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Knit Personality Aug 2015
Were you to say a cloudy sky was clear and blue and sunny,
    Or cotton ***** felt rough against the heaven of your skin,
Or for its bitter taste you loathed the very sweetest honey,
    Or Mozart's tutti to your ears was a loud unmusical din,

I wouldn't doubt these things to you were in these ways appearing—
    That Mozart's music did so much your tender ears offend—
I'd only doubt your touch, your tongue, your sight, and sense of hearing,
    And would an extra dose of drugs strongly recommend.
Dylan McFadden Jul 2018
My eye is never satisfied;
My ear is never filled...
By the beauty of a mountainside,
Or songs that give me chills

Every sight – a hollow view,
I look for more and more
Every sound – an empty cue,
Nothing to answer for
---
My eye is never satisfied;
My ear is never filled...
Ten thousand times I must have cried,
Then smiled – lied – with skill

Everything I see today
Will be, tomorrow, gone
Every sound will fade away –
A shrill inside a yawn
---
My eye is never satisfied;
My ear is never filled...
Does Meaning ever coincide
With life, and hope, and thrill?

I dream this dream, within a dream –
No substance, light, or power
I sing this song, without a sound –
My voice, the wind, devours
---
My eye is never satisfied;
My ear is never filled...
I might as well be groping blind,
Deafened – senses killed

I long to see that final sight
And hear that final word,
To show me Something in this night,
And assure me that I’ve Heard
---
But…

Maybe, I never, seeing, See
And never, hearing, Hear
Because the problem is IN ME:
This heart of death and drear...

This heart, it must be satisfied;
This heart, it must be filled!
For, we all see from deep inside;
The heart always distills...

.
Inspired by Ecclesiastes 1:8.
Lizzy Apr 2016
It's all much too
Loud.
The world going by me
Is much too
Noisy.

There's already a consistent scream
Inside of me.
The last thing I need
Is to be in this world
With too many
Sounds.

So I hide
In my room all day.
I hide myself away,
Because when I hear
Everything that's happening outside,
How everything moves just fine,
I begin to lose my mind.

Why can't I move the same?
Why can't I become
Part of this well oiled machine?
I'll never fit into
The motions they all execute,
So I sit on the edge
Of their common reality
And watch it all turn.

I watch it
But it gets too much
It grows too loud
And now I have to hide again.
Hide myself from all the sounds
That start fires in my head.

Run
Little freak.
Run
Black sheep.

My ears are too sensitive
To be in anything but
Silence.
To be in anything but
Quiet.

The vibrations of the outside
Go in my sensitive ears
And amplify whatever is already
Being screamed in my
Tortured
Tormented
Time bomb
Mind.

Then they go to my eyes,
Well right behind
And build pressure
And pain
Until I have no choice but to
Cry.
Cry.
Little baby
Little freak
Little black sheep
'Tick-tock', says the clock
You're too late

But he knew to himself
that he could never be early
and could have never been

But he only knew this
when the clock had chimed

It's time to go
she said

though it sounded more like

It's time to say

                                                  
                                                    Goodbye­  



he didn't hear
for she
had deafened him
with the sound of
her voice

he gave her a broken smile
and a stare that would last forever

will this be the last?
he asked
knowing this was the first

he knew she loved him too
in his dreams
at least
High-Low
Invisible Jan 3
How I lose myself in me,
When I hear your melody.
What a lyrical performance,
Like a swan upon the ocean.
Touch the sky, come back down.
No limits when you're around.
Your words are timeless.
Such a beautiful mess.
Even when it's raining emotions.
It's still such a lovely moment.
You leave it out in the open,
Even though you’re broken.
Yout fight all you fears,
You fight all your tears.
I hear you, even when you disappear.
'Cause your voice is music to my ears.
Originally a song (As usual). Figured it could work both ways.
I don't know what compelled me to write this. Maybe it was the amount of healing hearts I've seen. Maybe it was the amount of love.
This is something different because it's not about loneliness. It's about having someone. It's about how much someone means to you. You accept all their flaws even when they don't. You're there for them, always, and their opinion matters to you. They still mean so much to you, even when they're gone.
This is like nothing I've written before. It's sort of....less dark..?
:)
Egaeus Thompson May 2015
Admitted to taking the reduced ruling
Fourteen souls accepted what this is after
All
Of this...

Immediately unavailable to face Sunday's showdown at
The Stadium.

The Titan gave assurances to the souls today.
It will not take any further action
-Despite the deal-
But their identity is still unknown
Some suggesting only retired evidence.

Hand in hand with sickness,
The hound (who is widely regarded)
Appears to prove why force
In recent years
Did indeed highly fancy tomorrow's feature;
"The Winner".

The hound first knew his fledgling
When he could finally be on the road
While his empire expanded

"I used to hope for the best"
Titan tells us.
"I used to have a while and
I used to get sick.
Now I just have to find a way
To use up that time.
I speak only to the Landlord
And his tenants.
I only blame myself for the sickness.
All I know is where I've come from
...At least, I think so...

...I hope so."



"It's a funny thing!"- Hound.

*Pressure keeps you honest.
Wet, heavy conditions expected tomorrow.
So, with everything said,
I wish you peace and love.

Love is waiting.
Jolan Lade May 2018
I look and my brain is swelling
I listen and my ears are bleeding
I feel
Im desovling
Looking at the dark cornors
Listening to the white noise
Makes a gray world
R Nov 2018
;
Hey girl
Why you sitting alone?
What is bothering you so much?
Please don’t say I don’t know
Why you so sad?
Even when you go out
You sit in a coner
And look down
Tell me girl what’s wrong?
Why you wanna be alone?
Oh god stop it with your I don’t know
Because you should know
Girl please tell me
Maybe i can help
What do you mean you don’t need any help?  
Fine fine i am leaving
You don’t need to be such a drama queen
****** attention seeker
You are just a wanna be
How come you don’t know what’s going on in your own mind?
She leans towards him
And smiles
With whisky in her breath
She whispers in his ears
I don’t know
And you don’t need to know why
At times we don’t know what is bothering  us
acacia Jun 2018
To be a human and to
drift in and out of
here does not seem plausible.

But when I am to die and I
open my eyes, I’ll find that I am washed
up on shore.

Somewhere between my birth and death,
memories continue to be made and fade.

To be free from this cycle 
of life, death and repeat,
will be the ultimate goal.

I want to be free. To live a life in valleys,
to sit in grass,
to wade along the shoreline.
i’m constantly comparing myself to others.
Kathryn Rose Mar 2018
Sweet face,
Soft ears.
Her eyes pierced me.
Soft giggles.
Everywhere she went,
She left a little piece of herself
Behind.
Tanya Feb 7


I looked through every playlist,
with a hope to find You in the songs
to hear Your voice, track You in melody
Let my ears enjoy;

I searched for You in the cabin
where the book You gave me lays
I found You in some poems but then
You’re somewhere, far away;

Maybe You are hiding in the t-shirt,
I can sense You there,
only scent is what I find -
I search for You again.
Äŧül Feb 2016
Their voice so harmonious,
Silent when no strings attached,
All the curves so very ****,
Smooth is their texture,
Admiring their beauty with fingers,
You seat them on your lap,
Putting their arms around your shoulder.

Tickle them hard to make them peck,
They touch your heart with their sound,
Nibbling your ears in between,
The motion generates friction,
Friction generates heat,
So icy sweet is her music,
All over, you script success.

I talk of my guitar here.
I now possess 2 guitars.

My HP Poem #1022
©Atul Kaushal
Madeleine Jan 21
Whispering of sweet
nothings from the pick up lines
to cute sweet nicknames

sweet elegant songs
from music, loud and gentle  
written just for you

from indoors to out
bird singing sweet melodies
thunderstorms rumbling

doors slamming all day
food sizzling on the stove top
people snoring late

your majestic voice
so cool, calm and Collective
your voice is my guide
ryn Apr 2017
Kiss me asleep
with your obsidian lips.

Protect my ears
from the cacophony nights would bring.

Fill the void
between heartbeats that skip.

Take me into the lull,
and into the siren song that you sing.
Adilson Smith Nov 2017
I would say
I love you with all my heart.

But that's not quite right.

For I love you with far much more
Than just that one part.

For instance,
I love you with my lips:
They pucker lovingly like filled balloons
Rising skyward in a knot.

I love you also
With my eyes. Like a ruly clerk,
They sieve your frame with careful affection,
Vitalized by every detail.

My ears, too, are full of love.
I can feel them during the night;
Thumping with blood
As you rise and decline
Asleep in my nook.

There are many others.
My eyebrows, so enlivened,
Agitate my face
And my toes, so excited,
Tense in my shoes
As though afraid of getting wet.

Other parts aren’t so conspicuous.
My arms plot in the dark --
They long to swim around your waist
And link us back to breast.

And my fingers, naughty things,
Scheme to tease your dress
Above your pretty knees
And above your pretty chest.

Would you believe,
Even my ****'s involved!
Though he’s more obvious
With his *****, open smile
And cheeky morning breath.

But chief of all my loving parts
Is my un-run soul
Unkenneled, at last,
Sprinting furiously
Next to yours.
# love #silly

Note -- this is very much a rewrite of Watsky's splendid and original "love poem" (worth checking out on YouTube).
D A W N May 2018
i remember the way your hair shined through the sunny day
studying the way your eyes flutter every time you stutter
the words you cant say
i remember how pleasing your voice was beneath my ears
i remember being with you
washed away my fears
do you remember the days where we used to lay in the shade?
forming figures in the clouds
having long conversations for hours
nights where we stayed up late
getting into stupid debates about who's right or wrong,
picking out the right song to play over and over again.
remember how we fought over stupid stuff?
and even though times get rough, we'd just laugh it all up
do you remember when we met in September?
in english class where the hours didn't last
and that's where it happened so fast
creating memories that we thought would remain
but all we created
was pain
and that was the last day i saw you.
sitting on the bench
with another girl
my heart clenched
cheeks tear-drenched
my pride craving for revenge.
listen darling,
i just want you to remember
from the beginning of september
remember the long-lasting splendor
the last moments of us being together
because i remembered
and dare i keep it in my heart forever.
first poem i wrote way back 2016
Samantha Cunha Nov 2018
Perked up ears

Let the fears

Drift away
drift away

The intuition

Of the gods above

The angels above

It speaks through you

Yes

It speaks to you

Let it flow

Past the logic

Into the heart

It fills the heart

Then it overflows

It pours out

Into the universe

Trust that intuition

Listen close

Listen close

Perk those ears
Nat Lipstadt Aug 7
for you, of you: you’ve been between my ears

close enough to being on my mind,
almost the same thing,
though that’s unfairly inequitable, we both agree,
for when in an ear one opines, too oft it escapes
out the other side, only a tree ring mark left,
someone was here, present

as for the Confucius confusion in

ok, who’s writing this poem to whom,

cause it’s never clear between us
who is
asking the questions,
since the answers come
demanded and undemanding,
fomenting newer questions and follow through,
before, as well as,
‘please sir, may I have some more?’

the mutualizing game tasking begin-began-begun,
for this, our lovely crazy teasing of our-thing, ago began,
don’t recall who or how intimated-initiated
this oil drilling exploration,
who is the annointer and who is the annointed,
who seeds the plants, picks the fruit, and who
gets paid with cloves of poems, by the bushel

you say I’ve been on your mind,
which we now have both pointed out
is somewhat extraordinary since,
the sight lines are drawn through
long distance cloudscapes that travel
through underground cables,
making everything said,
fallow and rich-ending, deeply frustrating,
impossible to see the outcome

clouds usually imaginary, (not like now),
making visibility normative poor,
unlike the real ones I’m flying at the moment through,
ensconced in front row seat 1F, heading northwest passage,
passing by so ridiculously close to where
you are minding the soil,
as I am
mining your soul’s soil, tilling it between the ears,
of you, by me, for us, and the excited sadness
makes me happy and yes, inequitably, again,
hopping-mad

because your breadcrumbs and dark Swiss chocolate bars are
scattered and defaced, bitten and chewed, lovingly licked melting,
we who cover our tracks too well;
but what I do have, makes me ravenous,
having read all your poems,
in random order and then one more time,
sequentially

I see your history, near escapes and resurrections,
in fine grained moody minutiae punctuated by huge gaps in between,
that we must cream fill with clouds of wondrous loving curiosity,
a torture so exquisite, only the gods could have invented it like
Sunday Night Football,
and crazy sayings,
like I love you too...

been on my mind and I imagine you
hot and sweaty,
bent over, aching tired, from
picking weeds (gotcha),
when sudden one of us stands up straight, back aching,
screaming out loud
this is crazy, and follows up with
a *** Darius type proclamation,
who’s writing this poem to whom
issued to the upwards-skywards,
but addressed to ourselves,
the poets

as we search clouds by the thousands,
is that you in that cloud, in that poem,
I look down thinking that, that must be,
the plot of green and dusted light brown ground
where she has gone into hidey-hole hiding,
disappearing for months at a time,
before arising for the sticking of me
in the sticking place,
wounding me fresh with brand new poems
scandalous and imaginous,
and our imaginations are both
too skilled

so here I close, overwritten, overridden, too long,
overshot my imaginary bounds, so one
pulls down the shade over the oval window
through which too many great stories have commenced,
and ended

the thick cumulus shouting
as we look up
as we look down,
saying “enough, you crazy people,
your poems tell too much,”

perhaps, find me in that
next bite of herbs buttered,
and then ask (of course)

who’s writing this poem to whom?

then breathe out, exhaling me a
breath-poem up above, to where I’m hiding
just as I, am sending one to you,
earth falling from thirty thousand feet,
coming to rest on your mind,
in between your ears,
friend

<>

8-6-19
somewhere in the sky, clueless, heading north by northwest
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2016
child of heart
but not of womb,
would i'd been
gifted to ban the
hope-thieving,
spirit-throwing
parasitic lies,
to shelter ears
& fragile petals
against bruising,
whiskey-glazed
acts and words.
would i might be
gifted now to
soothe, cradling
tender soul through
deadest night's
watery gloom.
yet firmly i know
none other will ever
be gifted to bestow
what only One balm
can perfectly renew,
and He waits for you,
my beautiful girl.
Tommy Randell Dec 2014
To loosen with my bare hands
the wide air between us
in explaining something of meaning
I almost feel
I am pulling flesh
from the living and moving moments
possible here.

It is somehow breaking
the natural order of things
to use words alone
of all viable means
in setting out the wind-waves and rivulets
of ideas internally flowing -
but I must try and get something out for once.

I circle in bad phrases
prickling with the itchiness of sharing,
I send out a few vague words
horrified and perplexed
at their translation now they are naked
knowing you too listen
and they are at last unalterable.

Deep in the brain, far back
this is my bad time
but I know where the roots go
down into me
and from the storm’s heart
perpetual agitation pumps hand in hand
with calm acceptance.
The self *****, alternately
to fan and to freeze
whatever doubts or unease are burning.
Talk travels the spaces between us
through the clear air
in the kind of silence
surviving bones may know swinging in a wind.

But I know stillness can become alive
when living mouths bring their hearts to bear -
ears can well hear
what the breath has to say,
as the eye sees
the body’s smallest noises -
face to face we are a field of listening.

The warm comes without sound.
This is only the edge of a becoming.
We are not trapped in the lips -
already we lean inward
to know of each other and to give
not words for the wind
but a dance at ease with all that flows.
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