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Lady Annabelle Feb 2015
I wrote a tragedy with my lips
the story of our love
the pages of your hands across my skin
paragraphs of our hidden desire
our stolen kisses written in-between the lines of the public eye
the ******
metaphors to mask our immorality
chapters filled with indiscretions
the leatherbound catastrophe of your infidelity
the bookends were our lips
and between them was the story of our tragic love
I have to admit, I'm not entirely content with this. I'll probably add more, and edit it more. I just wanted to save it.

Anyway, pretty much, if you didn't get this already, this is about my ongoing relationship with this guy who is kind of already dating someone. He's an *******. Technically so am I, but whatever. It's an artistic choice, a nice muse.
Elioinai Dec 2014
My compass pointing towards my dreams
is broken
my polished brass imaginator
is lost
My gyroscopes spin lazily
now useless
My log contains but disconnected letters
the few remaining sentences
contradict
its stacked and leatherbound brothers
I chained my silver dream kaleidoscope
away
above my head
it's diamond sapphires and amethyst pearls
are out of reach
I said I would sail this way
and I have
forgotten
how to turn this dirigible
*around
How can I dream if surviving is a daily struggle?
But God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. I have made the sovereign Lord my refuge. I will tell of all your deeds. Psalm 73
Kelley A Vinal May 2015
Leatherbound
Tannins have branded
My fingertips
But the steel still feels and heals
right
I'm at home with this
This wooden body
And slender neck of burnt mahogany
Each string a page in the next great novel
It just hasn't been written yet
JA Doetsch Sep 2014
It's difficult to say when the spring finally ended

The only thing for certain
is that it did end, as we slipped
blissfully unaware, into winter and darkness.

From the highrise apartments in Chicago
to the mud huts baking in the African Sun
From the smiling skulls in the Paris Catacombs
To the open deserts of the great Outback

The wind whispered in the silence
past our giant walls, our empty monuments

past piles of leatherbound books
their pages continually flapping
as if begging to be read, just once more

The hard lines of the cities softened
as the carefully manicured lawns
grew out of check,
turning the skyline green


The human race liked to think we were driving the car
That we were in control
In reality, we were the child in the backseat
with the toy steering wheel

We expected to go out
with an awe-inspiring bang
with a roar of thunder
befitting our importance


Instead (or rather, accurately),
the planet ended silently and without much fuss

a mere footnote in the universe
little moon Apr 2014
last seen with mass amounts of tenacity,
bright eyes that glow whenever she talks about the moon,
she's just as loquacious as bodacious, and always seen with friends (a pixie, a well-dressed waif, a girl who speaks the language of skeletons and blood). she's deeply enamored with a certain mexican grill, and often writing or taking a nap on public transportation, or smiling really widely while texting certain person(s) unnamed... also, she knows a hell of a lot about pokemon and the way the human heart works.
oh, and her laugh--you'd notice it. when she laughs you just know something's hysterical

where is she now?

she's a little reclusive
her smile's a little restrained
she stares too often at hourglasses and writes fervently in a leatherbound tome given to her on her 17th birthday.
she's waiting for the storm to pass but for now she's writing about it
don't tell the news i told you this though, cause i know they'll find her and force her to feel better as soon as possible. just give her this clock necklace and put it around her neck and tell her that time heals all things, she's learned this before.
tell her to eat some sour gummy worms and go to bed earlier, and stop feeling so sorry, to listen to a little less john mayer.
tell her it's okay to miss ghosts and that it's okay to wish to not be alone.
tell her to call tonight a night and stop rereading old stories or knocking on enemies' doors.
tell her that it'll be okay (even though she already knows it will)
and i promise you-
this is but the fairy tale trail of breadcrumbs that will bring you the old girl back.
in the moment poem
Raymond Flores Jul 2014
Your touch feels like flower petals
Your embrace a knitted sweater
You are a hole-in-the-wall diner
Within all of New York's madness
You are the feeling of the shirt I always sleep in

You are wood and you are cotton
I think clouds are made up of your hello's and your I-love-you's

You are where I go when it starts to pour
You are who I call when its 2:38am and it starts getting bad again
You are shore among the savage sea
You are the eye of my storm

You feel like the feeling of grass under my feet
You are the scent of coffee and leatherbound notebooks

You are everything I love
You are worth any commute
You are who I hope to come to
every evening

You are home
Oh God I just feel so comfortable with you.
CR Apr 2013
i told you the verymost secret truth to ease the parting blow. so you'd forgive me that the only blow was parting, that the bookshelf wasn't big enough for us both. when i told you all those other truths you thought i'd be the leatherbound dictionary that stays the digital age but i let you in on the verymost secret one and now you're not so sure, huh. you're not so sure. i'm not so sure. the definition marked by post-it is a word that is not officially recognized. the english language never was so much my thing; i stumbled all over it in nerves and inescapable sincerity that was too close together on the cookie sheet and came out wrong and stomach-aching. i stumbled all over in nerves. i roll back my shoulders and i say "good, how are you!" and i make lists and lists and lists to plan my heartwarming. i sit in the sun and i write on my hand how much i love the sun but my hand doesn't say anything back, that was your thing. the sun might not be real, now, even though it's warm. 

i am really very good, i think. but i don't know unless i tell you. what i tell you might be all that is real, and that might be why the verymost secret truth is all that blurs my vision now. i roll my shoulders back and i say that i am really very good. and they say, good! but the parting blow was all i could give you, so i can't tell you good, and the secret truth is the one that stays, and the digital age crawls forward, and the leather cracks, and i miss you.
asg Nov 2013
I can't remember the last time
I dreamed
And that makes me sad
Almost nostalgic
For those days when my brain was too full
To not dream
Those days that marked me
Colored me full
Colored me pretty
And interesting
Like the pages of a printed
Special movie edition book
Now I'm more like
An old leatherbound cookbook
Beaten and worn from past usage
Torn pages
Yellowed corners
Used
But might as well be empty because I am used no more
Full of beautiful recipes and possibilities
But too weak and fallen apart
To be reconsidered
I can't remember the last time I laughed
With someone who understands me
With someone who couldn't say
"Oh that's so funny"
When I tell a joke that's not
And instead berates me
For being so lame
But in a loving way
But this does not make me nostalgic
Because you always find someone better
People come and go
So do dreams I suppose...

Somehow it's different
Somehow it's not the same
I need to have dreams to know I'm still alive inside
And people can only prove I've got a physical body
That's all
Adam Mott Oct 2015
Chasing down the rising light
Wounded hearts and gentle souls
The feeling familiar to your childhood home
Warm little hands needing to be held
Bells ringing in time with the sway of her steps
Quiet times leading to hushed smiles
All the dreams now going away
Roads paved with memories and hope
Leatherbound books and tiny guitars
Her perfume I remember still so far removed from time and space
The smell, like coming home
A house by the lake, big and full
Eyes tired from the sea of it all
Taste so familiar it could be a memory
I'll always love, a symptom of being who I am.
Lucy Michelle May 2015
My mother’s a writer
My father’s a writer
And they have plenty to write about
But nothing to do

And my mother is sad
Because she says,
“I’ve run out of emotion,”
She misses that raw pubescence
That I’ve so gracefully wrapped myself in

I love to love strangers, the stranger the better
“I can only stand the people I know,”
But she used to steal road signs
And she used to coax the white teeth teens
Out of pearl-sided mansions
Onto oil slicked streets

My mother’s a writer
My father’s a writer
And they have plenty to write about
But nothing to do

My father was rich when he was 21
He had a leatherbound book of poetry
A fiance and three best mates
“Loved them, crazy guys”
But then he said, “we were all crazy then,”

But then there were children and houses
Mid-life crises, loans to be paid
They were wild, broken when they joined the PTA
And now they’re sick
Of raising their children
They’re off to South America
To feel human again
Carl Velasco Sep 2017
I’ll never forget.
MiniStop, Intramuros.
2016?
I had long graduated, the mortarboard
now a naked head of hair. The gown
now dilapidated jeans, and an overfitting
shirt. The fancy shoes now knockoffs
caked with mud and grime.
The little store was hot. Small.
On walls: baby cockroaches took chances.
Trash bags dog-eared below snack concessions.
A brown goop spun, the tungsten overhead
made no noise. Was there music? Was there
some commentary about love or crudeness on the radio?

Always self-conscious, I retreat to
the inner racks. Magazines lay there vacuumed, unpurchased.
Outside the picture window, an afternoon beamed its sun kiss.
I think I didn’t end up buying anything, because before I could,
some college boys entered. At the instant, I turned to them
and felt curiously incensed. This odd duality of envy and sympathy.
I was you, I’m me now. I want you, I’m not you now.
To look that young yet mature, to have a schedule.
To saunter inside the store before, during, after class. The
choice to enter, to parade, to be so vital.

The college boys, their plackets, collars,
their image. These hot-blooded men finer than me, stronger
than me. All handsome, winsome, reckless and brimmed with
swagger. Me? I stood examining the force, the association.
We’re all merely similar men, and I’m at a similar age, and I can
be a similar form factor. Mimic their teflon skin; shed my stucco,
leatherbound flesh.

And as soon as I attempted to undermine their specificity,
I lost my own place. I found that there’s no connection at all.
Other than I know nothing about the boys,
and the boys know nothing of me.
Natasha Teller Nov 2014
I remember the cinnamon pancakes that night,
when the stars hid their faces and wept for our plight,
they were crossed like two roads, like two guardians sent
to stand watch at the start, knowing how it would end.

I remember the promises-- "only one time--"
but you spoke Norwegian and I called you mine,
you soldered your fingers to my silvered waist,
I melted my metal to settle your taste.

I remember my hand on the small of your back,
you were hot like a tommy gun after attack,
all your bullets broke bones, non-ascetic assault,
but I pulled the trigger-- these wounds are my fault--

I remember your hair, glowing flame in the dark,
a beacon on nights that we snuck through the park,
I remember dead grass and cold dirt on our knees,
and the whisper of stars, and the cradle of trees,

I remember the nights that I slept in your bed,
when I should have been home, you were in me instead,
I remember the snow that seeped into my bones
on the Fridays I knew you were sleeping alone,

I remember your skin as my skeleton curved,
as it shaped to your bones, to the body it served,
I remember the leatherbound Bible you'd shun
while shouting your praises for God and his Son,

I remember contentedness, drifting to sleep,
I remember the red drink umbrellas we'd keep,
I remember your words to me: sinner's love psalms,
I remember my cheek in the cup of your palm,

I remember the makeup I left in your room,
I remember the season that ended too soon,
I remember the first time I dreaded the fall,
I remember the terror of losing it all,

I remember the way that I felt when you left
I remember that we said "it's all for the best,"
I remember the way your name filled up my chest,
I remember your necklace, a noose on my neck;

I remember its weight; I'm still wearing it, too--
I remember I wear it to remember you.
Tyler King Dec 2015
Durch Geld , wird die Demokratie ihre eigenen Zerstöre

The decline of the west plays back and forth in newsroom warzones across the America that Samuel Adams died believing in, the promise of a gold lined path to a bygone peace the immigrants can now only dream of, while the sons of the sons of the sons of the sons of their sons close their doors and arm their security systems, there are racks of guns lining every wall and everybody looks ready to go to war, so I might as well join them, the possibility of compromise lies with dozens of boys and girls in dozens of pools of blood across dozens of states and the people cry out enough is enough, and if the decaying capital will not hear us then they must be made to listen, a united front of iron forged from the fires that burned down Missouri, that burned down Los Angeles, that burned down D.C after the soothing voice of the raging masses was shot dead, if my rhetoric is too strong it is because not only are things not moving fast enough they are moving backwards,
When men, leatherbound and arrogant would consider every moment in the spotlight a coronation, the options become clear:
These kings must die so that the country may live
This isn't even a poem at all I'm just angry
Grace Dec 2018
everything is gold like honey
dark as night
a flame that burned out too soon
as red as a rose or
blood
or my own anger
at only thinking in
cliches
let me break free and see
a world where
the sky is as blue as a reflection of the sky in a lake
no,
no that one's too silly
or maybe a place where i can wade through a field
of murmurs
dark as blackberry jam
or see the sky is orange peels and musky pinks the color of cat's paws
drenching the world in soft bedsheets of sleepy brightness
new, something new, please
give me a forest as green as a leatherbound book
with pages made of tree rings and little words
skittering around, and hunting, and sleeping, and playing
with the other little words
I want to see an ocean that holds reflections
the stars live there, and fishes live within their brightness
planets and corals hold secret worlds
and little creatures and galaxies of nonsense and daydreams
and when you look down you are there too
and they don't really pay you any mind, because after all
there is rather a lot already going on
I want my brain to live someplace new
build houses for new ideas
use old ideas as framing and build, and paint, and have a welcome party for its new residents
make a cake that has chocolate and raspberries and some other ingredients that you don't quite remember
give yourself a change of scenery,
you deserve to know that your mind is as endless as the universe that lives in the ocean
if you would only let it breathe
Al Sep 2018
Something drew me to this leatherbound notebook, tattered and torn.  Inside the pages are filled with doodles and colorful phrases. Inspiration comes quick, I grab a pen and begin to underline.
Lawrence Hall Sep 2020
He Has it All - 1

An entire floor of a building he owns
The Great Room illuminated by soft lights
A perfect fireplace row of red oak flames
Beneath a mantel of carven German work

One wall is paneled with leatherbound great books
The seatings are a find from Finland last year
Champagne is set out in Romanov crystal flutes
His guests in evening wear wait silently

And as he is rolled away in funeral home wraps
His family are scrambling for the scraps


He Has it All - 2

An entire bunk in a shabby rented room
Illuminated by a dangling bare bulb
His plastic coffee mug, a sink full of dishes
Beneath a dusty window on the alley

A plywood shelf bears a television for cheap
From Goodwill, illegally wired to the cable
After pocketing his pal’s pocketknife
His roommate waits silently, and weeps

A pack of cigarettes, a Bic, a comb
And angels vying for the honor of bearing him Home
Onoma Mar 31
a raven is stitched as

with the leatherbound

trackwork of a baseball.

its beak is like a mangled

dagger, resembling uncut

fingernails for a lifetime.

its eyes are enlarged tapioca

*****, bursting milky residue.

it perches on tree roots--as

it suckles on soil & attempts

to rip its wings from underworld

mending.

— The End —