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Paras Bajaj Sep 2017
Red lips and weird faces.
Star-like eyes and no traces.
Benevolent ways and eminently wise.
Little hell and little paradise.

Timeless beauty but compassionate.
Gold-like bright but great.
No wings but flies high.
Little hell and little paradise.

-Paras Bajaj #PoetrybyParas
Instagram : @mr.parasbajaj
Lucius Furius Aug 2017
It promised to be quite ordinary,
that old student/new student/faculty social hour.

I had come to Champaign with high hopes a year earlier,
starting a new career (--and hoping to find someone to love).
Now, with just three months left,
my studies had been a success,
but I had not found anyone to love.
And now I was thinking beyond Champaign:
where I would go, what I would do with my new degree.

I scanned the faces in the crowd.
Mixed in with all-too-familiar classmates and teachers were new people:
A formidable, blonde-haired woman
with a big voice and a large imitation pearl necklace;
no meek, retiring librarian here; a Valkyrie.
A guy with wire-rimmed glasses in his early twenties;
congenial, but serious; he had studied engineering.
A girl; stylish, extroverted;
loved Faulkner; engaged to be married.
A sensitive, thirty-ish woman; recently divorced;
her ex had stuck her with a mountain of credit card debt.
And you, in a pink dress.
No jewelry, not much makeup.
Nice figure.
Very simple, very pretty.
A wonderful smile.
Obviously bright.
You had gone here as an undergraduate.
You had taught school in Iowa for several years
and now were back to get a Library degree.
You had grown up on a farm.
You were eminently lovable.
You were, amazingly, unmarried.

I felt that I was at an art exhibition in nineteenth century France.
Here was Raffaelli's "Boulevard of the Italians"
which had sold for 500 francs.
Over here Lecomte de Nouy's "Ramses in His Harem"
which had brought 1900.
And over here in the corner, neglected,
Van Gogh's, "The Artist's Room at Arles".
I felt like shouting,
"My friends, can't you see the beauty of this painting:
its simplicity and purity, its energy; the symphony of its colors!
You have opted for these smooth, conventional paintings
and left this one, the most valuable of all, unsold. . . ."

I felt like hugging you, right then and there.

You were number two or three on my all-time "instant attraction" list.
But I was wary -- so many others had not worked out, why would you?

Our first date was a "Streetcar Named Desire".
I put my arm around you during the play and held your hand as we walked back    toward your apartment.
I invited you to "Bubby and Zadie's" cafe. You refused and offered no alternative.
I was devastated. So this, too, would come to nothing.
We would walk the three blocks back to your apartment.  We would say    goodnight.
I would go home and cry. That would be that.

But when we arrived, my hopes soared: you invited me up to your apartment. You really just didn't like Bubby and Zadie's -- and you liked and trusted me well enough that the intimacy of your apartment didn't seem inappropriate. We talked for a long time and kissed. When I left, all traces of wariness were gone. The coming weeks would not be ordinary.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( )
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
Why Men Like to Load the Dishwasher

We are the artists of shape and configuration,
puzzle masters solving riddles of physics,
worshipers at the altar of labor saving devices,
this is a love poem of sorts, a Bazinga salutation,
to men and their undying love
for **** machines.

were it in my power
all cups would be handle-less,
the dishwasher time-space continuum
would be non-interrupted by black holes
where handles pointlessly protrude,
requiring endless rearrangement,
a soul destroying exercise.

bowls of any sort should have bottoms that retract.
indeed, the capacity increase, a visible fact,
is so enviro-friendly, eminently sensible,
that the loading for mechanical scrubbing
is deserved of a wing in the Smithsonian.

perhaps the budgeteers of Congress
should be tutored in this artistry,
how to make any limited resource,
better used.

the rub, as the bard would have writ,
is that this roaring tempest-tost,
our love for hard labor lost,
secret sacrificed behind a locked door,
of a Sanctum *******,
is entirely due, all glory to,
the secret society of fairies who
hide-reside inside,
freeing us to write more poetry.

in so many ways that I cannot reveal,
less the other gender members squeal,
men live to love to load the dishwasher,
for the ingenuity challenge, and of course,
the side benefit of the excusing coverup,
"I helped clean up," a relationship saver,
proof positively that the dishwasher inventor,
**was surely a brilliant woman
How beastly the bourgeois is
especially the male of the species--

Presentable, eminently presentable--
shall I make you a present of him?

Isn't he handsome?  Isn't he healthy?  Isn't he a fine specimen?
Doesn't he look the fresh clean Englishman, outside?
Isn't it God's own image? tramping his thirty miles a day
after partridges, or a little rubber ball?
wouldn't you like to be like that, well off, and quite the

Oh, but wait!
Let him meet a new emotion, let him be faced with another
   man's need,
let him come home to a bit of moral difficulty, let life
  face him with a new demand on his understanding
and then watch him go soggy, like a wet meringue.
Watch him turn into a mess, either a fool or a bully.
Just watch the display of him, confronted with a new
   demand on his intelligence,
a new life-demand.

How beastly the bourgeois is
especially the male of the species--

Nicely groomed, like a mushroom
standing there so sleek and ***** and eyeable--
and like a fungus, living on the remains of a bygone life
******* his life out of the dead leaves of greater life
   than his own.

And even so, he's stale, he's been there too long.
Touch him, and you'll find he's all gone inside
just like an old mushroom, all wormy inside, and hollow
under a smooth skin and an upright appearance.

Full of seething, wormy, hollow feelings
rather nasty--
How beastly the bourgeois is!

Standing in their thousands, these appearances, in damp
what a pity they can't all be kicked over
like sickening toadstools, and left to melt back, swiftly
into the soil of England.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
for her

no special expertise claimed,
if anything, les contraries,
my non-expertise,
but nothing forbids
my heart from trying
red crossing,
rebuilding just this young one

build from the corners in,
like one starts a jigsaw puzzle,
the human, moving parts,
thus harder,
but eminently doable

the corners are straight edged, linear,
easier to spot, easier to start,
but for you to find them within,
go outside, and window winnow in
you will know them as your
truest words

pick the picture
of you,
you know
you must pick,
the puzzle picture
of you

that favorite one
when completed,
will, though cracked,
as jigsaw puzzles
by nature wont,
as all humans
are wont,
will be the one
that brings smiles
first, foremost

she asks:
"Where are these edges that define me,
help me to construct and the where to begin?"*

after sixty years more on this planet,
have been torn apart,
reconstructed, deconstructed,
more then ten finger and ten toe times
this I know,
there is but one beauty
in this crueled worn
every day weary-world,
it is you,
you words that betray
Beautiful You
oh so well

you see I have your picture,
you see I have your words,
deconstructed, reconstructed,
I love your picture,
I love your words,
start with me, start at the corners,
show me the pieces,
tho the world see the ex
I see the in
the shiny new
true sides, so beautiful,
wake knowing that
not just me dearest Chalsey,
I have found your chalice,
and  your grail,
and I say,
this is just one man,
this can be where you start,

this then be your mirror,
let us from the corners in,
from the eyes that penetrate,
accept that this is not debatable,
this is my poem where I do not lie,
this is my piece of you,
from inside of me
my straight edge piece was
born in your beautiful words,
and I say,
can you, see a voice,
can you, touch a voice,
no one can

but I can

your voice is transcendent,
it is the cover photo of a glossy mag,
this is the photo, the puzzle I see,
and heart each and every word
Sorry I took so long

Read this poet, this woman, this woman's beauty
in her every word
Portentous enunciation, syllable
To blessed syllable affined, and sound
Bubbling felicity in cantilene,
Prolific and tormenting tenderness
Of music, as it comes to unison,
Forgather and bell boldly Crispin's last
Deduction. Thrum, with a proud douceur
His grand pronunciamento and devise.

The chits came for his jigging, bluet-eyed,
Hands without touch yet touching poignantly,
Leaving no room upon his cloudy knee,
Prophetic joint, for its diviner young.
The return to social nature, once begun,
Anabasis or slump, ascent or chute,
Involved him in midwifery so dense
His cabin counted as phylactery,
Then place of vexing palankeens, then haunt
Of children nibbling at the sugared void,
Infants yet eminently old, then dome
And halidom for the unbraided femes,
Green crammers of the green fruits of the world,
Bidders and biders for its ecstasies,
True daughters both of Crispin and his clay.
All this with many mulctings of the man,
Effective colonizer sharply stopped
In the door-yard by his own capacious bloom.
But that this bloom grown riper, showing nibs
Of its eventual roundness, puerile tints
Of spiced and weathery rouges, should complex
The stopper to indulgent fatalist
Was unforeseen. First Crispin smiled upon
His goldenest demoiselle, inhabitant,
She seemed, of a country of the capuchins,
So delicately blushed, so humbly eyed,
Attentive to a coronal of things
Secret and singular. Second, upon
A second similar counterpart, a maid
Most sisterly to the first, not yet awake
Excepting to the motherly footstep, but
Marvelling sometimes at the shaken sleep.
Then third, a thing still flaxen in the light,
A creeper under jaunty leaves. And fourth,
Mere blusteriness that gewgaws jollified,
All din and gobble, blasphemously pink.
A few years more and the vermeil capuchin
Gave to the cabin, lordlier than it was,
The dulcet omen fit for such a house.
The second sister dallying was shy
To fetch the one full-pinioned one himself
Out of her botches, hot embosomer.
The third one gaping at the orioles
Lettered herself demurely as became
A pearly poetess, peaked for rhapsody.
The fourth, pent now, a digit curious.
Four daughters in a world too intricate
In the beginning, four blithe instruments
Of differing struts, four voices several
In couch, four more personae, intimate
As buffo, yet divers, four mirrors blue
That should be silver, four accustomed seeds
Hinting incredible hues, four self-same lights
That spread chromatics in hilarious dark,
Four questioners and four sure answerers.

Crispin concocted doctrine from the rout.
The world, a turnip once so readily plucked,
Sacked up and carried overseas, daubed out
Of its ancient purple, pruned to the fertile main,
And sown again by the stiffest realist,
Came reproduced in purple, family font,
The same insoluble lump. The fatalist
Stepped in and dropped the chuckling down his craw,
Without grace or grumble. Score this anecdote
Invented for its pith, not doctrinal
In form though in design, as Crispin willed,
Disguised pronunciamento, summary,
Autumn's compendium, strident in itself
But muted, mused, and perfectly revolved
In those portentous accents, syllables,
And sounds of music coming to accord
Upon his law, like their inherent sphere,
Seraphic proclamations of the pure
Delivered with a deluging onwardness.
Or if the music sticks, if the anecdote
Is false, if Crispin is a profitless
Philosopher, beginning with green brag,
Concluding fadedly, if as a man
Prone to distemper he abates in taste,
Fickle and fumbling, variable, obscure,
Glozing his life with after-shining flicks,
Illuminating, from a fancy gorged
By apparition, plain and common things,
Sequestering the fluster from the year,
Making gulped potions from obstreperous drops,
And so distorting, proving what he proves
Is nothing, what can all this matter since
The relation comes, benignly, to its end?

So may the relation of each man be clipped.
Nico Reznick Mar 2016
They don't speak, all the long,
winding bus journey.  They are
strangers, with nothing in common
besides the No 50 route
and the free travel passes
afforded to them on account
of their quietly advancing years.
She sits in the seat in front of him.
Their eyes never lock.  His myopic
gaze through thick NHS lenses
rests neutral on the back of her head,
her softly blue-rinsed curls and the collar
of an eminently sensible overcoat.
They sit, both silent, as
- outside the foggy bus windows -
winter has one last chew on
time's bony old carcass.
She has a slight stoop which
she's doing her best to hide, and his
shaking hands make his liver spots blur.
They stand - the bus stopping at their
mutual destination - shuffling sideways
into the aisle, and something
The bus jolts suddenly forwards,
then lurches to a startled halt,
and she falls backwards
into his arms
and he
catches her.
For a second,
strange gravities assume control.
There's a moment,
governed by different laws of
physics and chemistry
and half-forgotten, half-remembered biology.
She flushes, infused with something
warm and thirst-whettingly girlish, and he
surges with a newfound potency,
standing taller, the woman he's supporting
somehow lessening the burden of his age.
Her spine straightens, and
she laughs.  His face, smiling, youthens.
His hands hold her unstooped shoulders and
don't tremble.
Sun breaks through cloud outside the window.
They remember it's spring out there somewhere.
Based on an incredibly cute event I witnessed on the bus today.
Earl Jane Dec 2015

My love will always,
Be with you my dear soulmate,
All the time my king,
Forever, it's infinite,
My all revolves around you.

I know we have fears,
Fears of losing each other,
Though in fact no one's leaving,
And it's normal my darling,

'Cause we're in realms of TRUE LOVE.

No matter how long,
Oh, my loyalty won't fade,
I will just be here,
Patiently waiting for you,
For God is blessing this love.

I only want you,
I only need you, Brandon,
My love's forever,
I'll risk all just to keep you,
I'll protect you my dear king.

Remember my love,
That I will never give up,
Even with trials,
I will stand firm and fight hard,
I'll do whatever it takes.

'Cause I truly love you so eminently,
And I'll demonstrate you my love endlessly.

with love <3

© Earl Jane
♥ E.J.C.S.
For Brandon <3 <3

I love you so much brandon,,, i am trying my hardest for you,, and no matter how long, i will wait for you,, i love you alone,, i only want you, i only need you,, the only man i want to spend my forever with, i love you so much!! me most!!
amanda martinez Apr 2014
I whispered this secret to the ocean, but it was rejected on the sand.
The pressure has become too thick for me to withstand.
The words have over heated, locked in the oven…well overdue.
The truth of this all may burn, but this needs to be heard by you.
An unquenched thirst in a drought…
My world has flipped around, completely inside out.

Before I could find the right words, I resorted to the dirt.
I buried this secret as the seconds ticked…only way to obliterate how much it hurt.
One day the clock stopped ticking, I thought it was well off buried; eminently suppressed.
Come to think of it, the ***** little secret was just compressed.

Constricting so tight I began digesting my lungs…
Nothing bothered me, because everything was numb.
So I replaced my eyes with reflectors from the sun,
My heart fell in lust with the concept of a dark place to run.

Grabbed my lucky charm and a parachute, with the intent to leave one at the ledge.
From the top of the cliff I jumped, just as I made my pledge.
If I were meant to fight this battle, I’d make it to the ground: free fall.
Lucky charm in hand, all dependent on fate’s call.

This is a tough war to face alone, but the last thing I want is sympathy.
Just asking if you’d have my back…if need be.
Pretty well off on my own, I don’t want any kind of hero,
But if you can handle it, meet me at ground zero.
June 5, 2012
Sombre loneliness in the abyss of power
Where selfishness begets solitude,
In which the powerful ones that be
Eminently hang alone self-ostracized
In a high catacomb of democracy
From which is connived the foul whims
Of dictatorship, the sole protégé
Of deliberate exclusion, rendering mankind
To beautiful menace of powerlessness
A pedestal on which civilsations of Africa
Substantially dangle in a stand.

What Twigs We held by—
Oh the View
When Life’s swift River striven through
We pause before a further plunge
To take Momentum—
As the Fringe

Upon a former Garment shows
The Garment cast,
Our Props disclose
So scant, so eminently small
Of Might to help, so pitiful
To sink, if We had labored, fond
The diligence were not more blind

How scant, by everlasting Light
The Discs that satisfied Our Sight—
How dimmer than a Saturn’s Bar
The Things esteemed, for Things that are!
Earl Jane Aug 2015



                                            Bringing a bunch of yellow flowers,

                                                     Which I eminently love and adore,

Then, you were

                       ­               r
      ­                                      i
                         ­                      n

        ­w   o
     I           n

         w  h

And felt your tears

                    ­                    A
                                           ­ L
                        ­        N

                   ­                                      on me,

My heart was

                  C      R       U        S         H           E           D !

I don't want to see you in that way,

                                                        ­   I tried to hug and comfort you,

                           But I was locked in this box,

                                                  With a glass in front of my face...

                           © Earl Jane
                             ♥ E.J.C.S.
The Terry Tree Aug 2014
In the dance of joy
Shape shifting transformation
Symbol of the soul
Your wings shape our tradition
Tasting of flowers as you walk on them
We too can taste the flower of our consciousness

Your rhythm is like a hymn
Upon our hearts you land within
Color and joy vibrating through
Lightening up our spirit bright
Smoothing and soothing us to shine

Your grace and airy being
An emblem of pure beauty
Two butterflies a mirror
To twin spirit fires
Wandering essences of life
Potentiality of breathing as seeing is unto believing

Rising from the grave of our disappointment
Learning how to coexist with ourselves
To become the immortal gardeners
Of the raised boxes we have built
Inside our curious self contained
Wishes for longer, better breaths to understand

Metamorphism is logical
Favorable waters can both bring
The birth of new beginnings
And a dampness to our wings
Dewdrops drip down eminently
With knowledge capable to wet our minds chrysalis

To become blessed and also blessing
Our last breath here is your ascension
To become the valor of life that we most strive
Before our last exhale in dying
Flickering illumination flame
Oscillating omnipresent wings colored just the same

The sun has seen your face
In the mirror of the ocean
Looking back it smiles with grace
To know to look like you fulfills
A solar fire and daily light
In every morning's resurrection

Replacement to our hand
Emblem to human life by five fingers
Center and core to Mother Earth
You demonstrate our dream rebirth
The compass to a land from childhood
Traveled to grown woman and to grown man

Our cycle of life displayed
Between the two of us heart shaped
Not to confine or to be caged
We slip through cracks and bars and blades
Reincarnation glowing surpassed
Living as now would have us stand

Though moments carry out as wrong
Your transformation is a song
Picking ourselves back up again
As life conspires to the end
Our inclination to defend
We learn to access skills of intuition

No sugar coated affirmations
Just the beautiful truth as it is
When we can barely rise for air
Remembering our Universe is abundant and aware
Recalling everything we love with openness
Fluttering above what overwhelms a mess in us

Spirit Butterfly beside you ride
Fly with us, love us, teach us with guidance
Peaceful resolution as we transmigrate
Healing takes place here with me
Your loving wisdom always reminding
The choices that we make can be creating loving space

Unfolding in new ways
Willing to let go of situations that will drain
To flourish and to grow we cannot waste or simply remain
Kindness in life will help sustain
Divine connection is always on
Opening new doors with which limitlessly we


Lady that in the prime of earliest youth,
Wisely hath shun’d the broad way and the green,
And with those few art eminently seen,
That labour up the Hill of heav’nly Truth,
The better part with Mary and with Ruth,
Chosen thou hast, and they that overween,
And at thy growing vertues fret their spleen,
No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth.
Thy care is fixt and zealously attends
To fill thy odorous Lamp with deeds of light,
And Hope that reaps not shame.  Therefore be sure
Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastfull friends
Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night,
Hast gain’d thy entrance, ****** wise and pure.
Eminently most nights
you enter my dreams
falling languidly
within each
moving ethereal scene

The first light of morning
feels cold and unwelcoming
an imposing enemy
waiting for me to rouse
staring blankly
carrying me away
from my most precious clouds

Sleep and the peaceful state
of 'just being'
has become my most
sought after friend indeed
upon awakening
I recall with wonder
who is luckier?
you or me?
Glenn McCrary Sep 2013
Discernment often resembles a fable
When translating the language composed by women
As tantalizing as these creatures may be
Various medleys of gestures so fallaciously are given

On certain occasions it appears that
One’s efforts have been green lit
When so suddenly red flags are discovered
Dancing amidst the clouds

Gradually the entire project
Grows to be eminently disheartening
Women, the puppeteers that they reflect,
Behave as if the universe
Is a vaginal duplication
Although society may deem that laughable
The results of such callousness
Quite strangely are familiar…
This poem was designed to be a subtle yet personal diss to this little lady who dissed me by blowing me off after agreeing to hang with me.
Raj Arumugam Oct 2013
And so in days past
the Zen Master sat with his disciples
in silent meditation
and a Divine Being appeared before them all
and addressing the Master, the Divine Being said:
"Hey, listen you - yeah, you, the Eminently Bald
For your patient and sustained meditation
I offer you a reward
Choose what you like:
infinite wisdom, infinite beauty, or infinite money"

"Infinite wisdom, of course," said the Master, promptly
And so it was done, and the Divine Being disappeared
as Divine Beings usually do

Silence followed and then one disciple dared to speak:
"Oh Master, tell us something
now that you have Infinite Wisdom"

There was no pause, and the Master said:
"I wish I'd chosen Infinite Money"
I thought I'll come back - and how appropriate, when one is coming back - with a Buddhist joke...
Woke up this morning,
reflections jeered and echoes heckled.
Heal thyself, Dr.Jekyll.
O I'm jonesing for my jekyll.
I've got a moral jones
to atone for my jackal,
crunching characteristically on carrion.

Of my lethal laurels
I beg your forgiveness's divestment,
I beg your pardon
for being a seething mass of resentment
who woke up this morning
and hated whites
and hated blacks
and hated dogs
and hated cats.
I hated jinks
and I hated chaps,
I hated the Gews
and I hated the Jermans.
I hated
and I hated slurrrrrrrrriin'.
I vehemently abhor the lean,
eminently detest the fat.

I hated you and I hated me,
I hated two and I hated three,
I hated poo and I hated ***,
I hated coffee and I hated...
hot chocolate.
I hate predictabilitea

and I hate surprises.
I hate David Gest's
Hollywhoops butchered boat
and I hate Liza's
( they were nipt 'n' tucked up alright,
by a master of misguises, Doctor Dazza,
whose surgical muse for his knuckletip ops
was Louis Tussauds' woeful House of Wax.
Once his account held Gest and Minelli's cheques,
Doctor Dazza skipped Tinseltown, to Great Yarco
began the swim back).

I hate 50 Shades Of Grey
and I hate whites and I hate blacks
and I hate that I'm not attractive enough
to relax and contract
AIDS offa Anastacia Beale.I hate 50 Shades Darker
and I hate Jitler and I hate Jebus.
I hate the spider monkey and I hate the rhesus.
I hate your species and guess what I hate your genus.
I hate 50 Shades Freed
and I hate you if you say 'tomarto'
or if you say 'tomater'.
I hate Ivan the Terrible and I hate the wine-waiter
- if his name was Ivan, he'd be Ivan the terrible wine-waiter.
I hate coming across as veritable cliche
of a whiny creative.
I hate 50 Shades the movie
and I hate the endless shades of grey of history.
But what do I hate most? There's only way to find out...
I hate Harry Hill,
it's hard to walk up after you've had a gillful
at the Wagbo Arms. I hate black
and I hate white, let's never again speak of
half-a-tonne of the midway point between their tones,
I hate literary shifty shades of  bonkbuster tomes.

I hate the whites and I hate the blacks,
I hate the whales and I hate the aged,
I hate the Reds and I hate the Sky-blues.
I hate the way you don't hate me for hating you.

I'm an equal opportunities misanthrope:
I hate you if you're a divorcee amputee
exile from Bucharest,  badgered by a
rash from your wooden knee.
And I hate you if you're the next stage
of human evolution and your name is Stuart.
I'm an ecumenical misanthrope:
I hate the secular sphere and I hate the kaffir emir,
and I hate multifaith, multicharity, multihope.
I'm a misanthrope into political consensus:
I hate Lib-Lab-UKIP-Tory,
tho' I hate the Tories morey.
Got them mudblood Red Flag Blues again.
Louis Tussauds = locally infamous and now closed waxworks in the seaside town of Great Yarmouth, noted for their risibly tenuous likenesses
Christina Hale Mar 2018
I go to sleep at night to only dream about you
I go to work wanting to be close to you
You are eminently but improbably my type but I want you
I can't stop wanting you
It must be that thing you do
With you being you
And with those eyes that pierce and see right through to me
And with your comebacks on everything I say
You being so openly gay
And the cool way you walk
Cute voice when you talk
And you always have such good advice
And everyone loves you including I, you're so ******* nice
And it's just not fair that I can't get you out of my mind
And it's because you're so ******* kind that you have taken a hold of my soul
I just need to let go
Need to let go

My heart is sore
And it's you I can't have
You I adore and I want more
Than just these stupid dreams and fantasies of you
But I feel you do too
Or maybe I'm just a delusionalist
And I need to quit envisioning a us

And it's you I can't have
Yeah it's true
It's you I can't have
Is there something wrong with me
Why don't you want me
Is there something wrong with me
Oh wait
I get it
Not interested
Or maybe I know
You might just be strictly professional
But just like me wanting what I can't have
Yeah it's true
Wanting what I can't have
I think I just need to let this crush go
Yeah just need to let it go
Just need to let go
Hanna Jones Jan 2016
I do hope everything goes as arranged.

As it is but a delusion sometimes,
everything in this obscured brain 'o mine.  
(Yes, I hope it works out.) :::
Maybe, somehow.
Life has it's way of being a schmuck.  

Perhaps, we could live in our heads. Die in our beds. Become ghost and bobble around hospital beds, secretly trying to make the living better and happier.
Because we are virtuous ghost.
Quite content with being so.
And I'd be happy, if you are happy.
And if you are sad, I am eminently sorry you became a ghost bobbling around hospital beds,
secretly trying to make
the living
and all of those ethical, virtuous
Nicole Miguel Apr 2017
I like someone I can't deny.
I think of her every time.
Sight of her make my time die.
Butterfly want to come out fly.

I don't know how can I comply.
My feelings acting like wild fire.
I want her heart too know my heart.
Eminently want her this hard.

Only If I could tell what I feel in my heart.
Hear me saying can I be in your heart.
I will cherish you, Care for you.
Do everything for you.

If only I could tell.
I miss

I miss your hair in my face
I miss your lips, the way that it tastes.
I miss your nose when it collides with mine
I miss your eyes, eminently when it shines.

I miss your body, your form, your shape
I miss your hugs, it makes me safe
I miss your kiss, it builds up my day
I miss your hands, how mine and yours sway.

I miss your tender love and care
I miss your presence, all the time that we shared.
I miss all those memories that we had
I miss you, love, I miss you so bad
allison May 2016
Texts I never sent once you left me, again*

1. Nothing feels as comforting as your arms around me.  I remember feeling weightless with you.  Now, my body is constantly strained from carrying my broken heart.  It's so heavy.  I'm so ******* heavy...I'm sorry you're heavy too.

2. I'm not happy with what I've done or who I have become while loving you. I'm sorry for being so hazy

3. Last year, I made a promise to myself to only surround myself with positive people.  Coincidentally, I met you shortly after.  We grew attached at the hip, always together. Your antics rubbed off on me, along with your enthusiasm. I've been isolating myself since you left.  I broke that promise to myself- when I needed to keep it most

4. You shouldn't have to justify why you fell out of love. I'm sorry for begging you to

5.  My grandmother told me I would have my heart broken before I found the one, but if I was lucky, the same person would repair the damages he had caused.  I was heart broken the first time you left, but you came back.  Why aren't you coming back now?

6. I'm heavy again, I'm sure you are free by now

7.  People tell me my sadness is pretty, that the words spewing from my heart are divine, but my words were never enough to make you stay

8.  I want you here. I want you to kiss the marks I created when I didn't want to wake up.

9.  I miss you eminently and sometimes I can't feel my body.  Please don't tell me you understand or that I'll be okay.  You aren't ******* listening

10.  I woke up choking your name

11.  Every single time you promised to stay- you should have clarified that you meant as a memory

12.  I've been splitting my veins like glow sticks in hopes of seeing new light

13.  I'm ******* tired of all the metaphors, why can't it all just be about you again

14.  Poe encountered a raven, while I encountered you.  Somehow we both went mad

15.  goodnight
mikecccc Nov 2015
eminently lickable
possibly crunchable
with a tootsie roll center
you my friend are slim
with let's be honest
kind of a big head
you are unhealthy
if only to a minor degree
you make me think
of Dr Freud.
.i. flicker

leave a candle
burning in your
window should
you ever change
your mind when
we're both old and
gray, or older and
grayer than we both
are now, if you tire
of following your
Traveler ways,
oceans with no
good place to stay,
if you remember we
once had a place to
call home, if you
remember that
once you were
never alone, leave
a candle in your
window, sweet amber,
come home... but those
are just dreams of mine,
you traveling the world,
because it hurts less
imagining that you
just left me, that we've
nowhere to go, and i've
no-one to see, since that
day i last saw you, lowering
into your grave, and all i've
left are cold shadows, as
i've learned to be brave, oh
how i wish i'd been brave,
and sometimes when i
think of you, i truly, so truly,
wish i'd not been born,
wish i'd never been born.

ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ

.ii. for amber wherever your soul may be

we walked along those streets of cold night
we did what was wrong though we knew what was right
now i feel all alone with no love in sight
but know you are still with me

ღ ღ ღ

we laid in strange beds, though not merely to sleep,
our tracks may be gone, but those scars run quite deep,
standing at the abyss, can i peek, but not leap?
no, for you are still with me

ღ ღ ღ

when i feel that i've surely lost all of my might
when i'm lost in the dark, and can't find the light,
i will hold back my tears, i will keep up the fight,
. . .
i promise you this, despair is banished,
and i'll never again try to join you too soon,
for i believe, someday, i will be with you

ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ

.iii. a touch of frost

so late last night
winter's last kiss
left amber flecks
amongst myrtle hills
and the most vibrant
hues of tenné and rust

ღ ღ ღ

so many miles i want to embrace
eternally changing beauty
unparalleled by any other
in which i can only see
your eyes and hair and
voice and spirit

ღ ღ ღ

last frost left
by a retrograde sun,
your solace, though knowing,
you just couldn't be the one

ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ

.iv. snow in may

it hasn't fallen so far south
this late in my life
and wind bites through my jacket's fold
just like a stabbing knife

ღ ღ ღ

a snowflake melts upon my lips
a lost touch from your fingertips?

ღ ღ ღ

the wind feels slightly warmer now
and i don't need to wonder how

ღ ღ ღ

it cannot be coincidence
it's much too apropos...
don't need to guess why it has come
i think of you, and know

ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ

.v. event horizon

you're gone from this place
just as all things must go
whether diamonds or dust,
bound by time and by tide,
by erosion and rust,
and our choices are viewed
from such far, distant shores
as long nights steal away
clarity found by day
which twilight underscores

in my heart, in my mind
memories start to form
and then call upon
a trace of your sweetness
for it can still linger on
and on, and on,
and, oh, sweet amber,
how you still linger on

ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ

.vi. you're slipping away

i feel like today
i could write of you
forever, it was visiting
you last night, where
you will lay forever,
where we can be
a moment or two
still somehow
still together

ღ ღ ღ

but now it's been enough
and now it's time for me
to put my love for you away,
high-up and hard-to-reach,
in that special type of drawer;
full of needles and thread,
of thimbles and buttons,

a place that's
not often opened,
but so welcome and warm...

in times when
its contents can
heal what's been wounded
in times when
its magic can
mend what's been torn.

ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ

.vii. the invention of this passion

all things must
return to their place
as water falls down to green, foamy seas waving,
as waving arms, tired, falling back to our sides,
as sides of mouths, smiling, start so subtly falling,
and cruel, hopeless pining banished out of our minds.

ღ ღ ღ

of your eminently brilliant, ever-duelling mind,
of your infinite obstinance (which was what it was),
of your so loving, gentle, most softest of hearts,
contrasted by furies like hell hath not wrought
when my love and the needle were all that you fought.

ღ ღ ღ

of your cutting your mending your purging your dying
of your love for me and your hate for yourself
of your love for that junk, such hate for yourself;
how i ran away when you needed me most,
my greatest regret and my greatest disgrace,
of you travelling all alone
to some far-distant shore...

ღ ღ ღ

of all of these things
that still make me curse
the sound of morning's alarms
that rob me of you

as no time,
nor no place,
nor no heavenly grace,
nor chance will stand as friend;

on your such
faraway thoughts
do i rise, do i fall
for even a moment?
are you still out there
out there in the aether,
have you forgiven that
which was unforgivable,
as i ran all those blocks
to a payphone at Safeway,
instead of knocking frantic,
on some neighbouring door?
and just writing it down now
i break down now, i hate now
myself forever, the only thing
i can't ever forgive of anyone,
and i'm haunted today most acutely
i can't hide, as a bright light is shone,
with you and our love, now 20 years gone

i long sometimes for death
if only to find out if you are
there, or if there is just nothing
nothing at all, save for those
three short words of
i love you

it's the irony of ironies that
something as sublime as love
could strike such a vicious wound
where a 2nd hell can be found
if one explores too deeply
and begins to drown
at the very bottom
of ocean memory

ღ ღ ღ

yes, all things must
return to their place
and i am glad you
returned to yours, to ours,
ahead of me, maybe, preparing
such a place, but i must live today
not in dreams of the past, not
in hopes of the future, for
if i know one thing, it's
you'd want me that way;
we all must go sometime
where you have gone,
and we don't choose
the time, no, it
is the time
that always
chooses us

yes, i am more glad still
you may wait for me there
and just maybe

you went to
where your love
was needed most,
and who am i to
even guess

ღ ღ ღ

Such is life, that whatever is proposed,
it is much easier to find reasons
for rejecting than embracing.

ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ

.viii. recovery: 20 year reprise

have you ever had
something in your life
that you wanted to be over
just as badly as you so very
much never wanted it to end?
for me that is exactly today,
this endless of endless days.

ღ ღ ღ

only snippets left
that are losing full
both craft and meaning,
perhaps, for inside of me
the feelings are petrifying,
and so i'm losing them,
and so i'm losing you:
your voice, your smell,
how your touch felt,
the taste of you,
everything you,
even soft,
and shared
ecstasies, too.

i loved you once
and could not stop:
though knowing where
it could/would end

you loved me when
you wanted to:
you loved me
when you could;

and that was, and
is, enough for me;
your prettiest face,
i cannot see. for it is
fading too, and,
is seeing also
believing, isn't
that how this love
thing's supposed
to work? and yet...

when you sadly
questioned me, only
then would i admit,
yes, you're right,
yes, it's so true, that
when i write of loving,
i can only write of you.

and that was the beginning
of what became your final end.

ღ ღ ღ

i love you not at all:
i had to stop for
it was killing me.

all these
only in my
mind, long
gone from
any medium,
now i must
quick get rid
of them... so,

i linger over each, then
in my mind i hit delete;
they can no longer find a home there,
or i shan't stave off my defeat.

ღ ღ ღ

i love you not at all:
it was so easy in the end;
i remember when i quit you
(just this evening, 6 pm).

they never tell you when you're young,
they never tell you once it's gone,
that years of loving feel so short,
these days of pain so ******* long.

ღ ღ ღ

i love you not at all:
(that is, until i close my door...
for since you took your life away,
i but love you all the more).

ღ ღ ღ

maybe i need to stop,
& to finally let you go,
for if i can't let go of you,
i'll have no room to grow;

and maybe this is even
the last, very last, day
i'll ever write of you.

ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ
.ix. honeyed memory

ღ ღ ღ

just for today i am yours,
and you are mine again;
you live today once more,
if only in this heart of mine,
and even a single word more
could not be anything than mere
superfluous commentary

ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ

.x. i must stop now; a prayer

goodbye my lost love,
i miss you so much,
and if your mouth is
perhaps closer to the
ear of the Almighty
than mine is, and may
ever be, can i ask this
of you, though i am
not deserving
you know more
than anyone
please ask of Him,
to let me learn
to forgive


ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ
ღ ღ ღ
Overture: Missing you today, a visitation, now I feel you fading back away.

This date burned into my memory, when I left you there; how can it have been 20 years already? I've gotten so old, and you've stayed so young.

Enya - On Your Shore
arubybluebird Aug 2014
I hope you are well. Truly. My name is gladys, I am twenty-two, this is not an autobiography. This one time I almost crashed my car into a metal sign post in order to not run over a pigeon. I often leave secret notes hidden between the pages of books from my favourite authors in public libraries and book stores. I never got my photograph/ senior quote published in my graduating class' yearbook in high school because I am eminently indecisive. I don't mind it, however, I sort of like the idea of it, a somewhat absent nostalgia. I really like it when people unthinkingly do kind things for other people. I like the color blue, a lot, although I rarely wear it. I use commas quite excessively in my writing. I like that they indicate a brief pause but are not as final as periods. I like many things, I like to do face exercises and arm stretches at night before I go to sleep. And that, that is all. For now.
You are wonderful, goodnight.
Caroline Grace Oct 2014
It's too late
They said as her petite frame
Spiraled then plummeted into the sea.
She's already ascended like a dove,
They felt no need to hesitate
At proclaiming the unfortunate's fate.

Always quick to hate
What they cannot annotate
Yet so eager to love
The greatest of us
Reborn from our ashes.

She took the leap
Not to cease
But to breathe -
Through airborne lungs
To see-
The greatest moments ignite
To fuse-
With an infinite moment in time
In one fleeting hope:
After the waves
Drew her lifeless limbs away,
After she slept
On the ocean bed,
Her words might eminently thrive
Though no one heard while her lips held life,
Their once-deaf ears would at last listen
To a phantom's composition.
tight as tartan turpsnudgers' pursestrings
be proverbially bound,  titely as such
   stucious rufous stereotypes succumb
          ta brite lutes' letheanthems,
        lushbrutes' 'Lemme atums
               o' shanter!' Or tight as a sequentialbumperoffer's
tape mufflers
o coCeeness is! Is i did as i did as i didun needtanot let Her come
so instant-aye nearuz, wusso instant tame me
us that it's weird, but neverso weird it's too near
ta me. i wanna bethe darkest mother-
****** me when i grow ups and downs,
with the hardest core, found
a strop shire by the banks of the
river viccissippi of my tude.
Didbut i dodon't knowbe-
cause She's

what i should do now. Now it's notso cool,
atleast not forso long, when i'm almine all pine, alone in he-
heat, so no more solongs thatmatter
for long. Coz notso long, i'm on my waynow,  
past no win knowin', 'ceptsave formore of the cosmic conspiracy
surroundin' that lackof
facts, 'bout what? Love's precogknitif
life, divine aboulia for two freer ta have an os sacrum
when we ache yum,  th'our liferent *** is a sacrament

where earth's choicest mercy lives,
so let no terse or courtesy put it asunder.
In postorgasmic sangfroid
of Our warmhearts mushymooey woozydoodlewick
what crucithickies fremd for sin,
lysanity lives! Tho' not in 'otel-
rooms exscinded, unexplainable stains th'intel of sin
exciting dishonesty's exsecting.  No, 'tis a clean join and high,
fidelity. We should even love our exes like the dead.
And love, that's clearish as ***
- i'm hi-sayer only ta Her, intensely, without leave.
It's no Ceecret or liceycret
Cee crept thru me like
a heavy geppetto ta haul my crawl
outta woodwork alps, pathetfordforests of rubbots,
bullbait of bare traps.

i was a secretbomb, bardear-  
drumfusedtongue secretin'  
sonic glooms of imploetry. But now i'm Cee's ******,
for She unstuffed my **** -  was no secret
bom bardit or owt, thiswaswhere my secretbomb bard-
'ead popped.

Quittin' poisonous logic
of mithridatic reclusivity coz She's sweet
as killesterol puddings, juggerpukka as an oldmucker
inthe years youth spruced up.
Sweet teeceepee shootist - of no putrefying pistol - Shestuns
forever my septisame me a bloodpoising wishfear

gunloadedwith one odd advantage, granted.
Such germs from exes were hexes less tacit
than tackedon bullets, but i'm pompomhome
in terms of pumpaction playtime  
coz Ceejay's my x-ies, WAHAYvision - loosens
my tying visions of a horseshoe shootingiron
like a t-1000's lassoicide.

i'm fondlefully fond of sapiosexbomb Cee,
explosionofpossibilities She sets off defuses me.
She's eminently permissible Satirist and Sanitarian,
with looking mind healthilfy enough ta free blind liceman
of ingrown sights astriple x as a ******* and a saltire
spitroasting a treasuremap.
Cee desterilicezingly ***** out endobrutal, selfshootin' growth
of mansdownsides, old sting-
ing in licey's riskyexwhores of eyes,
mouldering from all those stolid saladdays
when sensuality was a trope
quite like 'tripe', 'trap', 'trip'.  

o my Hereye's on... Sensed event, You all i...
Over softcoarse or rather falsehooddivorced firstdays,
and debauched and engorged allthenextdays,
that my Girlfriend's exceptional! Cee's cool-
ness is basking praxis of lenient idealism running a home
whichint runfrom; belle axe ta the ******'s hut my heart'd become!

Finely striped belly, tough as a tygoness, CJ yanks  
me like i'm Her jackpot, baby'sarmedbandit,
wags lucky lice like willie lumpkin's lugs,
-  no fairystale ballaxe or unporny story, between my legs
when She's happywith... Meow-
gasm? i growlgasm,
i'm that twaggish kind of cheshire ****, whizzed
thruol' churchorcheese toothshowin' carrolliannmog's insanityquiz.
Hearing voices, multiplechoices,
4 CJ
catherine May 2017
Sometimes I miss him
There are times
I don’t.
Like random flu shots,
Like a stopover down the road.

I’m not all over him -

Clearly no desperate longing
At any angle for his somber, dark eyes
Nor enigmatic smile.
Though I do admit -

Gaps of the day, I use to fantasize
Ever allured by the curves of his body
Tenderly lulled by his mellow voice -

On my knees, I am hypnotized.
Visualizing the way he brushes his fingers
Eminently against my back.
Rejuvenating - it sends chills down my spine,

Yes, my spirit’s taken aback.
Oh, I’m in denial but if truth be told,
Unravel the message…

Read the first letters of every line and unfold.
Still, I can't get over you.
Indra Sep 2018
Seeking sanctuary within the caliginous abyss,
Eminently awaiting Death’s ineludile kiss,
I sit and reminisce,
About all the sins committed & soon to commit.
Down on my knees beseeching God,
To free me of the odds.
I chuckle back tears,
It’s quite ironic after all these years,
How all the fears,
Deep revelations & still nothing seems to be coming clear.
Tell me, my dear,
Do you ever feel the darkness hidden in rain?
Do you ever wither beneath it and succumb to the piercing pain?
I can feel his grasp closing in,
He’s been wondering about when I’d come to this inevitable end.
Death marks it’s scent in the air,
He’s clearly coming but I can’t even commence to care.
It’s too late to escape the chains tarrying within his lair.
As the black eyes of death meet the brown of my own,
He extends his hand,
“It’s time to answer for your sins.”
I guess this be it, friend.
A muse whispered something to me...
Aztec Centeno Jul 2016
I**n an epoch of dissonant raucousness,
The land reeks of corruption.
Humanity to dilapidate
To a seemingly ages-long anguish.
Excruciating; it torments the soul.

An odious scent,
A deep well eminently putrid,
Foul enough to send legions
Forthwith, cowering,
Caterwauling in trepidation.

Although, notwithstanding, it subsists:
Beneath the contagion
Of a ravenous plague,
An invocation, a call to permute,
A purport to exhume
What has gone adrift.

Where goest thou, oh relic of yore?
From the toxic shores
Of newfangled premises,
Thou hast been washed away.

A feeling of predilection,
Of warmth and affection,
Thou art forgotten, unfamiliar, hitherto.
Long overdue to recur,
A matter of time, it is such.

And thus so, we shall wait
In the sprawling gape
For the fervent abstract of love
To once again take its shape.
Really just an expanded form of "In a world full of discord, where do we situate the long lost idea of genuine love?", nothing more.

I just made myself a fool for expounding on it even more. :/
Demi Coleman Jan 2016
Why can't we all just get along? Life would be easier if everyone you saw could make you smile. I just don't understand why people don't like other people, just because they are them... Why do they have to hate instead of encouraging and loving? Why does everything have to be so fricking hard when it could be easy... Humans as a whole don't appreciate anything. We trash our lands, we mistreat animals, we hurt our own kind, we hurt people who don't look the same JUST because they don't look the same... It's sooo ridiculous. I don't understand it. And if someone isn't the perfect "model type" we want to put them down and take away their worth. THEY ARE WORTH SO MUCH! We can't even respect ourselves enough to love everyone... And why? Because we feel bad about ourselves we have to make others feel worse? The concept of "misery loves company" is embedded in humans today, and it shouldn't be. We should all be soooo happy that when people look at us they become happy as well. Just imagine if everyone was happy in the world. The less fortunate as well as the extremely wealthy... When I close my eyes I try so hard to dream of a better life, a better world. And when I open them again, it's the memory of that dream that keeps me going. It just makes me so, so, eminently sad that not a lot of people dream that dream.
l Aug 2015
Six years had already passed me by
But our memories still make me cry
The moment you left was indeed sad
I thought, perhaps. I would've gone mad

The sadness may have left me slightly
Though, never completely nor entirely
The thought still makes my heart brittle
Oh, how it hurts to have you just a little

My mind sometimes wanders off to you
Are you doing okay? Are you feeling blue?
Perhaps you're very happy with your flower
Which fills my heart with sounding laughter

At times I can't help but to think negatively
Have you forgotten the glass globe mindlessly?
The bliss in my heart turned into fears
And the sounding laughter became tears

Nothing in the universe will ever be the same
Without your presence that set my heart aflame
No grown-up will ever come to fully understand
How to me, your existence was eminently grand

I was aware that people come and will eventually go
These events in my life had helped me to grow
Though deep inside my heart, I will always wait
For the instance you come back, my dear mate
this is a project for school - a poem adaptation of the novel, the little prince.
Kiprotich vinny Apr 2017
Imagine that look,
That book,
Full of love emotions,
Expressions of unsolved equation,
That is known to hearts,and that never hurts,

That burn to red,
But never destruct trend,
It construct eminently,
It stand permanently,
love that has reason,
That survives all seasons,

love that is meaningful,
Always willingly,
That endure pain,
love that qualify and enlarge emotions...
when just a little boy inured to ****** harm
   i stuck a bean inside my button nose
which caused parental fright and alarm
   which yielded putrid odor
   like black pearl jam stuck between toes

foul fumes a nauseating  offal stench
   detected by mere fluke
from mister good wrench
   pinpointed putrid source
   above where one would puke

necessitating face mask to approach
   decomposing nut size bean
   inducing outcome from
   those approaching awful odor to pass out

even the most practiced
   die macho men turned green
   in addition from special ops
   military forces confessed doubt

to accomplish mission in this challenge
   from an enemy unseen
thus pitting me in danger if
   slowly germinating seed sprouted full size

   planting roots into cerebral fertile gray matter
forcing motley crue to brood
   at this unusual impasse – no lies
   but truthfulness, which outcome

   could find me akin to a mad hatter
lest quick fix for someone
   with a knack with moody blue eyes
like those of I bet ye will never guess who

came to my rescue
and eminently rid me of
   near fatality this threat he slew
while clergy waited with family,

   whom held breath against noxious p u
worse smelling than buffalo chips
   or animal when poops goes moo
imbedded flak eliminated threat

   to this kid – a very reformed Jew
when with delicate application
   of tweezers across room bean flew
dunning torpedo like ricocheting
   off head of doctor George Andrew.
Kiprotich vinny Nov 2017
When in the struggles of life,
She  denied me access
Real access to her juice account,
Chest thumbing of her boundaries,

My boyish was burning eminently,
It was  in need of  the juice,
I pitied myself in disgrace,
But have become better with time,

Jemosi  is no longer the one you know.
You hold no more water,
In my breath you are part of my past,
You killed my love fibres, when  a teargas canister landed on my ****** expressions...

— The End —