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MarieAnna Jan 21
The darkest eyes in this sphere, are in his possession.
Twinkling at me like it's Christmas.
Adept in rousing euphoria, amusement and gratification.
Only intensifying the radiance of his brilliance.
Minuscule moments rebound in my head for hours.
Intertwining of hands synchronises our thoughts into one.
Shared silence for hours. His hair flailing around like a wildfire.
Hazy crimson skies accompany our every move.
Nothing holds us back on this lengthy road.
Freedom no longer in our imagination.
danna22081 Jul 5
It might be said:

I slowly, yet eventually
Peered through the keyhole of a three-dimensional world.
How I saw all three? I’m not quite sure,
But all contained elements more distinct from the other,
So distinct, I don’t remember them all.

The keyhole, nothing more
Than a piece of rusted, brittle metal
Coiled, and carved… intricated into the miniscule
Dents which hold the answer to these curves
Contained within my nerves… ready to be twisted.

This room… these dimensions,
I can no longer class them under one area.
They were consumed by emotions, by values,
Purposefully, and tortuously designated,
But I just can’t… remember.

I can’t remember them, but these dimensions were meant for me.
They must have been, because I hold the key
To unlock the hole requiring the simplest
Twist of a persistent wrist,
But where is this hole I so consistently yearn for?
How nice is it for some people to symbolically express their thoughts through their writing? And many readers often interpret them differently.
Mark Upright Aug 2018
|“lead into gold, good into dear, mortal into immortal”
(where poems come from)”

you charged me
with crimes three times three,
sorcery and witchcraft and doing god’s work

plead guilty three times three
not that I was successful,
but a complex, candied marvelous failure

not in my possession, the sorcerers spell,
my dross and wordy dregs all sit sidelined,
perchance perhaps,
if you search with a leaden patience inhuman,
you might just find a minuscule golden vein there’d unmined

turning good into dear, an “anyone can do it” miracle,
when you whisper with just one kiss those forever words,
don’t be afraid, say it low and slow, I love you,
“I only want to be with you”
and dare it to be become dear

mortal into immortal, an order tall, for one knows his
hiding places for all too human pockmarked weak,
but having been charged and found in guilt,
no one proffered evidence but they wanted a unambiguous
unanimous verdict and proof is such an old fashioned truth notion

happy accept your accusations and since confession is
the best soul medicine, with glee, here and now reveal
how immortality is achievable

breathe poems  constantly instantly throughout
the orifices in the skin cells and
pore’d orifices you were god given;
it is how we immortals communicate
with what cannot be seen,
yet drunken heard when spoke aloud

taste the poems in and on tongues you can’t comprehend,
the sounds fly skyward after infiltrating your eyes,
then you can see your own immortality anointed rising

all nonsense you plead,
only immortals truly cherish and envy the
human ability to create
nonsense, the place
where poems come from

ryn Dec 2014
Blades of grass shivered
As the fingers of the wind strum
A hum ever soft and hauntingly serene
Sweetest song my heart reluctantly would welcome

I stare into the minuscule expanse of land
The horizon does not exist far here...
But still my eyes would stretch
To see the obscured very clear

All alone save for the company of a lone tree
And the jovial chirps of annoying birds
On this island with very little space
Trying to find comfort in ill-arranged words

My eyes do see but my heart remains obstinate
Beauty of the universe would always invite
I could just jump and join in its merriment
But... I am just a tethered kite

I'd want to rise to the highest skies
To be one with the nature's song, composed and tuned
Alas bound to a string, I can only go so far
I am my own island,
                      *helpless and marooned...
Left Foot Poet Nov 2017
for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars

fluids in, fluids out  

wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together,
it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd  the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere,

so what if it's spat-past midnight,
isn't this one of those soul-criticality's,
staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive  

make sense to you?
the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out,  
doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of
yeah yeah yeah,
my professional courtesy answer to their  dire warnings repetitious  

tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream,
a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson,
and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid  
is strong transformed into words

water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again

water is words, words are water,  
the difference huge, the difference minuscule,
both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids,
all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh,
staying-hydrated is primate

place a new cold bottle in readiness for my
3 o'clock feeding
11/14/17 12:04am
Sebastian Macias Mar 2017
We know for a fact
That nothing lasts forever
Forever does not exist
I don't even think we can
Understand the concept
Of "Forever"
Things come and leave
Today is already tomorrow
Love burns out
Ashes of sorrow remain
We know life isn't lengthy
One idea comes,
Another gets forgotten
We are only humans
Specs of dust to the universe
This alone, Should be the wave
Underneath us everyday
Pushing us forward
Giving us the control, discipline
To not be allowed to be
Brought down by minuscule trivialities  
So why stop?
Move forward, through "it"
Whatever "it" is in your life
Because no matter what it'll come to an end
So might as well get through "it" yourself
Unapologetic and complete
A Apr 2015
You make me feel the way a cool glass of water tastes splashing down your throat on a feverish summer day. You make me feel the way the sun clings to the sky up until it's last enticing moment before kissing it goodbye. You make me feel like a long lost dog that has just returned home. You make me feel like a sleep deprived insomniac that has been granted a good nights rest. You make me feel like I am a minuscule bug drawn to your fascinating light. Above all you make me feel the deepest, purest, most astonishing love.
Why are the traits of creativity and insanity
An hourglass and sand
Is it an unintended genetic defect?
Or a simple wonderment of man
An anomaly of nature
A chemical imbalance in the Ribonucleic acid
A minuscule knot in the DNA strands

Many minds revered and unknown don the genius crown
The emotive disturbing creations of Goya’s dark-stained hands
The deaf Beethoven composing the illustrious symphonies of sound
The imagery of Hemingway before he felt disposed to lay the pencil down

Leonardo da Vinci the scientist and painter who dreamt of Mars
The Kaleidoscope of inventors, poets, visual and musical artists
The unseen silent ones who walk among us
Who glimpse and grasp for that which lies in secret even beyond the stars

They socialize freely with death and depression
That colors that taunt the fingers and feed the obsession
The impeccable word so elusive often sought in panic
Never-ending questions of the universe that must be answered
So comes the genesis of the melancholy, bipolar. schizoid and the manic

Why are creativity and insanity
An hourglass and sand
Is it an inherited genetic defect?
Or a singular wonder of man
A chemical imbalance in the Ribonucleic acid
A minuscule knot in the DNA strands

All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Oct. 4, 2019.
All Material Stored in Author Base.
lilly Nov 2017

page one
it starts with the wave of a hand
a simple introduction
'hi, what's your name?'
it starts with looking and seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes and human
it starts with feeling no cliche butterflies in your stomach
and no additional voice in your head
amongst the others
and no rapid pulse in your still-beating heart

page two
somewhere along the way the waves turn into inside jokes and small smiles
crinkles by the corners of eyes
and light chuckles
and glancing just a millisecond too long

page three
and, well, glancing just a million times too often

page four
and you write poems in attempts to make yourself believe
to drown yourself in denial
to avoid confronting the - nonexistent - blooming bud growing
sprouting from all angled corners
and cracking curves
and jagged edges of you

page five
spoiler: it doesn't work

page six
and it's strange because apart from seeing what is there you see more
or really you don't see what is there
you see what you want to be there

page seven
you see skin and bones and beauty and freckles and stars and constellations in eyes and ethereal -

page eight

page nine
except perfection doesn't exist
and what you see doesn't exist
it's just your unrealistic expectations piled up from miles and smiles of movies and books and manga and everything

page nine
and you know this

page nine
but it goes into one ear and out the other

page nine
and it doesn't stop you from claiming

page nine
you're in love

page ten
if love is just infatuation with a physical manifestation of your ideals without their consent
then i guess you're right

page eleven
there are butterflies bending, banging on you, begging to be released

you wonder when your definition of beauty became a name and a face
and you wonder when love became synonymous to pain

page twelve
the butterflies turn into birds and then bears and then freaking buildings
except these building are moving and apparently earthquake proof because you can't seem to break them down
instead the buildings are breaking you down

but the truth is no, no they aren't
don't you see?
you're breaking yourself down

how do you heal if you are both the poison and the antidote?

page thirteen
if only you could rewrite the story
but how could you?
how do you rip the pages
how do you erase the sickeningly sweet
slow stabs slicing through your spine every time a smile is sent your way
how do you mute the thudding in your brain telling you that this could never be
how do you ignore the extra echoes in your head yelling at you to get yourself together

how do you get yourself together?

page fourteen
you've been asking so many questions lately
but you know the answer to all of them

page fifteen
there's a small voice
a minuscule, malevolent voice whispering maybe
whispering maybe and perhaps and potentially
maybe you're not the only one who wants to hold on just a little longer

page sixteen
but see
it's funny how the story starts with two people and now it's just one person with an overactive imagination
illustrating a person as something more
something better

page seventeen
but you're not creative enough to keep your illusion for too long
and soon you start to see less of what you want to be there and more of what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human


page eighteen
human is **** and human is cruel and human is wretched
but human is somewhat
in its ugliness
and human is raw in all its dishonestly
and human is real
even if you made it out not to be

page nineteen
you will never truly now human
you will never truly know anyone or anything that isn't a figment of your imagination
but it's enough

page twenty
it starts with seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human
and then it ends
the story ends somewhere
anywhere really
but it ends
it always ends
Shiny Oct 2018
Why did I get to know about the myriad faces of the game before I even got in the field?  Players have told me a lot about the game called love .  I never asked them.  Some simply did while some needed to talk out to move on.  I just happened to be the person they could trust with their darkest secrets.  With the tales, my dream of an almost utopian world has receded into the past.  Sometimes I just have a minuscule wish to be able to dream of paradise like everyone else.
K Lupus Sep 5
Whenever the dark curtain of my eyes
fails to serve me right

or whenever the numbness
felt from rubbing my hands
against my lap no longer
ease the tremors

I lose myself
in thought

how much more
must I endure

how many more times
must they
steal the minuscule grit
I had pondered

- the person that will
always be
my breather
I guess I kinda liked the way how you became my breather
I am a soul of fragments,
Of the minuscule,
Of the details.
I want to be a great sea of ceaseless poetry,
But always focus on the small, the unnecessary.

I am touched by every soul,
And they live on through me,
Sometimes it's not just me, but
We are all afraid of seeing other's words
Other's mark on us,
But we must embrace freely
The past and the contemporary,
Just as we can't all reinvent LANGUAGES independently,  
We can't have souls that rather be silent
Than to create.

I am merely the temporary vessel
Taking whatever is exterior to me
In the river of all the creations
Letting them combine
Flow together freely
And pour them back out again
Back into Creation.
Back into the great water of poetry,
Waiting to be fearlessly
Into another wave.
Thanks to Lawrence Hall for inspiring this!

I think I can safely say all of my poetry are written completely impulsively; I write them all completed in one sitting, from less than a minute, if it is the one-liner that I used to write more, and think might be quite clever, to a few hours if they are those long stream of consciousness that I enjoy more nowadays.

When the inspiration flows, and while I write, I am immediately transferred to a void of pure focus, and I write down whatever comes to mind, though not completely without deliberate structuring. In fact, I think, I am obsessed with making sure my literary technique follows as logical of a sequence of events as my unkempt and constantly confused mind allows.

My mind is quite filled with metaphors, motifs, and symbolisms formed from everything I experience, see, read, touch, or just appears in my mind spontaneous; when I am aware of their origin, I tried to link to them in the poems itself, as with the bees and flies from War and Peace from the last poem I posted, or I tried to explain my exact thought process in the notes.  

Most times, as soon as I have written about something, I do not want to think or read them again, strange, as they are my own words, but I had always felt like vessel, with ideas always coming from beyond me, independent of me, and then passing through my hands into the world, and then I would feel completely strange to them, and utterly empty. Sometimes I do get outside inspirations, but then again, as soon as I begin writing, I seem to forget everything, even myself.

When it comes to writing, I mostly only feel fulfillment and pride at two close moments,  when I am totally immersed in the poetry and unaware of anything else, and right after writing.

Then, when around a day passes, I am already dillusioned and begin to itch to write something better.

I wrote down whatever feelings, and motifs, and metaphors that came to mind without much thought to why them specifically, whether or not they make logical sense, are they contradicting, are they original or cliched, or perhaps even overused.

What you see/read is exactly what went through my mind without much or even any editing.

In fact, I think all of my writing on here is exactly how it is in my mind, straight from the soul;  the poetry forms itself in my head and heart, and I just let them flow out exactly they are, formed by whatever is beyond me.
Amy Leigh Oct 2018
He   inhaled   deep,  exhaled   slow.  We
were    alone,   alas!   The    sun   setting
the   way  it   does   every  night,  except
noticeably   slow  — calm;   palpitatious
patterns    of   sunset  hitting  fragments
of  dust  gliding, glistening through  the
air.  I  watched   them —  the  minuscule
molecules.  Oh! How tiny! — Otherwise
unseen!  Yet,  there,  circling  — evading
space around us, or perhaps us  around
them,  as  if   in  their  existence,  maybe,
not small after all.  And too, it is similar,
these  drawn   conclusions   like   drawn
curtains  to  light.  However, simple, yet
kind  of  comical, that  there I was in my
existence,  nestled cuddled  snuggled —
delightfully  cozy.  Evidently  small  too,
like them.

© A. Leigh
Thank you for all the love you gave.
Sarah Clark Apr 19
my succulent bent its entire
lovely self towards the only
window. what is the will to
live besides minuscule
maneuvers, sensing what
can’t be touched, staying
comfortable enough,
not thinking about it?
Elizabeth Feb 13
You’re piecing together the parts of my heart
little by little
Your fingerprints are still all over
I don’t know how since I’ve tried to wash You out
I’ve pushed You away from me and I’ve blacked out
now I know that
each minuscule part of me is laced by Your fingertips
every ounce of myself has You written on it
and I truly can’t escape You no matter how hard I try
my soul will ever flow with Your echo of joy inside
you’re piecing me together
and I know that you can see
the parts of my heart
belong to You now more than ever and they will always belong to me
maria k May 2
That was a wonderful time of day
When I took a glimpse of a person
Who never bothered about the specifics
of life in general
but glided past it
and loved life to its fullest
because of the minuscule moments
that pieced together
bit by bit and
day by day

He would wake up with wide eyes
and absorb life slowly and quietly
a book was his friend
music his haven
and most of all art was his expression
words were simple
glued together with thought
and the only conversations
were those that dealt with sifting through
the meaning of life

He became my magnifying glass
my compass
my sword of knowledge
and this still
remains true today
find a role model to brighten your life
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