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He
Sat by the riverbank
He
Laughed like cold water
He
Brought to me, the ocean

He...
Where the current runs
behind, beneath
The undertow
Of his eyes
drowning Me

He
Left the scent of good-
Bye Before he’d
leave
As the scent of autumn
Promises winter
And barren, silent trees

My oars
set to the waves
To the phantom of
My sea
The wreck was me
Picking up every shell
Listening
for the sound
Of your feet
the waves
in your eyes
Returning for me
I wait with the moon
For your tides
Hazel is the color
Of the setting
Of my dreams
As they drifted away
In your
castaway-eyes


And I
Knew better
And you
Spoke plainly
And I
Heard nothing
Of the truth
That you
Gave me
But your voice-
It’s remaining
And your eyes
Are engraving
Their colors
on my canvas heart
like your initials
in my ****** bark
That leaves a wound
to die or scar
beneath its message
Xallan May 28
It's a little voice, a prompting, a suggestion
A prediction what possibly may happen
Do it, fear it, with 'should' cast of gold
Ignore my pusilimous self, my lack of courage

If I were to tell you the truth
About who- toward what- I really am,
You'd be disgusted.
I was.


I've adjusted to the time warp now.
Reject the possibilities, no- have me some
Long shot of anxiety.

Irish coffee and whisky mix well
As I ponder the universes now.
Every reflection is a funhouse mirror
Refracted like a broken prism.
Of the greatest and worst of all superlatives,
I am.


*****, *****, the truth will never be set free.
Imagine me, twice my age,
Same knowledge, will I have changed?
Will my mind and body still rift
Over the contents of my bloodstream?
They will not know until my deathbed.

A man I met once, he knows the truth.
A woman who will die tomorrow, she knows.
A child without care, they knew.

Their knowledge is empty, their memory
Will be forgotten with their minds.


You shall not know.


I intend to keep you, and alive.
Closed to new experiences, you are a
Coward, coward, closed to new knowledge.
Closed to new possibilities, I am a coward.

So as I raise up my fist to hope
My reach is weak, my hand is closed.

Hope knows, and hope is dead.
Your empathy was washed away
In a flood of others' medications.


You would not have comprehension, have it.
You would not understand.
Whether I should, or whether I should not:
I fear that I could.
Not gonna happen.

I will tell my secret to all the world, but you.
Many years in ignorance is smiling in bliss.
Your bliss is worth my annoyance.

You have the hope.
I have the time.
Samuel Hoffmann Jul 2018
It was just perfect,
Not knowing;
but not needing to know either.

Everything was peaceful,
Everything was pretty,
Everything was perfect.

You'd have fun,
And you had friends,
There was family,
And it was fabulous.

There were no problems,
No fights,
No bullies,
No real fears.

Just you,
And your stuffed elephant,
Against the monsters under the bed,
--And your siblings.

Life, life was awesome.
And then we grew up.
And despite's what everyone said,
And what everyone thought,
And how everyone acted,
And how everyone treated us.
I still think life is awesome.
oceans by Seafret <- great song :)
eleanor prince Sep 2018
it's weird the things that
pester your mind
just when you thought you had
it all sewn up...

you tell yourself you are this
generous and big-hearted person
well maybe
on some days

and then you remember the kid
in fifth grade that rushed up
asked for a five pence loan
was all I had left

but I did it, didn't I
believed her
that she'd pay it back
in the morrow for sure

but she wasn't at school
the next or the next
and I'm still inanely
mad at her

and at myself
as she knew
she was moving
the very next day

and man was I
miffed
but you know I
couldn't give tuppence

about the coin -no
'twas the principle
of the matter
wasn't it

she knew she
would never
pay it back
so why lie

I would have given her
way more
had I known it was
her last day
Just an off the cuff poem. Inspiration came from reading a poem just now by Natalie:  https://hellopoetry.com/nataliestilescarmona/
where I left this comment:  You are indeed worthy of being called a muse of sorts for my head is rattling around with all kinds of possibilities - but the little ping pong ***** haven't formulated into much in the way of sentences yet - but it is coming - yes, I think something is emerging. Bit longer than I expected so will post it as a poem and give you the credit for the inspiration - lol
Camilla Green Mar 2018
My pockets hold coarse wisdom stones
that have yet to be eroded and known.
No deed has been done with many tears,
and my matter has yet to turn gray.

Except for two dark circles
wrapped snug around no-sleep eyes,
I am pristine, I have soft skin,
no chips or scratches to bear.
So I sought erosion and tragedy
to inspire wise and epic truths,
but to my dismay! all that I found
was that these only come with age.

Constantly, all day and night,
wonderings overpower my sleep;
I fear these truths, that they might burn
the darling rosebud life I built
into a cynic's deadbeat embers.
So to the stars! I beg to see
if even a fleck of goodness
exists past youth's gilded screen.

For I hope that even through cataracts,
the world will still be good,
that wrinkles will forge deep valleys of love,
that gray hair will be streaked with joy.
I hope my dying hands will hold tightly
to my death bed's plastic sides,
I hope to look in terror at Heaven above,
to whisper, with wide fearful eyes,
"Please, I don't want to go"

But for now, I am young and unknowing,
and I embrace my rose-colored light.
The thing is, though, I must know something,
you can call it naivete,
but whether it be with gray hair
or smooth skin, no matter what,
even if I had nothing left,
I'd still use scotch tape to hold back ****** rivers,
to prove to you that there is love.
I don't know much, but I know there is love

The third line is an allusion to Oscar Wilde's poem "The Ballad of Reading Gaol"
Krison Nov 2018
It was of the sand,
That found for me to stake upon this gamble of a purpose.
To onward journey, stout of heart, within it lines to draw and part
and dedicate my time to all that live and then depart.

And subjugate the sin of wait.
Dare i chance alignment.
To spite the constant vein of me.
That of constant bye.

For it was within the sands.
That truth illuminated
Divining is of destruct and of grand endeavor.
Those were lessons I to learn.
Yet warnings seen, but not to heed.

So to venture bold, embark.

Here I found myself about, a place that i not know.
Lacking proper courtesy that guides the proper tongue.
At a time of caving doubt in youth while throwing caution.
Such foolishness and acts so grave with naivete.

So of this, my letting go and future now to grasp.
Then of me to newer name and shed of me my past.

That led me to a village, shambled as it small.
Oh so sharp in all contrast,
To all i'd ever known.

And then to her so small of frame
with trouble trembling.

Did I find, i've much of want and more to givings be.

The hope I find within her eyes.
Those burning eyes aglow.
Yet shaking did i look to see, the grief she held alone.

For she with nails so black and pained
with eyes of sapphires ancient flame.
Screamed, "anne nerde"?

To this I said within my lip.
My English voice that caused such shock.
"hello", and then ,"who, you"?

And puzzled as i've not the faintest
slight that cause her hate
and run away and then dismiss
or understanding me.

That left me to the mighty awe, and my stupidity.

"Am i the image of the anger, she must see everyday,
A reminder there's tomorrow, or of horrors yesterday"?

Faintly nothing can be had, so i had chanced hello.
This is me and who are you.
And her away to go.
So i was lost to all the why,
and all who heard it so.

Then to suspect, short of counsel and left of reason why.
I shatter peace with solace small and and watch you drain your eye.

So to all that spun around
with jaws so slack with shock.
Made of this a curse and huddle?
Of what, they they took of stock?

They must be of the panic.
They must be many dead
And this is now my crucible
and now i know there dread?

" How dare i cause such great alarm? in such fleeting passing
" i said hello, only hello
and then, but"who are you"?.


All but mine
All faces white blood.

And then the moment shock!

For then i heard, "olu"!!!

"For I said, hello and who ," but she heard only death.

And forgiveness in this place
Was shown not least the trace.

Awaken this, the anger, rage  the mighty great temult.

For announced by all around  
"You utter with most care.

This place if of the teetering
and none dare hear dispair."

So please a caution with your greeting.
For broken hearts here tear

And the tokens of your kindness,
Can be swallowed up in here
Its brought to doom, this little girl by violence and it's snare
Was brought to this, by fault of tounge
bignine and shambled care.

Then better us
To purse a lip
And hope the slight be small,
The reaping can be had
But never excise fault
It is of divinty
So pray we judgment halt.
This is of the manner known
Yet are still unseen

For all the slights be large or small
None are are fully owned


And All the workings good of heart
Must be done 
and done discreet.
some of this is in turkish
Third Eye Candy Dec 2018
Nothing is simple now… and nothing ever was.
But i recall the majesty of my naivete’
and linger in the triumphant fog of my illusions
as a young man of almost a Minute.
Be that, as it may.
i am not among the Mockingjays
nor the calendars of arbitrary
Days.
I am the eclipse of insincere Living.
i blot out the None.

with blueberries from an indigo
Genesis: i stain my sky with every unbelievable Promise -
my Calculus can muster. My Love in tow.
I gather at the edgeless mist
of my Identity and etch the core
of my consecrated cacophonies
into the bones of dead whales like Scrimshaw
for deep kids.

And that's It.
Third Eye Candy Jun 2018
The mug stains leapfrog a linoleum asphalt countertop, sunbathing in the breakfast nook.
A magazine proofreads a hole in a bagel. Scanning for clues to the whereabouts
Of a Jewish heart. Beads of Oolong tea archipelago from a resting kettle
All the way to the 'good ' China. A cup on a pearl, laying flat… ear to the ground.
Listening to the stories only Formica can tell. Deciphering the steam
Rising from a steep. Curling whiskers into omens, embroidered upon a shaft of light
Heaven sent. Postage dew. Gilding quaint luxuries, tucked in a cozy roost
Smelling of oak musk and slow roasted dreams, evaporating before memory may lay claim
To the riddles of Morpheus. There’s an aire of Return.  
It molts in the bacon fats hovering in the strata unique to kitchen islands lousy with active volcanoes that shuffle in stocking feet and terry cloth bathrobes. Restless and foggy minded.
Looking for the keys. And...
Chewing a thumbnail. Staring out the window. Where there used to be a car in the driveway. But the officer flagged a taxi. Explains the migraine, like a Vulcan; stoically flipping switches in a fuse box wired to a vague recollection of a soiree.
All the while holding a pitchfork and today's horoscope.
For irony and street cred.

{ But out of cream cheese. }

Concurrently... This part of the house still has the rustic naivete of a celibate beatnik picking teeth with a signature pen presenting an Hawaiian girl with a vanishing skirt; blinking in and out of Vaud-villainy, like Erwin Schrödinger’s Cat. A kind of hole in a barge with an ornate cubby; loitering with sugar cubes and a bendy plastic fern.
Like the foyer to a room, still under construction.
      A busy little metaphor, lounging around the east wing of a humble abode… like news clippings in a mason jar… it’s superfluous handle threading a ceramic eye.
Like a stainless steel joke under a refrigerator magnet, pinned to a plate in your forehead. As any lamp-shade with ambition.  
      Playing to a rough Cloud, hung over an ashtray; that has seen Better Days - envy the baroque occlusion of monotony and routine, merging a hangover - into morning traffic. Replete with modest gains.
And Horizons that stab bleary eyes that would know a gypsy
By the weight of her purse…
     When the day begins, it gains a foothold by the spine of an overdue book, reclining adjacent runcible spoons and antique kitche. As a bathroom light squeaks between a door and a frame.
As ancillary and precise as a beacon for a blindfold.

Like turpentine palming a brick. And Wagner.
Kay-Ann Aug 26
I am chasing this thing that
always
eludes me. In the day he openly
embraces Man.
See, they’ve known each other for centuries,
shoulder to shoulder,
unrelenting hand in unrelenting hand
as they dance betwixt the world of fantasy and pain.
A universe I know all too well.
A courtesy we could never have.

Matta still in my eyes, limbs sore from just being born,
naivete radiating from my skin.
I trail, inquire, plead—
he laughs in my face before evaporating
observe.

I have a plan.

I could forfeit my mind, let ambition and sense
seethe through my temples. Knees the color of
my behind from crawling through the mud.
Pungent fertilizer gathering underneath my nails
as I plant hibiscus, mint and poinciana in a Man’s
garden. My body falling apart and together at the
calloused hands of my oppressor.

There must be another way.

I turned to the sky,
they know us Women well.

Every thirty moons, I offer up a sacrifice.
Take this crimson sea between my anchors
that Mother ordained.
Take it and give us strength.

He eludes me still.

I fight and I protest
and I bawl and I break down
and I stand up and I smile
and I make love to anyone capable of loving.
I am still searching.
Tactile, hard and brown like an egg’s shell
you can’t see this soft, permeable mass
yet it lives, survives.
*But the chase is over.
Mary Velarde Mar 26
You.
You were easily the light
of my life.
I didnt have walls.
I only had doors flung open;
a warm invite.
A better part of my life
tucked neatly at the back of my mind
where it had grown
a garden of potentialities
and hope
and thoughts like
maybe this time we'll do it right.
Every passing catastrophe
has taught me that the eye of the storm
is where the calmest region of the weather is;
not the opposite.
It goes to say that just because
we're caught in the middle of a calamity
doesnt mean it's always a heartbreak
from here on out.

I admit that your absence almost always
feels synonymous to my bed
stretching out to the side.
It always feels too huge,
empty,
lonely.
I admit that I have not met anyone who loved
black coffee so much more than you did.
And I loved you,
perhaps so much more than you did.
I'm still learning to accept that.
Funny,
how unconditional love comes with
an abundance in conditions.
But they say
you cant really love too much
you can only love the wrong person.

You were an interlude
to the series of my raging calamity.
You were the eye of the storm,
the calm,
the petrichor after a long period of drought.
Registered in my fondest memories.
A parched corsage in a memory box
that shouldve stayed under my bed.
Shouldnt have belonged elsewhere.
Shouldnt have belonged now.
But that's okay.
I'd argue that the imperfect line
where I trace down your spine
is where the earth grows soft.
The soil,
damped,
the last time I've ever looked into your eyes;
the last time I will ever look into your eyes.
Reeled out the last remaining molecule
of my peace
and gave it to you when you lost yours.
Loneliness isnt
the absence of peace,
I have realized.
Loneliness is just love with nowhere to go.
Like yellow cars on a bus lane.
Etched out of place
but only because the signs
are obscure and hazy;
a product of naivete,
a voluntary free fall.

You will perpetually only be
my great perhaps.
And that's okay.
I've learned to forgive myself
for refusing to believe that
in the past.
Xallan May 28
I thought about clipping my nails
after I woke up took a shower brush dress
this morning I ignored the ringing of the reaper
last night I stayed awake full of empty love
yesterday I talked nothing but hope
last week I measured up a future for myself
the other month I was smiling in naivete
I'm glad I forgot to clip my nails
I want to tear away that facade of possibility
I want to tear into my life muscle
claw away within my chest
and rip out the love
yes--- rip--- like a grave, like a tide, like a wave
I think I thought but now I just feel
and I want to shut off the blood to my heart
so full of us and we and each other
so full of the love that has become empathy
the empathy that I feel is imaginary

I imagine the angel
his voice that wept over chords on stage
I see his smile now a clown's face of despair
the wake shower brush dress and then
the ringing of the reaper, the words no one really is hears
the caesar in a suit suddenly becoming heavy, too heavy to bear, standing in the doorway, eyes
soft and voice no one really is hearing, like the knock at the door, the widening of the eyes the denial the embrace the
pain injected into him like blood from the knife of his friends and the love
demanding how and why and no
the love that has become imaginary
the rush from the knife goes straight to his head and he wants to rip it out
leave him in peace leave me
in peace this unreal vision of imagination,
this is the reason I never dream
every heartbeat slows to a double,
I am not listening not thinking because if I think, I will remember and feel the imaginary empathy, I will think about the emptiness seen or unseen, a void injecting me with my blood, going through our veins of seeing is believing, I believe in the void that was or is or am and am and am not going to listen
I see only the sounds no one really hears

I imagine the satyr
the smirk of innocence protected by layers of solar lenses
I know his eyes will not weep at the voice he never really heard, at the ring of the reaper, at the knock at the door
but our eyes are veins and the blood is bleeding and he is wailing
sounds he doesn't really hear overandover
and no love or comfort
can replace the blood that he is lost falling out through his eyes our eyes my heart pulses out sobs, wants to rip it out
this is the reason I never cry
and my hands reach for a memory that was going to be and finds a puzzle instead
and not a person, when the emptiness takes my hands and they cannot embrace, every
moment I become more antimatter than matter, when thought becomes a vision
of only imagination, blurred skin and blurred eyes, comfort
found in thoughts left over, poisoned with pain, stained in empathy, in empty
a void of memory rising like a bubble in the mind, with every word not really hearing
holding emblems of stillness
different faces but twin shadows
and then the light snaps off

there's always relief, there's always guilt
every minute the knowledge accumulates weight
growing massive on my mind like a tumor
pain not ended, pain passed on
which slithers from eye contact lost
into my eyes and, now, look,
look and see what is within me
nothing has ended in me
only things growing, dark things
and what if I blink
what if I close my eyes and sleep
desperation mounts its steed and goes flying
into the arms of the reaper
and we ask, to think, to feel, to rationalize
I want to stop doing those things
they say lost like something to be found
they say passed like excelling on an exam
they say tragedy like it was all an act
and so many funny words that I don't really hear anyway
all that I hear is the punctuation
question marks demanding how and why
figuring the purpose of life to die in some interesting way
to climb the mountain and plant a flag
enscripted with words from some forgotten language
and the youth have become so fragile
and the youth have become incorruptible
and the youth no longer make eye contact with strangers
every meeting of the minds has become a kiss of commitment
Words rattled around in connotation
suggested and insinuated in conversation
but never flew off my lips, past any
teeth grinding out music and art
Words that melt into the sleep of wakefulness without awareness,
the art of acting without pretending.
I can only imagine reality
if all we ever do is act out life and love and loss.
As I approach my final place of rest
I prepare to rise again, if ever I remember to,
if ever I remember to clip my nails
or live
My friend died. This poem is dedicated to his memory.
She never said,
"Just relax, and let me tend you."
I never wanted to be right, I just --

what's it like, you ****,
to hold your home close,
confident it will hold you?

He never said,
"Just relax, and let me bring you happiness."
I never wanted to be normal, I just
want to be found -- what's it like?

Joke's on my naivete,
ability aside,
I'm scratching asphalt
smooth with my shoes.

As time moves, I move, too.
No key for the lock on my youth.
What's it like having a night
ahead you can look forward to?
Amanda Oct 2018
I placed myself second
Because I placed you first
Unconditional lasting love for you
My beautiful perpetual curse

I do not like who I was with you
Used to believe each lie you told
Put up with **** near anything
Long as I had your hand to hold

Staying by your side through Heaven and Hell
We struggled with your disease
Swear my pain was even greater than your own
Begged you to stop down on my knees

I asked how I could help you up
Held me and said "I don't know"
Promised with my hand on your chest
To never give up or let go

I won't let you know how deep it cut
To break the vow I strained to keep
How could I stay and watch us **** ourselves?
When I woke up and you were still asleep?

Sacrificed so much for you
Begging one time you'd realize
I CHOSE to walk behind your shapeless shadow
Knowing destination was destined to be my demise

I wish I had not of trusted you
The one that was not supposed to harm
Wish I could trap naivete
Before you held my foolish dreams in your arms

I long for joy I felt when we were new
As our corpses deteriorate
I am now aware of the hazard loving is
Your heart hangs on my happiness, a very heavy weight
I know you have a heavy heart, I can feel it when we kiss.
Graff1980 Aug 26
I remember
brighter days
when us children
would run and play.
Now we cry and say
how we wish things
didn’t have to change.

Our naivete
is like the Christmas scene
made up nativity
that Christians sing to,
praying cause
they believe
their fictions are true.

The unknown
has grown
like towering tumors
stealing our good humor
and replacing
curiosity with
**** filled fear.

Our half of the sphere
spins away,
till all luminescence
becomes some
sweet reminiscences
and each illuminated instance
becomes false foggy memories.

The night is long.
All the light is gone
so, the shadows fade
from lighter shades
to infinite
darkness.

Though, I try
I can’t fight this
tiresome
exhaustion.

So, I let sweet sleep
descend on my
heavy eyelids.
Xallan Mar 31
how do we behave before an enigma
she who is so great of sight, she sees
the truth of you and me and herself

she sees with a filter over her vision
pointing out random correlations
and the patterns, which are as string
tying the universe together

he sees the patterns too, he knows
and they see them, and they know
but we who are deaf, dumb,
and without form would not know

how do we behave before an enigma
our numbers never add up to the
correct quantities or by the right
derivatives because of our ignorance
to simple truths and complex concepts

a child sees the truth of the butterflies
we are more immature and unsure
without foundation or future

instead both our eyelids are sutured
existing without innocence or naivete
only lack of comprehension
as if language has lost all meaning

the fog that drawn about our minds
like a self-imposed cloak of ignorance
composed of bright lights and whispers

how do we behave before an enigma
we bow our crowns to the burlap sack
and silence the words of the sighted
in darkness
voodoo Apr 26
naivete has always played a funny role
shifting from blessing to curse, for the better or for the worse
existing on her own selfish terms

~

I drown here silently, not wanting to be discovered
lying in my own hellish, ominous reef
of self-loathing and self-deceit

~

the cotton curtains are always drawn in this room
no flame melts wax down the candelabra
no light spills onto the quiet dining table

~

I suffocate in the air of hedonistic love
breaking mirrors, denying reflections
I cross myself out of the equation

~

there’s nothing inside this skin that looks for escape
there’s nowhere outside to promise solace
I am fragile, trapped Nothingness
mira Sep 2018
i. reward ten thousand dollars
it scares me to think you will drive me home one day, one night, one night when i am very drunk and the stars do not glisten because there are no stars left! i am sure of the reason:
upon being conceived you swallowed them all whole. this is not purposefully clandestine so much as misunderstood knowledge:
in our lifetime these celestial objects will be mistaken, much like a well-intentioned teratoma, for
cancer
countless times you will be plucked, yet unripe, from the fire that will as soon liquify your flesh and cleanse your soul

ii. wanted, dead or alive
psychosis is not a watershed.
it is an amalgamation of the bugs who have crawled up your legs and gorged themselves on your fruity blood before hibernating
it is a room of walls plastered with ******* of nauseating pale cadavers, of empty homes, of longing hands, of breast buds and tied legs and virginal lips and bare ***** and stained sheets
it was in you forever and there is nothing to blame but an imbalance, for
you are the duality of...girlhood.
you are soiled ******* and unkempt hair, abused plush dolls and sticky hands, infected wounds and sunburn sting, stale cereal and coloring pages
you are satin veils and vain slumber, tired tears and starving entrails, hesitant touch and static vhs, shrill laughter and breathy song
you are itchy bug bites. you are snow in my eyelashes.
you are a lissome angel pregnant, god bless you, with a fetal (fatal?) evil; perhaps my fear begins here, or perhaps it greets me when your aura bites my eyelids...alack!
it must be so. **** orange light suffuses my thin veins. the sun exudes apprehension and abruptly the car is totaled and
this is why you cannot drive me home. even when i have become quite inebriated:
it is not natural for the air to be so warm; only ere our galactic body closes her eyes.
surely you will **** me. you are no creature of the night. run me over; crush me between your toes; let my nectar grow trees in the cracks of this, our, every godforsaken town.

iii. have you seen me?
her neotenous thighs stick, like sap, to the concrete floor, water seeps beneath the cinderblock. dust collects between her fingers in which she clutches, with the brutality of youth, a softened - if garishly colored - carton of apple juice. four-o'clock sun pierces the thick glass window (if one will call it such) and she feels listless; rather than squint she pores over the illumination with intent that, in her unsuspecting naivete, she is not yet aware she holds. before she ***** in enough light to blind her she hears a voice that feels familiar:
come upstairs
soon enough it will be ruefully forgotten
soon enough she will realize she was bagged and thrown in the trunk
too late she will wish to exact her revenge
you are harder to reach but my love only grows

— The End —