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Teresa Smith Apr 2014
You look me up and down and whisper
"you're perfect."
It takes all the strength I have not to roll my eyes.
Tell me how many times you've had me all figured out,
only to then learn you didn't know me at all.

You ask how my day went,
but never wanted to know how many hearts that I've broken (13),
or whether or not I smiled to myself as I heard them snap (usually),
never pausing for a second to glance back

Don't say that I'm beautiful when you've never spared a look at the ugliness inside me.
You tell me I complete you.
But what if I've always been whole on my own?

Will our love still be enchanting and magic once you've discovered I'm the Wicked Witch?

Catching my eye in a crowded room and all you expect of me is mirrored back.
Faking shy, my gaze lowers.
For love has always left me breathless.
But in the suffocating style, at best
bk Oct 2018
I deal with sad times
by listening to sad music.
It helps burn the fire.
It lets it rage and gently
lowers it back to normal.

B.K.
Risa Njoroge May 27
Another cold and lonely night,
Seated in the corner of this dark bar under a dim light,
Looking for the kind of love that lasts till first light,
Is it love under a drunken sight?
“From the guy at the bar"
Says the waitress who forgot a part of her dress,
She raises the glass and yet again lowers her bar,
She will have to fall in love with him tonight!

"I'll be right back,” She says  as she tries to get her *** up,  
Staggers away into the old filthy bathroom with a broken latch,
What used to be a mirror is nothing but broken glass,
Shattered in pieces like her broken heart,
The unpaid ***** she has now become,
Another tale of a her now too many one-night stands,
Grasping tightly at the illusion of this drunken love,
Each Night, A different Knight,

He doesn’t even own an old truck,
Or have enough money for the yellow cab,
Yet his working hand she holds
And together they stagger into the dark night,
Last night's knight’s cologne still lingers on,
Like the poison of hate that now runs through her veins,
He throws his jacket over the window pane,
She even lets him touch her now pale face!

The illusion of this temporary love doesn't last,
His wife is about to break through the phone,
This **** slob passed out with one foot on the floor,
Under this morning light, he looks nothing like the shinning knight,
"Time to leave, thanks for the drink!"
He leans forward to give her one last kiss,
Just one double of cheap whiskey,
Not a penny left where he picked his keys,

She will be cold and lonely tonight,
She will be at that bar seated in the corner under the dim light,
Falling in love with you,
And hoping it lasts longer than first light!
#unpaidwhore #pennedvixen #lookingforlove
Leiser Poetry Mar 24
Cant bear to hear the voices;
dragging me down;
feeling the failure!
Voices mock me                                                               ­                    make me frown
nothing ever goes right:
want to keep on                                                               ­                     
with the fight,
be strong                                                           ­                                   
move on                            
with my life
there is something
that stops me when I
find happiness negativity                                                       ­             
cuts me like a fine knife  
anxiety makes me feel on edge;
paranoia makes me question
and sabotage everything
depression lowers me
to the point where I
feel lack of energy
or empathy any more
If anything I want                                                             ­                        to sleep in bed                                                              ­                           not feel this dread
I use to medicate
myself with beer
and pain relief
taking any medicines
I can get to feel no pain
To feel no shame                                                            ­                        
for the anxiety         
to go away
but it never went
only made me forget                                                           ­                   
the symptoms
the mania I get                                                              ­                          feel a hint of euphoria
but later irritated
over ****** and frustrated,
the world is moving too slow
Im obsessed and sometimes
delusional: the demons are smiling  
they've won the battle but not the war when they took over my mind; for a short while but since sophie was born
and my life almost thrown away
at the age 28 I decided to give life another go and work hard to live an cleaner life the best I can                                                              smile more even when I'm low be grateful                                        

I'm still alive and here
want to feel I have a bright future
now with a baby and boyfriend
that  loves and understands me
its hard sometimes

when you can feel the bad memories resurface,
negative vibes in my mind
hit me like a bullet or cut me like a knife
want to keep telling them not today
that I will not fall to their darkness and decay
that they can't beat me and that
I'm no longer a failure
but a fighter still here to tell her tale;
despite all the *******
and people grinding me down
over the years;
bringing me to tears
I tell myself each day that
I'm a fighter and I'm still here.
Josh Jul 30
Which will it be?
For each, it's own vehicle and purpose, you see?
The upper, where energy's legs couldn't carry far enough,
Alone slugging behind, the downer stubbornly sits it's bluff

These lowers and uppers, forced,
or natural flow
Couldn't come sooner on a day when the sun's shade,
ebbs and flows

Or would you chose passive hands during labored times?
Or stand idly by, wanting,
Wishing for clearer sky's

As this,
A substance of pure or foreign source,
After which used, lingers about in sometimes vague, yet deadly discourse

Attracting action for change,
The result is always certain
Would you choose a stimulant or depressant?
A mask for vices, hiding behind a curtain
consume their beauty
consumed lowers blood pressure
the rose of sharon
Andrew Mar 2018
We speak the explicit language of damage
Whether it's through anguish or famine
It only takes a little while to examine
Until we learn the language well
And eventually become fluent
To create this worldwide hell
Where the warfare is incongruent

We speak this language for many reasons
We speak this language through every season
The dialect varies from country to country
But all that really matters is who's hunting
The end result is the same
For damage done before
We inflict retributive pain
To even the damage score

Damage lowers our health
Damage increases their wealth
Damage puts us on the shelf
Until we damage ourself

The damage is done
So we must run
But at some point we turn around
Planting our feet into the ground
Becoming the damage cause
Doing what we've learned
We attribute this to our flaws
Not caring who gets burned

There is a damage sandwich
Within our damaged land's width
We're caught between being imposed on
And becoming oppressors
You're either forced to keep your clothes on
Or become an undresser
Perceptions of greater and lesser
Further complicate the scenario
We receive them through our stereo
To look down on those of other barrios
All of that damage can be parried though
If we work as a team
Better yet a species
To live in a utopian dream
Instead of our feces
Mark Penfold Aug 2018
Round and round we go, two and thrice in throw,
Whilst hand in hand in fairy land.
We dance and prance around the rockpool,
Until the last one cannot stand.

I lay down in that busy rockpool and finally open my heart unto the floods,
This once impregnable fortress finally lowers its rusted and seized port cullis one last time.
With the moss of ages and the barnacles uprooted and torn away it lowers its decaying  drawbridge,
To let the tide wash in and carry out on its ebb, all of its ache, sadness and regrets far out into the vastness of the ocean.

The soul and spirit is empty you see,
The heart has now been opened for the waves and tides.
There is no fire nor fuel left in the furnace,
Not even a dying ember nor spark, but only a withered rose stem which finally succumbed to the dark..

All that resides left in incredible depths, Is fine *** ash,
Only good for shovelling up and scattering on the fields to maybe start again.
And those vines of that crop which fed once in abundance will grow strong, tall, fine and straight like youthful men,
Feeding off of the nourishment of past memories.

In time when these mighty vines look back to their roots,
Their hearts will ache to find their mighty benefactor.
Once again they will return to that ancestral home,
To *** some ash and plant a striking red rose in that tended bed.

Without their knowing a buried ember disturbed is glowing,
and forgotten roots, soon shoot and expand.
To once again become the source of wisdom, the all knowing,
Soon to bring life back to this long lost forgotten land.
Sherry Asbury Nov 2018
Nothing savored Nothing cherished
Chewing wood, spitting silk
Hating every creeping moment
till darkness lowers and laps at my toes
Blessed darkness gives me a cave
where I may retreat from all hateful, glossy life -
oblivion with eyes wide open
Monumental sorrow grinds my guts to dust
Hopelessness, a ******* that licks my ear,
whispers obscene melodies.
An ache to take out the tools
used to mark my hatred on myself
Hope is a lie believed by fools and sinners
That baked desert called my mind
spits dust on dreams
Trapped by iron bars
bleeding despair,
my face, a pale moon of desolation
peering out on savage scenes of normalcy.
Fingers tremble on the keyboard
longing to smash its plastic against my head.
Some say how sweet and gentle I am
I can’t wait to escape and laugh at their gullibility. . .
had I an ax I would chop off my haunting countenance
and hide the pieces in brown paper bags
flung into back yards around the town
Am I sweet and gentle as they say
but refuse the treacle of the words
Or have I acted upon the stage so well
I have become what I loathe to be
Isaac Aug 2018
When expectation lowers to nil,
Awe emerges. So does thrill.
Written 21 August 2018
M Aug 2018
A chair in the corner sits huddled with the shadows,
while a second chair lowers itself by the door.
A window between the chairs hangs silently on wall,
as the curtains whisper with the wind outside.

Towards the left of the window is a shrunken bed,
with bedposts like redwoods and the body of a willow.
On the bed is a bundle of fabrics and tweed,
twisting and spinning amongst eachother.

Joining the first chair is a spindly wooden table,
with wobbly fingers and with only three legs.
The top of the table is clustered with trinkets,
pinecones from Alaska and feathers from Pompeii.

Littering the floor are denims and glass,
clothing and pieces of vases strewn under the door.
Thrown under the second chair is a pair of old shoes,
weathered and worn and left to die.

On the walls with the window is doodles and sheets,
drawings of childhood tapped in the space.
Paintings on the plaster are dusted with flakes,
burdens of memories of past and future.

In the center of the room stands a coat stand of mahogany,
standing tall and strong in the ruins of its lost kingdom.
Unaware of what goes on outside of his window,
all he knows is the dust and objects trapped with him in the room.
Transferred from my account from AllPoetry. :)
Gemma Mar 4
You say that you see me,
But how do I know that’s true?
You say that you hear me,
But I’m not sure you really do.
I’m afraid that you’re not really looking,
Or taking the time to listen,
But I know you like the way I sound,
And you enjoy the way I glisten.
I see you, lost in a world of your own,
Never feeling like you belonged,
Never really feeling at home.
I watch the way your nose crinkles
When you really smile
And the way your brow lowers
When you ponder for a while.
The way your extra quiet
When your really mad.
The way you stare into space
When your feeling sad.
I long for you to appreciate
The little things I do
And to feel the same emotions
As I do when I look at you.
I just want you to know me
The way I really want to know you.
But I’m scared that your not willing
Or maybe your just unsure,
But I’m here and I’m ready
So what are you waiting for?
Scott Chase Jul 2018
The blind man slowly rises to his feet. Bending over and momentarily fumbling for his walking stick.Finding it propped against the flat topped boulder he uses as both a table top and chair. He takes the usual 27 steps to the mouth of the cave.Just before reaching the opening, he feels the slight breeze freshening his cheeks while gently tossing his beard about. As if nature were trying to comb his his coarse and weathered ****** hair.
At 28 steps, the sun greets his skin with an early morning warmth. A faint touch of dew washes through his nostrils, reminding him of the brief rain shower that woke him just before the break of day. Justifying the stiffness in his joints. Yes, best to sit a spell and allow the sun to warm the marrow. Perhaps keeping his movements spry and youthful for an hour or two. Carefully measured to a bit arduous after that.
Now, the morning unfolds before and below him in the high mountain meadow that provides him most of his meager needs. The stream to his left, babbling it's way across the rocks and tickling his ears. Then, rushing outward and downward, diagonally across the meadow. Slowing on the far right side before narrowing and winding it's way into the hardwoods. His memory still strong, long after his sight left him those..... how many years ago now?
The cry of an eagle pierces his ears. No doubt a rodent or rabbit is in peril shortly. Not a fish he ponders. Just across the stream,not too far, maybe forty to fifty feet, the sudden scraping of hooves against the small pebbled bottom of the stream. Preceded by the hollow plunk of the nervous steps of a fawn as she slowly lowers her head to quench her thirst before bedding down for the day. Doe is nearby watching her, listening intently for signs of danger to her young one. Yes,there it is, a rushed deep and anxious breath tells him so.
The old man ambles back into the cave to fetch his hat.

Now, tell me...Did you see what the blind man saw?
Zane Safrit Apr 1
I’m Hoodwinked,
How’d you do,
Your bad voodoo?
Feels so good

You stole my heart
No time to think
My eyes just stared
I couldn’t blink

Now I sit
All alone
Talk’n to you
On the phone

I hear his voice
Across the room
Doing that
Lowers the boom

I’m Hoodwinked,
How’d you do,
Your bad voodoo?
Felt so good

Copyright © 2019 by Zane Safrit. All rights reserved.
Merriam-Webster's Daily Word today is Hoodwinked. Kinda funny, to have that word on April Fool's Day. Anyway, I thought it'd be a nice exercise to write a poem around that word. Here it is.
if he were not
the president of a superpower
     that claims to be the beacon of democracy
we all could laugh more easily
     and openly

about the way he lies with almost every utterance
uses foul language, insults & invective
openly shares his racist views
lowers the level of accepted public speech
     like no U.S. president before
snuggles up to monarchs and dictators
and does not understand
     they play him for a fool

antiquated ideas of trickle-down economy
add nothing to his silly promises
of making his country great again
     (no real need, has never been small)

after two years in office it is clear
his retrograde policy
leads what once used to be
a democratic nation of great promise
    quite independent will
    and vital multicultural diversity
into a world of yesterday
    not to a better future

all it does is make him
     and the whole nation
the **** of wary global laughter
the kind usually given to the joker
in superman movies
I promise not to write about (U.S.) politics for at least a month ...8-(
Gabby Apr 26
Upon a hilltop deep in the woods, there lies an iron box. Red and rough. They say that all the worlds secrets lay in this iron box. But no one knows for sure. Many have tried to open this box, all have failed. Men and woman. Boy and girls. All have tried to open this box. There is nothing to show for it though. Not even the tiniest of scratches have been left on the box by all the tools that have been used to try to open it. Today there is yet another crowd surrounding the red rough box that lays on the hilltop deep within the woods. People with axes and crowbars try their luck. Still, the box remains whole. A young boy makes his way through the crowd and stands before the box. An older man chuckles at him and holds out his crowbar. "Want to try?" asks the man.
The boy shakes his head and steps closer to the box. Gently he lowers his hand on to the top of the box, his eyes flutter closed. The box glows under his hand. The soft yellow light flows over the box until the whole thing is glowing that soft yellow. A click sounds and the boy pushes the top of the box off. The whole crowd is silent as they watch the boy. How he opened the box with a gentle touch.
"How did you do that?" the man with the crowbar exclaims to the boy.
"I just asked the box to open." the boy responds before he slips his way back through the crowd away from the box.
Quickly the crowd pushes and shoves, trying to get closer to the box to see what is inside the box. What the world's secrets are. But when they get to the box all they see is a single white feather.

— The End —