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Why did you do it, just stop right there
To leave me standing in the cold.
I was scrapped for parts, left all bare
Spending countless nights all alone
Waiting for a sign to free me from that mare
And I try not to fight, but I’ve lost the light
I’ve fallen before, but not like this,
I’ve held my own and built back up
But something is different
It’s some how changed
The pain I once felt has left and drained
Time turns left and the sky turns blue
Dust to dust, an eye for an eye.
I slowly realise. I’d **** for you
I wrote this poem one night when I was alone. I am not bright when it comes to English but poetry is about what comes from the heart, and anyone can talk about that.
MARGA Jun 2018
your precious smile,
that never failed to shine;
a heaven-sent beam,
that made my heart your realm.

2. your tenderness,
that gave me bliss;
how could someone be
like you, so dearly?

3. your good vibes,
that surpassed all tribes
in giving off the positivity
i need for my stubborn reality.

4. your talents,
that awakened everyone's hearts;
you are my significant inspiration,
you give life to my life's ambition.

5. your humility,
that's filled with sincerity.
while everyone else is toplofty,
you remained lowly.
not everyone as wonderful as you,
could show meekness too.

6. the happiness you shared,
at times when smiling is something
i never dared;
darling, it meant everything.

7. for your meaningful silence,
that gave me a better comprehension.
although your stillness was tense,
i knew in my heart it was never a rejection.

8. for your music,
that never halts to flourish.
music, your depiction of aesthetic;
through you, the melody will never tarnish.

9. for being your genuine self,
you gave me potency to do the same.
shamming is no longer something i'll play, for you taught me how to
end that witless game.

10. for bringing me daily sunshine,
for setting the moon & the stars aligned;
my everyday became better,
and i will treasure you forever.


there are way more reasons
on why i love you for real.
through the passing seasons
i could slowly & slowly reveal
and show you how i truly feel.
as time passes us by,
i would no longer hesitate
and keep my sentiments ensconced.
through the coming weeks, months and years,
as long as we have all the time
i would dauntlessly lay out to you
that the way i feel for you is true.
written with whole heart for my dearest .
//
let me tell you
that i am true
ㅡ and i always will be.
Amelia Sapp May 5
catching the hesitation that these silent
worlds glaze

meaningless. smoke. echoing.
though am unworthy lover
stays,

- a.s.
Scarlet McCall Apr 2018
Lucifer, save us; come up from Hell—
take a good look at the place that we dwell.
You were right all along
to refuse to bow down
to Adam and Eve
and their limitless throng.
And how could you have known that the apple you gave her
would plant seeds of pollution, destruction and terror?
You thought that we’d only use knowledge for good.
I know that you’d take it all back if you could.
Lucifer, we aren't angels like you.
We joined your rebellion, and soon we’ll be through.
Now the recourse from the wreckage that is,
is to bring on the foreshadowed Apocalypse.
So come on, Luci, don’t hesitate:
The Four Horsemen are pacing; why delay Fate.
After the End, there will be a new start,
perhaps without humans; we’ll bow and depart.
This may be a PF re-post but I lost the original and this is what I came up with from memory.
piper m Jan 10
"Kiss me."
Now, why would I do that?

"You know why."
Do I?

"You're lovely."
You're lovelier.

"That's why you should."
Maybe I will.

"How would you feel?"
Honestly?

"Yes, honestly."

I don't know.
I don't like love poems
Cné Dec 2017
~
O Painter
with thy own eye
                        would thee
paint me in mine own natural hue
prithee paint me as i am,
imperfections
            and blemishes true

Load thy brush
                      with colors sundry
to maketh yond first pure sweep
across the ****** frieze,
fill'd with pangs of hunger.
paint me as i standeth
                  bethought, in deep

With mine own love and mine own desire,
blurring the edges unclean
with mine own regrets
                  and mine own mental gyre,
in mine own natural age,
               of deep forest green

O Painter
Paint me sinister turquoise,
in lavender and maroon,
combine the amethyst and amber
blend the iceberg
       and the indigo moon.

Paint me as i standeth,
       prithee see with thy eye
a mistress in yond lady plight
Prithee paint me all i am
i cullionly
a mistress in all yond lady might

Paint me in the optimistic
                             silv'r of dawn,
but don’t miss the purple
to shade the bruise
                              of the bygone.
paint me in the sky blue journal

O Painter
Paint me as a unique template
smudge black white and grizzled
merging all the colors of thy palette.
col'r me a rainbow
                            in a rainy drizzle

Paint me tall so yond i standeth
loftier than any mountain
Paint me as a dram bird, delicate
with soft feathers silken

Paint me harmony, as a violin
so yond i can sing thy solitary tune
paint me as thy poetry
         with song and melody
wrapp'd in a cocoon

O Painter
paint me as a dream yond rises
                               in did saturate colors
with a steady upbeat flight awry
tint, a fluttering
             of a quite quaint butterfly

Portray me with endurance
imbue so bold and bright
doth not hesitate
                to depict mine own mind
in profound fuchsia and white.

Useth the colors yond thee would borrow
Thy palette not yet exsufflicate
Paint mine own loss and mine own sorrow
in search of a shade so ******

Adorn mine own heart in glowing garnet
at which hour thee paint mine own love
add a true broken blue shade
of the cloud and the rain above;

Study mine own dry sorrow
                              in mine own soul
useth any shade thee plaited
soften the edges of control
in a tinge of xanthene.

O Painter
Prithee paint me
Mine own passion and mine own spirit
shall has't a crimson r'd hint
mine own remorse and mine own regret
shall reflect an ink stain print

Paint me in mine own eye so true
O Painter
but add a dash of courage too

~
When I paint, I’m never quite satisfied as I see all my mistakes, blemishes and colors not quite right. I tend to keep painting to try and get it all right. At some point, I arrive with the conclusion, if I keep going I’m going to mess it up. I stand across the room and, it’s then that I’m amazed at what I have created. I like to think that I’m seen in the same way by my creator.
Diana Garcia Aug 2018
I’m set
All my features
are built to make you wet.
Thick thighs,
An open mind.
One of a kind.
Meant to Be’s
Destinies
All seems like *******
To me.
You feel what
I see
Know what
I mean
Stand out
Move on up
Without doubt
Don’t lean
Back
Or hesitate
Motivation is all you lack
Hard working
On the right track
Back in the day
I used to rack
It’s time I earned my place
Now I’ve got expensive taste
See me dancin’
Grab my waist
Hope you don’t mind the chase
Easy baby
No need
For haste
Take your time
Let me sip my wine
Play no games
Show some shame
Free of guilt
Understand how I’m built
Don’t water a flower
It’ll wilt
I want a man who
Laughs at himself
Who won’t put me
Or my feelings
On the shelf
Hear my wants
Rub my bad knees
I’ll give you all
That’ll please..
A good man
Is all I need
when im all set and good
just need a man whose understood
Jane Doe Oct 2014
He misses me still, but that's old news.
He's missed me for so long now - he can do it in his sleep.

He does it while he eats alone at his desk,
while he runs for a train,
while the rain is coming down in sheets.
While a girl takes off her dress and he reaches for her,
his hands hesitate a decimal. He turns off the light,
and misses me.

It grows inside his chest, like a bonsai tree -
something natural but stunted.
Snipped and pruned carefully, but not allowed
to grow outside it's box. Not allowed to put down roots.

He hauled it off, across the sea.
Across China and the Middle East, he misses me.

Half a world apart, in Amsterdam I walk
with my eyes to the ground, all brown and grey.
Thinking of the planes and trains that bore him
away.
This has become second nature for me.

It's midnight in Tokyo, he sits at his desk
in the light from the street
thinking of trees, canals, red bricks, me
and when we sleep, he and I both,
it's with ghosts in the sheets.
Secret-Author May 2016
Do you ever feel confused?

I see a million different
            r      r      r      r      r      r      r­      r      r      r      r
            o     o      o     o     o      o     o     o      o     o      o
            a     a      a      a     a      a      a     a      a     a      a
            d    d      d     d     d      d     d     d      d     d     d
            s     s       s      s      s      s      s      s      s      s      s        ­in front of me.

Yet I hesitate to move.

All are entirely d i f f e r e n t,
                                                       yet distinctly the same.

I can make out face
                                     f a c e
                                                 f a c e s
                                                             ­           in the distance.

But they merge together
                                            into every possibility.


They are:
warm.     cold.      livid.       smiling.      
                                                  ­           mine.     yours.   ours.

All  S M I L E at me.
Some show their teeth.

They are:
there.      here.    nowhere.       everywhere.        
                                           ­                                   past.    present.      future.

All  H I S S  at me.
Some have no tongues.

They are?
living.     dead.    or somewhere in-between.

Where your prejudice is my pain -

                          The grey reflected so brightly
                                        from your black and w h i t e  eyes.


In a space where your victories make me warm,

                           Or when your pain is bursting
                                         through my own heart,


Only then will we truly understand what road we should take.

For we are all one.
                    
                          We are all the light

                                                   all the dark

                                                           ­     and every road.
Gemma Aug 2018
Today
I dont know how to say what is
on my mind
it's kind of strange
to hesitate expressing myself when I have a screen to hide behind.
I'm worried of judgement
this isn't my usual process of thoughts
I'm scared you wont be able to relate for once
But compatibility is never entirely ensured.
I've let them down
I've let myself down
And whats worse , I've let you as an audience down.
A stranger, acquaintance, friend, family member whatever the relation
Ive gone and been unexpectedly someone who doesn't care about the consequences,
ignores the meaning of words,
watches people believe they know the truth,
and questions the severity of someone else's pain when they are clearly hurt.
But I do care ,
Every breath inhaled and pump of my heart screams considerate
Yet somehow I convince myself I am someone who I am not
Perhaps you feel a similar itch of vulnerability and persuasion in your brain
But these lines and this imperfect explanation is all that I've got.
Jordan Rowan Feb 2016
If you knew ******* me
Would you hesitate at all?
Would put the writing on the wall?
I'm starting to think about,
What it would be like
But I think we'll do it some other night

If you broke into my house
Would you steal all my things?
My cast iron lung and my mother's rings
I start to wonder about,
Everything we could do
But in the end, that's all up to you

If you saw my collection
Of everything I've ever done
Would come closer or would you run?
If things fell to pieces
And collapsed onto the floor
Would you beg for mercy or for more?

If you knew how to shame me
Would you kindly tell me how?
I'd like to use it in a painting somehow
If you thought about my flaws
As just reasons to laugh
I'd like to know so I can join in on that
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
disclaimer: unedited rambling and overly long and frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...

Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
upstanding,
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
wealth,
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

courage
Rambling, unedited, and yet fresh so off to the presses..and at 4:21am,
I frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...
Aislinn Miell Sep 2017
With the familiar blur of familiar frames -
Wearied, we wait discrete
Worried that we cannot breathe
for the wind is yet to take us away…
do you think much longer?

We blend in to the scene
like a sail in the overcast,
lingering in our subconscious -
striving, aching for the sting of summer to melt us in the sun…
when is it coming?

The frost bits our lips,
Fastening the deadly silence
A fascinating mind, hidden in fearsome chambers -
Collapsing with the dead leaves of our own trees…
How much longer?

We hesitate to bloom,
Blinded to our own beauty.
Another day, another season
Believing we are better by ourselves, the world is bitter…
Spring is shunned by the silence -

But we are fine;
The wind will take us away,
Summer’s sun will melt us,
The leaves will fall, and nature will bloom.
But we are more than we seem…
we breathe.
Sean Hunt Sep 2018
I'm leaving this
a little late
I hesitate
procrastinate
but soon
I'll see my son
across the sea
I'll see him
he'll see me
Jetlag is
a horrid hell
but then we'll have
some tales to tell
I wonder what
those tales will be
when I return
across the sea
We'll have to wait
and see
I’m terrified
Of falling for you again
Rekindling the beautiful fire
We did once before
Those feelings haven’t left
But fear is in my heart now
A new ingredient to the mix
I despise this new feeling
For I know we are connected
But I hesitate at your gestures
Of reconnection and love
Please, I beg you
Don’t break my heat again
For it wants you and you alone
I ache for you, your presence here
Your voice, calm and fluent
Sending chills down my spine
I lose breath at your sight
Resuscitate me, or leave me here
And I’ll be free of pain

-AJT
Angelina Mar 2016
Color, one word, thousands of references
It is an illusion, science perhaps may explain it
But people have utterly transformed its definition over the past decades
Is it pride? Is it wealth you carry within you once you are born precious yet so fragile?

Define it for me
Release the inner load of prejudiced assumptions
Passed down from generation to generation
Do not be afraid to speak your mind
For you are enlightening me
Go on, define it for me

Red, orange, blue and green
Purple, pink, white and colors we've already seen
Came in touch with, and accepted for what they seem
Whom we do not hesitate adoring, whilst waiting for what more of them there is to see

Colors, beautiful bundles of joy
Billions of them undiscovered
Yet willing to view
And yet unwilling to embrace one another solely because our skin tone is a shade darker, or a shade lighter?

I'm sorry, I thought we loved the thought of not having to unlock our gates to gardens full of plain, dark pigmented red roses
There's got to be the lighter pigmented ones and the yet to blossom ones
The ones that are yet to be labeled
By humanity's impaired vision
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