
As they were born in plainer robes,
And have nothing more to give,
One of their number,
Has already succumbed,
Looking down at the ground,
Determination numbed,
This flower was unlucky,
Turned away by those above,
When all it really needed,
Was help and love.
Westley Barnes Mar 2012
I'm Tired of people telling me that I should smile in photographs
My resistance has got nothing to do with
An Attitude problem
or my attempt at
Appearing acutely fashionable
This is just the way I look
Most of the time
Shouldn’t what we choose to record
At least strive for Authenticity?
I'm just not interested in selling myself
Into the acceptable family comfort mode
Having my split-second cheery face sink in
Against The kitchen wall's
"calming" comfort scheme
To be doted on by ageing female relatives
and jovially mocked by visiting casual friends
If anything I don't want my past to be
Looked upon at all

Maybe it's the old story
of leaving home and the urge
To re-invent oneself
To Block out the old experiences, the old embarrassments
Freeing yourself to embark on a fresher tirade
of critical self-assessment
To be finally and victoriously
Free from the unsettling confines
of childhood
To engage yourself completely
in the waking,walking,working
Nightmare of maturity, responsibility
and devastating ambition.
Salmabanu Hatim Sep 2018
In the office he was the Lion King,
The king of his workplace,
Highly respected and revered by his staff.
His personal secretary doted on him,
All his staff  looked up to him.
His motto was simple,
"Be happy and make others happy."
At home he used the same motto,
His wife was a *****,
But she called him a *****.
She tried to manipulate him,
Rolled her eyes if he had flaws,
Did not expect him to help around the house,
In her eyes he always ended doing the wrong things,
He was happy to be a *****  for his wife,
He had peace,
They had three smart children whom he adored,
He didn't want to distrupt his family life and bank account,
No divorce for him,
And his beautiful secretary was there to love him.
Cassandra Allen Nov 2015
No, I don't want a kiss.
I don't want to be attached to you all of the time.
You knew what you were getting into.
Or did you think you were special,
Because you are.
But that doesn't change my nature.
You see me as a belonging to be doted.
I see you as a pest,
But your devoted.
g clair Sep 2013
He takes her love to meet his need
this bachelor is a selfish breed
she'll tolerate his cruelty for affection;
She's walked on eggshells, feeling sad
and breaking down she sees her dad
but why the anger, why all the correction?

Locked inside her cloud of love
so aimlessly she'll float above
the memories- each time his rage exploded;
and never being good enough
perplexed at why he seems so gruff
when only yesterday he swooned and doted.

She, the ever-loving type
would jump to fix his every gripe
and dance around him while his heart was hurtin'
believing then, "it must be me"
the source of all his angst, you see
but now she knows the truth, of this she's certain.

Taking one last chance she'll try
to reach out to this troubled guy
and longing to become his heart's desire
staged to win his softer side
she'll do her best to smile and hide
the fear, this saintly dear, her heart's a liar.

Never will there ever be
a stable point where they are free
to be, although she'd hoped their love was certain;
the disapproval in his eyes
is something she should recognize
it's been disguised until the final curtain
wilting Nov 2014
i always knew i would never be
"girlfriend material"

maybe the gods forgot to cut me carefully from the same cloth they doted out to everybody else

a thicker and more claustrophobic material

one that overheats and suffocates you

my mouth is a forest fire that ignites at the first sight of thunder ahead

other people use their words to heal and comfort their significant other while i'd always had a natural disposition of wielding my tongue as a freshly sharpened knife

i wanted to learn

i wanted to teach myself that in order to be in a relationship you have to treat the hardships like delicately gauzed wounds

changing them out every few hours and applying ointments to soothe and mend the broken flesh

but i don't know if it's because of my mother
who was never very nurturing
taking emotional withdrawals from me throughout my entire childhood

teaching me to cultivate my isolation and find comfort in my loneliness

i'd see the signs of her packing up her bags and departing from a mile away and the only survival method i knew was to let her go before she let me go, again
and again
and again
and again

i tried to mend myself for you
to be less broken down for you

i promised myself i'd be healthier and fight my depression like a true viking at battle

i knew i was never girlfriend material

i don't have the patience or understanding to learn how to nurture wounds

my natural instinct has always been to throw salt in them

to slit my throat and slit my throat and slit my throat until i bled out all of you entirely

it's not that i never knew how to love
but that i never knew how to love properly

caring too much and showing too little
displaying my fear of losing you with an anger that destroys everything in my path

instead of affection and vulnerability

my lovers never know if i love them
i display my feelings  in watered down sentiments that take shape in the way i allow my body to mold into theirs under bedsheets


the love i carry though, suffocates me
it drowns my internal organs
and floods the entirety of my body
leaving me speechless and incapable of articulating how i feel or why i feel the way that i do

in turn i appear cold to the touch
and that is how i knew i was never girlfriend material

i want to lay down on train tracks and sacrifice my body
again
and
again
until i get it right
but i fear it only leaves me in poorer condition than the last

i'm sorry i don't know how to love you properly
i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry

you see, i'm just not "girlfriend material"
Megan Dec 2018
You held me down.

You forced my body into submission.

You grasped my hips, effortlessly guiding, gliding, my small figure across the examination table, paper crinkling angrily underneath as you slid me towards you.

You dictated how close we sat, pressed flush against each other, authorizing yourself permission to caress my bottom with your arm stretched behind my slender midsection.

You constrained the position I sat in. Placed at your convenience, I was incapable of moving as you curtailed any movement, whether subtle or obvious, away from your outstretched hands, which connected to a cruel and unforgiving skeleton of a man.

You governed the arrangement of my legs. You tugged my body across your bench, positioning yourself in between my legs. You hauled my legs over your own shoulders, granting yourself access to my ******.

You arrested my body, firmly planting your unbearably hot hands upon my waist, allowing yourself to connect our sides, flesh against flesh.

You controlled what I wore when I was with you, demanding articles be shed with a flick of your wrist.

You limited my motion. You loved to establish your claim over my young body, resting the palm of your hands in between the warmth of my thighs, squeezing in warning at any action that could potentially change your stake.

You restricted my hands from getting in the way of the roaming of your own. You liked to cup my ****** while I squirmed in discomfort and embarrassment, shrinking backwards into the material stretched the length of your table, wishing I could vanish, melting and becoming one with the plastic texture that lay beneath my slight figure.

You repressed my cries of anguish, shaking your head and shushing me, repeatedly promising the pain of the treatment would be worth the relief following. Now I understand that relief was sexually driven, and was not for the purpose of my pleasure, but for yours.  

You prevented my torso from lifting, arching off your board as you slid your finger inside of me. Your large hands firmly pressed down on my sensitive hip bones, ensuring I stay stagnant, giving you the opportunity to toy with my anatomy.  

You subdued any chance of my mother recognizing the signs of abuse. You skillfully hid my frame, placing your dominating figure at the perfect angle to disallow her view of the horrible actions you performed on me.

You structured the schedule of the appointments. You decided the duration of each visit. You kept me locked in your cage, in your presence, for hours and hours. You hid the key, confining my body and mind to your enclosure.

You killed any confusion I had when you referred to me as “sweetheart.” Your words put me at ease, knowing you doted upon me, and strived to do your best to provide care. Even at an inexperienced age, I recognized the discomfort you left me with, both emotionally and physically, tainting my view of men for years to come, yet your kind reassurements and long bearhugs kept me silent.

You restrained me.
TRIGGER WARNING
Nicole Paton Sep 2014
My imaginary friend climbs into bed with me and whispers in my ear every time I try to sleep. We dress in night-time: pull on black stockings, snap them around half-moon thighs.

We ladder the sky
and splinter our spines.

There are things we don't talk about (because we are the gaps between reality that still believe in selkes and Cornish piskies)
but for years we have been panning for dreams.

Doubt burns like fuse-wires but God sometimes freezes the electricity.
She crosses her fingers when she promises to believe. (That's the bargain). She talks to Him each hour
but He never replies
and she is so used to being doted on.

We pretend we are dead.
Just for tonight.

She doesn't think she matters:
mourning for the moon - her halo of humidity.
She traces the clouds' edges with highlighter.

I balance her morning-massacre mind with the inaugural thrum of a threatening migraine. I am not used to her megaphone chest and she forces our Scorpio symphony down my throat like an over-active heartbeat. (That's what frightens God).

She told me not to stick quills to my back,
said the weight of wings would only weigh me down.
B Berres Oct 2012
Explosions rocketed themselves skyward.
They polka doted the worlds tapestry; purposeful stains.
The sun hadn’t fully set yet.
To the west the sky was warm.
And skeletons could be seen floating,
long after the sparkle and the boom had dissipated.
Like dandelions gone to seed.
The sky celebrates with us
Megan Zhao Jan 2016
'"Cause I'm your lady
And you're my man
Whenever you reach for me
I'll do all that I can"
Just found out—
Celine Dion's man
Her husband, Rene Angelil
Passed away last Thursday
The love between them
Had always been louder
Than a whisper  
And they were never far away
But not this time, I feel sad
According to her
He was her many guiding angels
Her only "boyfriend"
Although he was much older
She doted him like a mother
Figure, and he allowed her
In public, many kisses
Tender touches
Theatric renewed vows
All full of Titanic's fondness
Now I've realized
Only in love, a man owns
A woman, and a woman can
Own a man. Love, and love only
A lot of affections involved
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
Lincoln’s House


This notable landmark stands now silent and reserved. From its shelter one would be called forth to fulfill

a unique destiny in American history. He would have to be course and strong as the logs that formed his frontier home. The nation was on a collision course, there were the greater differences than one being

industrialized and the other still in an agrit economy. The difference could only be resolved after the scale was balanced with the lives of six hundred thousand men and the ****** of the nation’s greatest

protector since Washington and Jefferson.
Into this chaos an individual of peace would step fourth to make war on the other half of the nation it

would test his last measure of his convictions. In the person of one individual the whole country and its
fundamental beliefs would be tried once and for all the dross would be skimmed off and the purest part

of the national soul would remain.
Before the sunlight of freedom would again be allowed to burst forth into its former glory, a train draped

in black would make its way west caring its precious cargo his job was finished it would be left to a
distant home coming to give him the thanks of a grateful nation. We would enshrine him as a national

hero; for ever more we will pay him homage as the great emancipator and lover of the constitution and
the principles it avows.

His words over shadow us still freedom needed a renewed language he spilled the contents of his mind
and it formed the truest representation in the annals of human thought on the subject of freedom. He

was at home in each circumstance that he faced, he spoke with elegance his words found the center of his subjects there was no need for further discussion.

Subjected to poverty in youth but he grew rich in adult thinking and living and one who wept at the death of his son’s pony now was caused to preside over the death of many boys and men for a cause that was
greater

Than them all through dark war clouds a pristine sun shine would emerge across the breadth of the land
and in its rays a new lease on freedom would continue so great an experiment that was first forged in

Valley Forge
York Town and other places that small roots took tenuous hold to enable a colony to throw off the power

of a Monarch through the hard and seemingly impossible circumstance a common tongue would become the greatest voice for freedom the world would ever know


He pulled off these feats while at the same time he was a husband and father. He lovingly doted on his sons and never paid attention to their childish mischief. Was a loving husband to a wife that needed

a kind gentle hand. Through it all he was a successful lawyer.
He lived in an era different than our own but people are the same from generation to generation. The

lights were coal oil and they made your eyes burn no nostalgia or romantic thoughts leaped to your mind
Remembering these instruments of by gone days their home was fashionably decorated with silver and green wall paper fine furniture throughout the house. A favorite place had to be the back porch that was

sizeable enough to walk up and down on where you could gather your thoughts or just sit and muse about the problems of the day.

He kept his divine appointment fulfilled his duty to the fullest degree. When war and trouble raises its head we always find comfort in the familiar sad face of Abraham Lincoln he is our enduring treasure born out of the turbulence that consumed our nation for a tragic period. We shall always be grateful
Lotus Mar 2012
Black eyelids of the night,
Sing their inward sleepy song,
To the ocean of silence far below,
Whose wavelets of dreams are a medicine to the past days wounds.

Nights brow is doted with dew,
Dew whose origin,
Same to that of crystal caves bright blue and purple lights,
Is a perfect reflection of the Earth's simplicity.
Emilie L May 2010
-If I were *****, who would I choose?

The lovely Edmund treated her kind
Indeed, kind he was in her mind
He was protective of her
His words were of comfort
She doted on him so much
That seeing him with another depressed her

The charming Henry grew fond of her
On her gentleness and modesty he dwelled
In her modest and elegant manners, he found charm
There was a sweetness to her which felt warm
And Henry was seduced by such gentleness
He found her timidity so delightful
That for her, he harboured feelings so soon

Yet in *****’s innocent eyes
Crawford’s flirtations led to his own demise
Not indifferent to what seemed to be sincere efforts
He forcing his love on her however proved just worse
She was too much convinced of his pretence
In his endeavour, she found not grace but nonsense
His unsteadiness
Her ineffable kindness
They were too much different
On such belief, she wouldn’t be bent

On the other hand
There stood Edmund, oh dear Edmund
He cared about her so deeply
But his attachment was merely brotherly
Knowing such truth saddened her immensely
Yet she’d rather be with him as a sister
Than not be with him at all
He was too virtuous to be deceived

The goodness of her heart dictated to choose none
Poor Edmund was blinded by Mary’s doings
As calculated as they were, they promised sufferings
Edmund could think of no woman but Mary to be his wife
His idea of her was exceedingly flattering; what a plight
A hurt ***** could not change his mind
Her unwavering support never left his side

And the proud Henry Crawford
What to say of his ardent courtship?
At some point, vulnerable ***** could fall for him
But she never did, not even once
He changed for her in manners and words
But to defy one’s true nature would be to lie to oneself
Temptations so strong
In the presence of an interested Mrs Rushworth
Needless to say; his true colours showed, infidelity ensued

In the end, who to choose?
If I were in *****’s shoes
It certainly wouldn’t be Henry
Such a **** doesn’t deserve a pure soul like *****
Though I don’t doubt that he truly fell for her
He ruined all chances of being with her
His incessant words of love were received with pain
He tried to win her affection in vain
But to try to gain a girl’s heart with flowery talks
This is an unwise move, it is too much

Thank God, Edmund realised his error in the end
But can he redeem himself when he showed so poor a judgement?
I doubt so; and I dare question his change of heart
His infatuation for Mary faded, and his love for ***** grew so fast
Does it even make sense to have one’s eyes opened that fast?
I dare answer in the negative
This said, none of them deserve *****
If I were *****, I’d choose none...

-15/05/10
© eMs' silent poetry. All Rights Reserved.
Mohit Kalwadia Apr 2012
There was a star in life
agreed, it was much loved
when it sank, it did sink.
Look at the sky’s vastness,
so many stars have broken away
so many loved ones it has lost
the lost ones, were they ever found?
But tell me, for the broken stars
does the sky ever grieve?
That which is past, is gone.

There was a flower in life
which, I doted everyday on
when it dried, it dried away.
Look at the garden’s breast,
dried, many of its saplings have
welted, many of its flowers have
that which welted, did it ever bloom?
But tell me, for dried flowers
does the garden create an uproar?
That which is past, is gone.

There was a cup of wine in life
which, you gave your heart and soul for
when it broke, it did break.
Look at the winehouse’s courtyard
shaken, where many cups are
fall, and merge with the ground
that which fall, do they ever rise?
But tell me, for broken cups
does the winehouse ever regret?
That which is past, is gone.

Soft mud, we are made of,
wine drops do tend to fall.
A short life, we have come with,
winecups do tend to break.
Yet, inside the winehouse
there is a winepot, there are winecups.
Those, struck by intoxication
do splurge away on the wine.
He’s a raw drinker,
whose affection escapes no cup,
one who has burnt from true wine
does he ever shout, or scream?
That which is past, is gone.

By- Mohit Cristo Kalwadia
Amber Belford Apr 2011
my book was moved aside
he glared
why do you read
why bother
he nearly shouted
my ears rang
as i answered
to escape
the simple words
dripped from my chapped lips
like a summer rain
ending a month long
drought
to escape?
his voice pressed against my ears
probing my mind
with its sharp blade
of doubt and contempt
i cleared my throat
and adjusted myself
to explain
yes sir
to escape
my voice as soft as the hum
of my clothes whipping
twisting
and dancing
in a sudsy
technicolor ballet
to escape from
the mediocre soap opera
my life has become
from maybe maybe not
pregnancies
to mental family
members
from the woman that glares
and analyzes me in the mirror
every morning
to the shroud of invisibilty
that cloaks me as i walk
the streets
from the cruelty of the
midless drones that run
this world
to the intelligence
that is masked and stepped on
for a higher belief
he looked at me
up and down
transfixed
or
realizing he is getting more
than he bargained for
i patted my book's
soft leather binding
and a weary smile crossed
my face
in here
i can be whomever
i want to be
in here
i can live the life
i believe i deserve
i can be a
queen of anything
lovingly doted on
by her loved royal subjects
but when the pressure becomes
too much
the next day
i can be her
lady-in-waiting
who steals
secret glances
and secret moments
with the queen's favorite
palace guard
or
i can be the evil villianess
who traps the world's
beauty within her
septer's globe
but when my heart
freezes with her
cool intensity
i can warm my soul
as the handsome hero
who tricks the greedy villianess
and releases the beauty
for the world to share
the buzzer
announces the intermission
of its ballet
as i press the start button
flashing the lights
announcing it's finale
i check my phone
no new messages
flashes on the screen
i cooly shove it
back into my pocket
and retreat to my book
once again
his razorblade eyes
cut through the bounded pages
knicking my half-closed eyelids
but your life sounds far more
interesting out here
in reality
that word wraps its
barbed wire tenticals around my soul
and begins to strangle
no
no
no
in here
i give my book
a harder tap
in here
he loves me for who i am
not who i will
hopefully be
someday
in here
i let out a soft sigh and sink back into my chair
when i say "i love you"
i believe it
a knowing smile spread
across his wrinkled face
creating a timeline
of his years spent
washing
and loving
drying
and hurting
he pats my exposed arm
and retreats to his
basket of antiques
ready to fold
of course he found
my life to be
better here
his hand is on the remote
he can change the channel
leaving me
behind the static of
the humdrum
within the glass of
agony and self-loathing
as i turn the page
the soft crinkle
resonates
against the hums
and the buzzing
and the soft murmurs
acting as my mute button
Dorothy A Aug 2010
I poured a drop of water
on my daisy
and watched for it
to bloom

It didn't sprout fast enough
so I sprinkled away
with an extra helping of water
To follow up, I fertilized
Still, it was not as colorful
as it seemed it was meant to be

I doted on it
Extra sunshine
Extra dirt
Extra air

But didn't you know
that plants could talk?

It shook
one of  its leaves at me,
another one was like a hand perched
upon its stem
as it glared at me without eyes
Its golden mane of petals
surrounded its pale, flowery face
like a halo surrounds the sun
and it said

"Are you trying to **** me?"
"Did you ever hear of killing someone with kindness?"
"Thank you for your good intentions, but....they aren't that good"
"Let me grow"
"Let me be for now"
"Let me come into my own"

I heeded it's advice
never noticing it nearly
withered and shriveled in its fight
but then I backed off
and before I knew it
the flower bloomed to height!

Ok, so this didn't really happen
But the moral of the story is......

Sometimes, you have to stand back
and let things happen on their own
as you can be more of a hindrance
than you are a help

A lesson, I had to learn in life
from 1996...........but fixed up
Courtney Dougal Nov 2011
The only thing I did today…

I will never be one of the great ones.
She proclaimed, “Mediocre.”
I have licked the lollipop of
mediocrity, the sweetness pulled me in.

The never trying harder, became easier.
Laying down, lying about laying down.
I will go nowhere, and nowhere will
welcome me.

For I am as mediocre as any member
of nowhere can be. The machine of
dull people will **** me in, another
cog in slow motion doing nothing.

I will never be quoted, nor doted upon
by any hero. Never a leading lady
just the shadow around the spotlight.
Mediocrity is an evil friend,

one who I welcomed into my head.
No matter how much I plod him,
he never pays his rent.
Me and mediocrity are fated betrothed,

but no matter because I’ve forgotten
what light looks like. And striving to see
is forbidden by mediocrity and me.
Sydney V Nov 2019
As I stood,  
on the wet street  
in solitude, behind
the external lens  
in my hands,
I could hear the passing  
of painted, ticking clock hands
as they whispered and waved
through static noise  
from precipitation  
around me–  
        I wondered,
if a past soul  
of mine, contributed  
to a time of white flight,  
when a financial crisis  
sprawled like a crack  
on a windshield, from a chip  
in glass, created  
by another battle  
between politicians.
My present soul,  
              resides,
in Heidelberg,  
where  
stories of others
become painted dots  
on buildings  
climbing walls  
like spiders,  
their painted eyes
against the stark white,
doted house
seeing all.
Inspired by trip I took to Detroit back in October... it's a work in progress.
The Ripper Apr 2016
Venturesome tevv
vvant to make you
a 3rd time maker

S             R             T             H             D
       T              E            C             E

O             U             T

saturated && doted on;
vvith boundlessness.
LJ Aug 2016
Transfused with a doted blood
Stainless pattern of  the love
Color in red and spiral devotion
Beat the beast and fold the thrill

Transfused with angelic poison
Faintless on the road to the crucifix
Color in blue the trial attributions
Beat the beast and fold the thrill

Transfused with textual infusion
Sainted in hedonistic space fields
Color in kaleidescope spins
Beat the beast and fold the thrill

Transfused with a dared death
Bright visions of another world
Color of purple enlighten
Beat the beast and fold the thrill
I am not afraid of death
OnwardFlame Jan 2016
Yellow lemon shirt, bright purple shorts
You grabbed the end of my salmon colored sweater
“I like the texture. I have this thing with textures."
You said to me, our clean swift tanned feet
Escorting us to the city dwelled beach
You wanted to surround me with the same familiarity
You had practiced so many times before
But I was
So new, so fresh, so unknown.

I remember you sat on the bus, and popped open a beer
Too nervous to sit next to me, I kept my cat eye sunglasses--
On all day, your circular RayBans reflecting only me.

Remember the first time you walked into the room
Your longboard in your arms
Swan, brooding in black glamour, your eyes and chest
Seemed so interesting, to little ole me
But you jump swiftly into roof top pools
Budding and swimming, disappearing
Text me only to update me
Pint of Jim Beam, I knew I could keep up with you
I thought maybe you could too.

Theres something about reflecting back on this time
The innocence, nostalgia of it
That fills my bones up with summer soaked skin
Margaritas in the sunshine
As you doted on me through a cellphone
FaceTime became our middle name
As you reached from afar,
Promises we could have written into the sand
Only to watch the wind blow them all away.

Fast forward to walking down the street, arm in arm
You still extend to me sometimes
It feels like we have arrived on different planets
When we choose not to now.
Wings and outstretched newness remaining
Crying under your strong limbs
My heels make me an Amazonian Princess
You chose to not invite me tonight
I guess I don’t blame you
As you walk away from the bar,
I’ll always be eons and centuries far
Away from what we hoped we could be.
Kisses that grew with intensity and longing
Ducks and swans eating eggs and pie
Such contentment, falling asleep nestled like little dolls
You wanted
I wanted
We wanted
We hoped
For this to be
It.

Sweeping into our childhoods
Our families, the cities we thrived in
They’re so different, we couldn’t be more different
We ate sandwiches and should have held hands under the table
Like we do now at times at late night diners
Our loneliness and longing
We reinvent with time and poisonous bottles.

You said the other day
That my poetry feels like a story now
But I teach a lesson with each?
Green leaves edging up the length of your legs,
Our mamas so eloquently speak the truth
Your spine, remember all the times
You professed your love?
As I watched with careful eyes
Running away a little at a time.

We walked to the movies together
Lips smudged in deep red
I remember turning to you afterwards
"I love the fact that a WOMAN edited that!!"
The look of wonder in your eyes
Has kept me here
Bopping and bebopping
All along.

Fire hair, unicorn woman
Other men and women dance next to you
But your eyes shift away
Looking into my face
But you turn to go
Once you see I was never yours to keep.

Unbuttoning, dancing into the wee hours of the night
Across gallery openings
Crowded rooms
The windows of buses
Brown hazel eyes that look like mossy green forests
In the natural sunlight
Delicate but hard rugged skin
Tattoos that made sense under the ink of a gun
Spiky hair that can’t decide which way to sit
Chiseled features, and those lips I’ll always miss a bit
Strength personified by angels sewn into skin
A stature often teased but so mobile, grounded, and free
And lastly the beating entity in your chest full of carefree
Amorous beginnings and endings, humors manners
Compiled into the nymph who ran away with my heart in May
And I lament, "Will I forever be chasing pixie dust?"

I love you.
So much.
I do.
You love me.
You do.
So much.

But I watch you sprinkle the environment
The atmosphere,
Swans biting and swirling around it all
Directing and flying into the shining sky
A beacon of tomorrow and the tomorrows to come
As we inch forward and inch back
Like wild hunters on the loose
With your kindness, your sincere interest
Wonder
You always understood me.

I don't have the answers
I don't know how to keep you
I don't know how to reinvent what we were
As our bodies demand and beg for love
But we
But you
But I,
Insert the perfect answer here.

I knew I always would—
Drifting further and further away with each day
Sometimes I long for you to rush
Through the rip tides and muddy waters
Of the deepest ocean
To rise on the other side
Gasping for air, fingers reaching
As if escaping from a pirouette
I long to encircle it all in frothy candy canes
Unicorn blood stained new found friendship
But we send pics, conveying how removed we are
Blowing out every single candle.

I thought I would have all the proper words
That I could articulate so simply
So simply and with lightness
But you turn 24 in 3 minutes.

I guess I imagined all of this differently
Entangling myself in all of the vines of my words
My thoughts, my fears, my joy
I gave them away to you like little trinkets
A book of poetry, sums up everything we were
But if I compiled it all
It would take me years.
Everything we are
As I curl with love into who I am
As I explode with prophetic cinematic splatter paint
As the ripest orange zests and still professes
Just like we did that warm fall Missouri wedding day.

Thank you.
Thank you for the stories to share
For unknowingly becoming a muse
In my elfin ear.

I placed a sunshine emoji next to your name
In my cellphone
Last week
Because thats what you are
Thats what you will always be
No matter how many times our hands reach
Only to fall back to our sides
As we remember and dote on the time
I told you I was a Southern Woman
And you chased me down the street
Inked yourself with the metaphoric image of me
I wave farewell to it all--
As I held you so dearly in the palm of my hand
Little porcelain
Little porcelain

Baby.
Doll.

Happy Birthday Zak.
Set forth, I endlessly walked about
In search of salvation for my doubt,
I heard not once the birds in chirp,
Nor did I hear a prayer usurped,
I struggled to find a cause for all,
I found clarity in a sunken wall,
It was aside the path entangled,
So close to the edge, it nearly strangled
The sunken road upon which it lay,
But kept along those lead astray.
-
My footsteps seemed to echo on
The mass of bricks they stomped upon,
Once, I’m sure, a gorgeous red,
The bricks were grey now, neutral and dead,
Favouritism struck some paths here and there,
Popular people, families, and fare,
Though some stood alone, the weeds grown around,
Forgotten names and unsodden ground,
They hadn’t lost yet their sense of foreboding,
The lone standing pillars of remembrance, eroding.
“Food for worms…” I muttered and quoted,
Alas, the meaning, I couldn’t have doted,
For ”seizing the day” had it not meant to me,
But rather a gloomy sense of mortality,
I felt as though nothing ever mattered,
The human existence, dark and clattered
About the same misery,
We all must live, but we’ll never be free.
-
Searching out the scenery,
I, lost in thought, was scant to see,
How beautiful the day then was,
Broken down and all because
The sun didn’t seek the pavement’s shine,
The wind slightly whispered through the vine,
The grass, most dead, gently bobbed,
The light, the corrosive clouds did rob,
And it struck me in sections as to how it is,
To seek, to find, to know what love is.
-
Admiring this path, its twists and turns,
I rather likened it to Life unnerved,
It seemed as though all ends to life,
Congregated amongst all terms of strife,
Like all waterways unto the ocean,
They all met here in tumultuous commotion,
Lessons and morals could always be learned,
But this experience was what I yearned.
Boy Gaskell Feb 2014
Remembrance of a bad memory is
The only memory he will remember.
His mind is always racing over all of
These atrocities, not one pleasing,
His cause is fault by familiar faces.

Trying to steal his touch from
Old and dusty photographs,
Four stone walls trap suffocated
Screams of a doted past,
Flash of silver and red, a mélange
Of animalistic fervour and love.

The chalk will wear thin some day,
Soon he'll lose track of pure reality,
Forgetting is obliged but is it a cure?
The gruel splattering on the plates,
Dimmer becomes his pure identity.

Eyes scrunch, blood-red shadow,
Not enough to hide a past
Which is screaming obscenities
Within him, even Houdini would
Struggle to free himself from these
Self inflicted knots.

Lying on stone bed, comfort from
Dropping so high to places so low.
The boots that kicked his child’s soul,
Battered tidily into empty cars boot.
His son's wounds left torturing mind.

The appropriate father
Lying dead under his thinning
Crown, a forest of follicles
Giving way to exasperation,
Remorse and a manic lust for
Changing history.

Cleansing red drips from his palm,
Constant stains conspiring in mind.
The pre maternal shatters fear in tear,
No love left to bail the blood thirst.
Maybe if he could love lucks lie, then
He may glimpse a cooler freedom.

Hath he not heard the plea
Of kin, fragility wavering
In the shadow of a beast,
Tis' he who peeled back his
Own flesh to see nothing but
Blood and yesterday's regret.

The bliss of fine white hairs fall top,
Blisters burning from the foul cycle.
Flickers of mellow memories save a
Soul to reconsider his own judgment.
But time was arch from the first stab
Into the child, mercy rejects his grief.

Former clown's face steals
Sorrow from his slashed canvas,
And ***** stained swinging shadow
Cannot trip the hollow child with
Black eyes, who is forever whispering
Into his ear, “Why, Daddy?”
A collaboration between BoyGaskell and LewisHugo.
Patrice Jones Nov 2014
Only words of eloquence painstakingly chosen
and refined may paint this picture.
Alone and forgotten, like a seed's unbeknownst potential
left on the pavement for the birds.
For a daisy lacking pedals, leaf, or stem would not
ever have been thought to bloom.
A youth's realization began a life of friendship, and love,
and beauty of unmatched quality.
He found former choice lacking all that which the latter
gifted in grand white bouquets.
A bond unparalleled and uniquely honed under repeated
cast of golden sphere retrieved.
For the improbable flower blossom could only continue
when given love unconditionally.
Yet even an impossible flower would succumb to the
cruel and imminent crawl of time.
He whistles a tune that once was doted, wishing it
could again encouraged her evolution.
A boy and his flower, inseparable until the end that
stole sooner than hope could want.
To the plot where her love held sound root, buried down
deeply in the soil of his soul.
His only comfort to be found was in the life he gave her,
in her happiness self perpetuated.
In knowing that his painfully delicate flower never once
was shaded, nor stifled, not uprooted.
She was whole, and so was he.
But no longer.
Elle Jun 2016
When I was a kid I lived in a fairytale.
I had my parents, the king and queen of the kingdom
Who loved me unconditionally and doted on me; their baby girl
I spent my days chasing butterflies and trying to grasp on to those last remains of Summer
Before the Fall came
And oh what a mighty Fall it was

I was sixteen when my life stopped being all about fairytales and happily ever afters
And became a mixture of bitter hatred for this reality and yearning to revert back to those Summer days
But I can't, I can't reach those early afternoons playing in the sandpit of my childhood,
Or those evenings when I would run back to
a home cooked meal sitting ready for me on the dinner table.

And now as I wander ever faster towards the winter of my life, all I have is the memories.
They say you shouldn't hold on the past
But why not, when the present is burying you right where you dug the grave which you labeled the "good old days".
And the photographs on the mantelpiece come tumbling down as you begin to realize that mommy isn't perfect and daddy isn't invincible.

They're human.
And humans hurt, and they heal and they love, and they feel.
And never will there be a day when I look back and think, "hey let the past be the past"
Because now?
Now I live in endless agony, crippled by my fear of growing old; getting married, paying bills, and growing my family.
and facing the heartbreak that everyone has at least once in their lives.
If you're lucky, it's quick like the pain of a band aid tearing off your skin.
But if like me you're not, then I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for the pain and the slow burning ache that will settle itself in your heart and never leave.

Because sometimes,
A person will nestle a home for themselves in your chest and they will be with you all your life.
No matter what happens, even after marriage and children and all that comes with it.
You will grow old and in your last moments on this earth, you will reminisce about that love you lost all those years ago.
Not the one who got away-
But the one who never left.

To this day,
I live as a memory box
Constantly reminded that when you grow up, life's a ***** and then you die.
But you'll always have the memories to remind you that life was not always this way.
That sometimes, it can surprise you
And make you laugh like you've never laughed and cry like you've never cried.
You'll live like the uphills are mountains
And the downhills are cliffs to drag you back down to reality.


© Elle 2016
Shaine Fraz May 2015
Circo nips on the go, the road
no mortgage or roof on the mobile home
Making music with the wind, her curls
I watch it --picture frame the moment with my hands on canvas memories and dreams are sandwiched no lettuce but the tank lets us cruise with these 6 figure fantasies worry free courtesy a day dream
Or déjà vu if I could choose, and I chose
We choose to break the rules so what's on ya mind? pulled into a rest stop indecent crimes with a box full of promises tucked in my pocket
Just know that it will surface but to you I'm not worth it
Just don't cosign the lies that they tell don't sign the doted line or give me that bill --it's all premature don't treat it all like a stillborn
Still on fact I see once every 6 months
I figured I was important figured that she could wait now contemplating extortion, how can ways of the selfish out weigh what's important
Cue curtains, hands off canvas

A silent mourn prior to another portrait, she spoke:
"take my body if the last supper"
Pardon myself from my favorite flavor no savoring the savior who can't even save herself or society.
© 2015 by S Fraz All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of S Fraz
Sam Ciel Dec 2016
Drunk on love
Is a phrase I have never understood
Until now

It's the way you say lollipop
It's the minute bobbing of your hair when you laugh
It's your ability to fluster me and leave me speechless when I normally pride myself in my rapport and
I wonder what you're thinking right now
Is any of it the same?
It's your curiosity and your genuine soul and spirit and your tentativeness and your fear and

It's that the whites of your eyes
Remind me of home
Sun kissed skies
And a longing to roam
The horizon

There's a familiarity and I get a pit in my stomach that tells me I miss you.
I notice the difference when I reminisce, you-
The difference is, you don't smell like cow ****.

You smell like crisp morning rain
And bath salts.

I don't actually know your scent.
What I meant
Is that I'm calmed by the crashing of rain
And the other supposedly drives you insane.

You provide me with both:
An overwhelming peace
And an ever-growing crease in the folds of my mind
As I try to rewind
To the first time I met you.
Burned into my brain: the first time you set two
Boisterous, beautiful, brown gold orbs
Patiently on mine as you tried to absorb
All of the pieces of me
Contrast and contour
Not one fault ignored.
And by no fault of yours,
You sat and you listened
As sunbeams glistened
And my heart raced
And my mind doted
A smile donned your face
And my emotions exploded
Amidst this maelstrom of noise
These powerful currents
Distant echoes grew poised
And struck me recurrent

And your laughter sprang forth
From your buttercream smile.

Time slowed, and I thought: please stay for a while.

Residual raindrops grew reluctantly silent
The insecurities of my ever-racing mind resided
Dim in comparison to the fervor you'd quelled and excited

I could feel my legs keel and go weak
When you returned stolen breaths as you started to speak

And they told me to "be careful"
And "not to fall too fast"
But this vertigo feels lovely
And I'd rather it would last.
A joy to me.

As always, keep writing.
-Sam Ciel
Shaine Fraz Mar 2016
Circo nips on the go, the road
no mortgage or roof on the mobile home
Making music with the wind, her curls

I watch it --picture frame the moment with my hands on canvas
memories and dreams are sandwiched
no lettuce,

but the tank lets us cruise with these 6 figure fantasies worry free courtesy a day dream,
Or déjà vu if I could choose, and I chose.

We choose to break the rules so what's on ya mind?

pulled into a rest stop indecent crimes
with a box full of promises tucked in my pocket,
Just know that it will surface but to you I'm not worth it

Just don't cosign the lies that they tell don't sign the doted line or give me that bill --it's all premature don't treat it all like a stillborn,

Still on fact I see you once every 6 months

I figured I was important figured that she could wait now contemplating extortion, how can ways of the selfish out weigh what's important
Cue curtains, hands off canvas

A silent mourn prior to another portrait, she spoke:
"take my body if the last supper"
Pardon myself from my favorite flavor no savoring the savior who can't even save herself or society.

A fleeing dream so I bow my head in homage
no suffering no more, you've painted our last hour
she painted my true colors and the water works are real and the water color dripping from her slits surreal so literal my ******
pause--
is it right to call my lord a drug my lord I question your judgment,
Your words your core I judge is war or warmth
or worms, you were she was an apple to sight the but cost of love-- too expensive
shot of Circo now I'm way too aggressive,
I park my home parallel my clone and walk past the Dive Bar where we met regressing psychologically,
eyeing me from another table
her social disciples that follow her and rival my every breath
I take a sip reminded of that flavor, her lips I'm awoke since 3 days after my last fix my vice is her a grip
Who The **** Was That, That walked Pass?!
clashing personalities, flammable as gas I'm corroded
shotgun, empty,
as a weapon with no motive
no navigator-- nor a map to my emotions shes coding I'm losing it,
I'm losing her my portrait
promises are broken I promise my undoing is a loose interpretation I use it for my benefit
clever for I love you
I loathe you makes more sense  
so who am I to judge with an empty box full of promises intended as a tattoo
her legs on the table
I say my final prayer:

"for supper I will have you" wine hold the water I'm prepared for the last stroke.
© 2015 by S Fraz All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of S Fraz
Jago Lantz Sep 2013
You started out just like every other child
Desirous and willing to accept the dare
But alas you fell hard in a world so wild
That it left you trembling from the life-lesson scare

Still, you strive so hard to let your face be known
The sound of your voice and the prowess you possess
But there's no need to place yourself on a throne
And turn life into a mad game of chess

Your words are doted upon in kind
As you throw yourself in the face of disaster
Though, in time you will have lost your mind
Beneath the title you claimed as master

You are loved, dear warrior, not a God to be worshiped
So, make this life your own and not that of another
Take the old, holy book that you have ripped
And piece it back together for the sake of your brothers

We will remember you as the knight of honor
The one who saved lives for everyone's sake
For we were the only ones who saw you not as a fawner
But as a loyal man careful not to make a mistake

So, to you who has placed himself so high
We can and will most definitely ensure
That it is heroes who may die
And legends that will undoubtedly endure
Autumn Rae Mar 2013
I have to sing
When I want to cry
I have to bring others joy
When I want to die
I want to be free, but this is me
Fragile, coy, naive

Being smothered by my kin

This nightmare will never end
Being looked upon
And doted on
This isn’t me
I want to be free

So much for me to see
So much for me to know
But why can’t they let me be
Why can’t they let me go
They can only do this for so long
Before I finally escape and be long gone

You may wonder
You may think
Why does the caged bird sing
I sing because I know one day
I’ll be free
I will not let this cage
Get the best of me
V Aug 2018
A crack in my skin,
you glued it back together.

  a blemish with my mind,
you fixed it by force.

   a doll

that's what you wanted from me

compliant. complacent.

   easily doted in affections
and sacred anecdotes.

   you were devout to me,
but weren't you that way with all your dolls,
with all of your collections?

   I was promised to be your favorite,
but a favorite isn't pushed to the back,
kept in an attic with no golden rays
willing to shine on the broken skin.

   your favorite wasn't ignored.

   I wasn't your favorite, but perhaps that was for the best.

    you're a dollmaker,
a cruel one with
tenebrous standards, ehtics.

and help those who are your
f a v o r i t e creations;

as every day passes by,
I thank myself for
denying your quips any longer,
your routines,
the melodies of your lackluster
yet pretty promises.

   I was a doll, yours to be exact,
but pretty promises with no
density, and formidable
abandonment and ignorance
shall only go so far.
Samuel Aug 2014
She was tall and slim with hair brown and silky long.
She had chestnuts as eyes, and for face - the setting sun.

She doted on me for four hazy weeks,
She arrested my gaze for seven bright months.

I worked up the courage to reach for her hand
Our fingers entwined. A tear from my cheek ran

She dried it up with the heat from her smile.
While I comforted her when worries came by.

I flew out to see her in land and season cold.
And over two weeks a hopeful dream did unfold.

We parted as lovers from heartfelt embrace.
I kissed her forehead while she held my face.
...
We spoke on the phone - one month had gone by-
Apparently, she's too busy to date any guy.

I didn't believe it, but I didn't yet see
that it wasn't any guy, it was just me.

What should I feel? What can I say?
There was once a girl. She used me, and ran away.

— The End —