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berry Oct 2014
this is a poem about how you sleep,
how your body grew cold like a corpse in a mortuary.
how it felt wrong to reach out and touch you.
did you know that you turned away from me
every time i tried to face you?
did you do it on purpose?
maybe you were afraid i would be able to see
you were dreaming of her,
that i would read it on your face.
lines by your mouth like obituary,
like roadmap, her bedroom,
the destination, mine, a pitstop.
loving you was like attending a funeral service for myself
and sitting in the front row. no.
loving you was like watching you pick out a casket
and call it practice. ****.
i know how sensitive you are about death.
i know it still hurts.
i know how everything hurts.
i am sorry for just being another thing that hurts.
i think i'm afraid to let you forget that you used to want me.
like if i can somehow dig deep enough,
wound you into remembering me.
i keep weapons-grade nostalgia in my back pocket
for the days i can feel myself slipping from your consciousness.  
i was born with scar tissue where skin should've been.
but this isn't about me.
this is about the way you sleep
like you're waiting for someone to close the lid,
cover you in dirt, and read a psalm.
this is about the way i tried to sing your pieces back together,
and the way my voice gives out
when i read the things you write for anyone other than me.
lover, friend, stranger,
i just wanted to show you how to love your darker parts.
i never meant to become one.
i am so ******* selfish.
but i swear i am trying to unlearn the steps.
and you used to think my two left feet were charming.
i am out of time in more ways than one.
i keep stepping on your toes.
i can't seem to stop tripping you up,
hoping that you'll fall back into whatever this was.

- m.f.
"i am always dying in places where you fell asleep." - K.L.
I S A A C Mar 2022
its been 2 years, I grew so much but I still carry the same fears
the fears that you kissed, your hand I still miss
I always have the memories but even those start to slip
it's all the ****, it's all the daydreams
my days start to bleed, I need a trip
I need to escape, I need a bridge to get across these violent waters
my emotions are stronger the longer they harbour
I return to that day in your car where the rain fell so hard
could barely hear rain on me on the radio
I think of you no matter where I go
I see you with your boo in Turks and Caicos
I see you living it up and not day goes
by where you don't
cross my mind, got myself in so much trouble in the pursuit to find
someone that shares your light, someone that takes their time, someone who is actually worth my time
you just wished me a happy birthday and I wish the convo never ended
I feel without you I am suspended
not able to move, not able to do anything but cry
as I watch the only good man I’ve ever met thrive
I wish I could say you were ****, I wish you hurt me harder
maybe then I wouldn’t be stuck like this, loved me better than my father
maybe I was just a pitstop til you found your forever
maybe I was destined to find better
but on these cold march nights, it's hard to keep that in mind
but on these cold march nights, I just want you in my sight
drown in your light, love you as you deserve
maybe that's what it boils down to
never met someone who
was worthy of my love, worthy of my touch
Once upon a very old time,
In a perfectly ordinary forest,
Created solely for my words in rhyme,
There lived a very smart tortoise, modest and earnest.

In this same forest of the mind,
There lived a vivacious hare,
She was so stunning, all animals she could spellbind,
And wherever she went, she spread love in the air.

It so happened that the tortoise, our protagonist,
Found himself having an intimate crush
On the hare and if you get my drift,
He wanted to live a life with her, lavish and lush.

So he decided that to her he would propose,
And try to woo her with his intelligence and brains,
To marry her was his ultimate purpose,
He would surely convince her of his pros and gains.

But to his utmost horror, she rejected him downright,
And looked at him in pure disgust,
“no”, she said, “ you can’t win my love’s right,
because it is not for you that I lust.”

But persistent, and smart, he threw a challenge of love,
To her straight to the face,
“will you agree to marry me, my pure white dove,
if ever I beat you in a race?”

The hare agreed readily to the proposition,
Amused to think she could win without a care,
Alas, she didn’t know what the tortoise knew about the situation,
For he had read the story of the tortoise and the hare.

As soon as the race started, away she zipped,
While the tortoise slowly followed behind,
“He’s lost!”, she thought, “ his cream has been whipped!!...”
but the tortoise had something else in mind…

Half way through the race the hare began to tire,
“Oh!” she thought, “for the tortoise I’m still way far ahead…”
so into the hollow of a tree she did retire,
to have a nap in nature’s comfortable bed.

She was still sleeping blissfully when the tortoise reached her,
And saw her asleep in the hollow,
He could have won the race and won his love so dear,
But though he had knowledge, his mind was narrow.

“She’s the girl I love”, he thought,
we should be on equal terms, I shouldn’t get an unfair chance,
and without any fortitude and forethought,
he took a rash decision without a second glance.

“hey! Wake up! The race is still on! Don’t stop!”
his bellowing voice awoke the hare,
she nimbly bounded away, refreshed from the pitstop,
leaving the tortoise to stand and stare.

Obviously, the tortoise lost and well,
What happened after, I know not,
I hear he spent the rest of his life brooding in his shell,
But all this teaches an important lesson about love, does it not???
Iris Blanche Jan 2014
I hurriedly pull my street dusted , golden brown Toyota into the middle of a gas station war zone. The kind that turns neighbors into enemies, fighting to gain the only valuable piece of real estate around – the gas tanks. The drivers collectively sport the exact same exhausted and frustrated grimaces. A rusty and dated “ Exon Mobile” sign stands tall and strong against the sundrenched sky. The day is coming to a close, and the sun seems hurried to set as if it is exhausted from the day’s labors and expectations that it must rise again tomorrow, just like the gas station’s patrons. This station, to most, is just another stop. Another errand that puts itself between you and the warmth of home. This station, is just another stop. Another errand at the end of an endless day. But to me, this place is full of promise. This is the one place on earth that gives us life. It gives us the chance to see the world and to explore uncharted grounds. This place brings us closer to adventure and myseries, to happiness, to heartbreak, to feeling. This is the fuel and the energy that is waiting to help you make it to the hospital at 4 am to see the birth of a child. This old and worn pitstop let’s us fall in love with the world, with what we can see, with eachother.
But there is this silver truck with tires too big and a man two sizes to small in the passenger seat. There is a prominent dent in the left side door that has remained unchanged, unhelped, in weeks. As this silver, dented piece of metal sits in the way between me and my pajamas, I have the chance to stop. Not to stop because I’ve finally got to where I’ve been trying to go. Not to stop to pay the McDonald’s cashier in shameful regret of another broken new year’s promise. But to really stop. For an unexpectedly and disappointingly long time. To stop with no expectations. To be forced to just stop. And to wait. And to look around.
Faltering plans
An indecisive mind,
Consistency in itself is an art
An explosive start!
Followed by;
Fumbling fingers and idiotic ideas.
What next?
Do we pitstop like Hamilton?
We were in pole position.
Reassert, focus and keep on track.
We are the drivers of our own Destiny...
©️ 2021 Joshua Reece Wylie. All rights reserved.

I've been trying to keep up one poem a day. It's tough. I'm sure other writers can relate. This poem is about trying to keep that target going. A Formula 1 racing theme was completely unintentional and off the cuff, but seemed to work nicely. So it stayed and I kinda like the end result. I hope you do too.
Kim Jun 2017
Curtains up, lights and sparks
Golden tickets, rising stars
Race to the finish, flashing lights
Adrenaline rush, crazy nights
End of the stanza, quick pitstop
Let's start again take it from the top

Road to addiction, highway to hell
Lined with paparazzi, celebrity's spell
Life in the fast lane, no matter the race
Chemical crutches, to keep the pace
Stay behind to catch, when the curtain's down
And the makeup off - tears of the clown

Tragic comedy - this business we've made
The perfect picture on endless parade
Life imitates art, art imitates life
And the life of the artiste burns out in the fight.
So many people get caught up in the whirlwind of fame and doing what it takes to stay in the spotlight..and they pay a heavy price for it..

"Tears of the clown" inspired by Eminem's - 'Beautiful' and all the 'sad clown' performers out there!
Yenson Jan 2019
I drove it in with hard solid passion
her whole body shuddered and I felt her thighs
parting further, yet my hot sword again heaved internally
and filled out more in that velvet tunnel, making it even tighter

she moaned, oh she moaned and wrapped folded arms
round my shoulders firmly pulling me even closer.
I paused to savour my girth throbbing in wet hot tight jelly
a million nerves ending tingling to tingles from sugar walls
a warmth like no other enveloped our bodies rising to our brains
my length was hitting a yielding ending making her scream more

lifting my hip I started firing ions and sweet sensations
as she lifted her firm solid hips to meet my thrusts
a fire dance of immortals, a duo speak of raw energy
slickly intermingling in a fire pit of molten hot candy
she moaned and groaned, simpered, howled and groaned
and our bodies grind and booped, and again and again

taken over by a compulsion to push and pull and seek deeper
she drew me in and I lengthened with every push and trust
I reached soft ends only to push further and find a little
more yield and a sweet velvet glove is polishing my sword
while hot whispers fling out endearments, or moans quietly

my tiger, wild untamed, claimed my body and growled
loudly, bearing his teeth as sweat ran down my forehead
I was in my stride, the rhythm was in motion in the ocean
my fevered brain told me, make this a long ride
give it to her like she's never had it before.
I can go on for as long as it takes, I answered back

I bent my head and my full lips found a ******
I need a drink from that full circling soft balloon
she raised her face and slipped warm tongue in my mouth
her hand behind my neck held me firmly locked in sweet kisses
her hips moved in unison with mine and slippery sounds played
I was lost in ecstasy, my sword throbbed in full beaming glory

Suddenly her hip became stronger than mine
she slammed into mine and started screaming
she moved with faster tempo and i felt a pulsating grip below
that started attacking my hard sword, squeezing, pulling
I had to change gears, I drove even deeper, she was flaying
and threshing, her thighs trapping my thighs tightly
Oh..oh...its multiple she hissed wildly, come with me
come with me...oh..come together with me

My hips rose higher, and then higher some more.
your command is my wish.... sweet lady, I whispered
I put the engine in gear five, revved the pistons
and slammed on the tottle, I was motoring in Monaco now
I heard a banshee screaming somewhere. I heard myself howling
while the sweetest fire started scorching my sword
and sipped out a torrent of high octane molten hot honey
our naked bodies clashed, medged, disengage and reconnected
in an exotic freestyle wrestle, yet below we were glued in sync
a blast, the big bang with stars and glitters and a vice like grip
it seemed to last forever and I swear I heard celestial choirs then I slowly descended from cloud nine and then the rolling slowed down.

I hope this is just a pitstop my brain hissed at me, I am ready
to go again, please note, brain added.

Please let my lovely lady at least recover a little, I chided brain.

She clung on to me, we were drenched in sweat
she was shaking, shuddering and trembling all in one
then tears fell from her eyes mingling with sweat on her face
her cheeks were flushed, she glowed red. tousled hair fanned
her face in wet strands, she looked ever so beautiful

She gazed into my eyes, stroking my wet cheeks
she was still panting as I was too
You are amazing ...she said, I do love you so much, she added..her hazel eyes sparkling,..... You are simply the best!

Resting a palm on her full soft right breast, I blew her a kiss.

You are beautiful and you make me amazing.... I replied.
I love you too, my darling.........
Sweet memories, why all should be done to isolate this animal........
Our women are not safe when this monster is let loose.....hahaha
To the good times!!
The birds chirping
The wind blowing
The sun shinning
The clouds flying
And my train of thought it's at it's awaited pitstop

My mind flying
My heart pumping
My lungs breathing
My eyes closing
And my soul going up and looking down at me from a cloud
Dacia B Sep 2014
"So?" She said.
When will it happen?
Everything that we dreamed of?
Was I just your hometown girl?
Just meant to recharge you at the pitstop before you jumped back on your merry-go-round.
We spoke of Paris
And the sweet champagne air that bathed and the cool grass that tickled the toes of the enlightenment
The revolution marching people into class rank and file like trained troops to be conducted by the invisible hand of capitalism
We watched the world go by on the history channel
When would be visit the theme park it was all played out in
I thought we were meant to sail our own odyssey
But you drink my temperament like the elixir of youth to give your soul a nap.
Whatever, I don't need you
I can stay right here and not fly away
I will start digging my way into the ground
A rabbit hole, maybe I will end up in China
-elixir- Mar 2022
Razor-sharp tears that make way
out of the delinquent hearts,
wrecks havoc in the sunlight
and mourns in the darkness.

The neglected alleys of society
becomes the pitstop for life,
yet the tears never stop flowing;
like the vows for life,

in good times and in bad,
in sickness and in health
until death do us part.
ariana Dec 2014
how soon do we forget
how we felt?
dealing with emotions
that never left
playing with the hand that
we were dealt
in this game
maybe i'm a sinner
and you're a saint
we got to stop pretending
what we ain't
why are we pointing fingers
anyway
when we're the same?
break up
make up
total
waste of
time
can we
please make
up our
minds
and stop
acting
like we're
blind?
if the water dries up
and the moon stops shining
stars fall
and the world goes blind, boy
you know
i'll be saving my love for you
for you
you're the
best mistake i've ever made
but we hold on
hold on
there's no *** of
gold in the rainbows we chase
i guess time's wasting
tick-tocking
lip-locking
how can we keep the feelings fresh?
how do we ziplock it?
wear your heart out on your sleeve
watch out for pickpockets
i guess to go to distance
we might need to pitstop it
i know love can be a beach with no shore
i count to 10
lost my temper
went back to 4
i know sometimes it's hard to realise i'm the one that you need
i had a dream we branched out
started a family tree
i feel like that everything we do is overdue
you ask why i love your dad so much
he's the older you
i wish that you were happy
i guess that's the one thing i should be providing
couples are only human
except you
i'm only lying to you
when i lie you down
just being honest
when you start as friends
it's hard to say you're never going back
if i'm not the one then i'm the best mistake you ever had
Dreamypretty Jul 2021
You are my favorite pitstop
O, airport bookshop.
A coffee in hand and a book in my lap
is all I need to feel on top.
I wish I was in one right now.
Nabiila Marwaa Oct 2020
i’m stop signs. quick, 1, 2, 3, go. i’m the rest stop when you’re almost to your destination, stop here find what you’re really looking for and realize it isn’t and won’t ever be me. i’m yellow lights that people run through and the fast lane on highways. i’m the person people look at and say i’ll take what they’ll give me and give nothing in return. i’m never the final stop. i’m the person who writes their number down for you and then you lose the paper in your least liked pair of pants but you don’t mind because they were never your favorite anyways. i am never the favorite anyways. i think about how i could make myself more likeable, turn myself from a hotel stop or train station into a skyscraper with a hard base and concrete flooring but then i remember no one would stay even if i begged them to. no one would stay even if i could force them to. and that's why i stopped begging and forcing and clawing. i am never the one people remember or the one people want. i’m forever meant to be the stepping stone for people to realize what they really want out of life. and it’s never me.
Micheal Wolf Feb 2018
Eyes wide open
the adventure begins
kicking sand and crushing shells, hunting for starfish with his new friend.

Laughter and shouts fills the air as they run with the dog without a care.

Then back to the car to move up the coast and a chance for a moment to thaw themselves out.

Skipping like fools all holding hands watched by his mother as she laughs out loud.

Then calls to come as the day is done, their faces cold as they've looked in rockpools.

Mummy look! Here are the fishes as the time flies by and the wind is bitter.

Blue in their cheeks it was time to go, so shoulder rides to cross over the rocks.

Almost there as the cold wind bites, but always time for a pitstop for Ice cream.

Then home as they laugh and start to warm up, their memories made with pockets of shells and a stone for a friend.

A winter's day so windy and cold?
Couldn't see it myself, inside all were warm.
Skaidrum May 2018
let’s talk about it.
like the way you talk blood into jumping out of skin for the sheer fun of it;
or the way you can make someone who loves you fold in on themselves until they twist into paper cranes.
let’s talk about how you take chalk outlines of people’s soul and teach them how to walk right into your life only for them to walk right out again.
How you have this reputation of being a pitstop that breaks hearts for the sake of it.
Let’s talk about it.

How did this happen to you;
did the lonely carve you into broken hands,
did the dark burn too many nightmares into the backs of your eyelids,
how did your name collect cobwebs,

You were always a drifter,
born and raised in a blur, a lifetime of mistakes filtering through the palm of the winds;
You were desperate for the sweeter things in life and it drove you to harvest wings,
so you could glide instead of float
through the abyss into anyone’s arms.

You told me you loved me when we were young and I said:
“the moon cannot return her love,
just like the light cannot return the dark”
and so you wept but no matter where you wandered on earth I was still always right there in the sky,
an unblinking phenomenon,
a friend.

You told me love had you at world war with yourself and I stretched my limbs over the sky and told you,
“you are the wind,
you will know where to settle your soul soon enough”

And one day you wandered through the garden of eden in the flesh,
paradise unloved and decaying and you settled for the first time in your life.
I remember you telling me your feet were kissed by the soil in her garden,
that gravity spoke to you and convinced you to stay,
I remember you telling me she was beautiful in ways you never imagined possible and that her heartbeat was just too good
to be true.

The universe bloomed in her, and she tasted the concrete love you established.
Flowers learned magic tricks in the sunlight, trees bore fruit to feed even the stars, and even the snake could not convince herself she was broken when you were around.



So let’s talk about it.
Let’s talk about the way your love for her is like an echo asking a shadow to dance,
and why you ****** it up.
saylorville confessions at 1am
Alias Adobe Jenson Albertus Aldus here
wed Alexandria (Algerian, an all around
American Typewriter gal) scattershot
with Antiqua ancestry, she told me
after I Aster while Aurora Borealis

shimmered overhead, while temporarily
embarking on long day's
journey into night
("yule Jean," I uttered
for no particular reason,
while taking a knee).

Upon spontaneous spur of moment
(not prematurely *******)
whim we pledged our troth
courtesy local Justice of the peace

at a pitstop named Baskerville
renown for landmark Bell
designed by Georg Belwe
in collaboration with inscription
by poet and cleric Pietro Bembo.

Whatsapp parent tis obvious influence
upon Berkeley Old Style,
plus subtle nuances difficult to discern,
nonetheless affecting one
Bernhard Modern as well

incorporating bankrupt trumpeting
apprentice Giambattista Bodoni
envisioning aspiring career as Bookman
titling initial publication;
The art of the deal.

Linkedin to aforementioned
aliens perhaps...maybe...
lost tribes of Israel long since
swept into dustbin of history,

a puzzling hyperlinked conjunction,
but with nebulous, mysterious,
gaseous, ambiguous
personage, and/or place
merely identified as Bulmer.

As iterated, we decamped
in proximity to Caledonia known to me,
a transplanted Californian FB,
who spent countless blocks of time
shuttling to and fro Calisto MT,
where pennies pitched into
fountainhead with Atlas shrugged.

Thee above ayn nee auld
rand (dom) blurb
invites intimations, yes...
viz pre Cambria yen
humanity awoke, where

sophisticated indigenous peoples
sparsely outnumbered,
they nonetheless compensated
minuscule population size
vis a vis did intriguingly fashion
(bug a boo)

underground elaborate Capitals
two identified as Cartier,
and Caslon Wyld
housing many a "FAKE" Antique,
circa Fifteenth Century
purported predecessors of Catull farmers

easily mistaken for garden variety
prehistoric Asian Tsen
Centaur re: yen creature,
what with Century Old Style,
Century Schoolbook,

New Century Schoolbook,*

Century Schoolbook Infant
teenage ninja mutant turtle vestige
aligning their (ain't fib)
be yen cool visionaries,
donning tortoise shell bifocals,
otherwise affixed i.e. born that way

with poker faced purblind outlook,
and whose shockproof
shell acted carapace
tricked out to unseen observer
as an eye opening spectacle.
In Times New Roman, I font
to hitch wagon to a star.

Alias Adobe Jenson Albertus Aldus here
wed Alexandria (Algerian, an all around
American Typewriter gal) scattershot
with Antiqua ancestry, she told me
after I Aster while Aurora Borealis

shimmered overhead, while temporarily
embarking on long day's
journey into night
("yule Jean," I uttered
for no particular reason,
while taking a knee).

Upon spontaneous spur of moment
(not prematurely *******)
whim we pledged our troth
courtesy local Justice of the peace

at a pitstop named Baskerville
renown for landmark Bell
designed by Georg Belwe
in collaboration with inscription
by poet and cleric Pietro Bembo.

Whatsapp parent tis obvious influence
upon Berkeley Old Style,
plus subtle nuances difficult to discern,
nonetheless affecting one
Bernhard Modern as well

incorporating bankrupt trumpeting
apprentice Giambattista Bodoni
envisioning aspiring career as Bookman
titling initial publication;
The art of the deal.

Linkedin to aforementioned
aliens perhaps...maybe...
lost tribes of Israel long since
swept into dustbin of history,

a puzzling hyperlinked conjunction,
but with nebulous, mysterious,
gaseous, ambiguous
personage, and/or place
merely identified as Bulmer.

As iterated, we decamped
in proximity to Caledonia known to me,
a transplanted Californian FB,
who spent countless blocks of time
shuttling to and fro Calisto MT,
where pennies pitched into
fountainhead with Atlas shrugged.

Thee above ayn nee auld
rand (dom) blurb
invites intimations, yes...
viz pre Cambria yen
humanity awoke, where

sophisticated indigenous peoples
sparsely outnumbered,
they nonetheless compensated
minuscule population size
vis a vis did intriguingly fashion
(bug a boo)

underground elaborate Capitals
two identified as Cartier,
and Caslon Wyld
housing many a "FAKE" Antique,
circa Fifteenth Century
purported predecessors of Catull farmers

easily mistaken for garden variety
prehistoric Asian Tsen
Centaur re: yen creature,
what with Century Old Style,
Century Schoolbook,
New Century Schoolbook,

Century Schoolbook Infant
teenage ninja mutant turtle vestige
aligning their (ain't fib)
be yen cool visionaries,
donning tortoise shell bifocals,
otherwise affixed i.e. born that way

with poker faced purblind outlook,
and whose shockproof
shell acted carapace
tricked out to unseen observer
as an eye opening spectacle.
Ryan O'Leary Feb 2021
The fairy queen has waved the
wand, no choice for us to pick

Roll up your sleeves, put forth
your arms, it's just a little nick

Yet no one knows ,what's in the sting
or what this voodoo serum will bring

We are the island of Saints & Scholars
propped up by evil snakes in Dollar$

Our Airport at Shannon is a Nato Den
an en route pitstop for US servicemen

We are known as the puppet nation
they pull strings & control our inflation

So now they tell us to take their Jab
a microsoft liquid from Hells Gates Lab

We of the island who wish to go forth
must be injected for the passport

Some of us know it is all but a scam
but we are the achilles, of Ankle Sam.
KV Srikanth Mar 2022
Pain and loss
Matters of the heart
Feeling of intimacy
Attachment wrapping itself strongly
Creating a bond life long
Trips to the heart
Pilgrimage for those who sought
Open and large with a place for all
Barren and Forlorn
Woefully at the wrong end
Pilgrims galloping away
Like a race horse
Even betting on them wouldn't stop
Hit the pitstop where Pelagic birds stop
Moana drowns our tears
Which saved us from
Drowning from sorrow
Anchoring by fastening
Our feelings
Haywire and intertwined
Can't find the Origin
Not even a delusional one
So scarce it has become
Black cat in a coal cellar
Seem dime a Dozen
Ryan O'Leary Aug 2020
I have enough lead in my
head to commit suicide.

A plumb bob pendulum
a metallic metronome
a tinnitus of titanium.

Noisier than Niki Lauda's
Ferrari at the pitstop.

Eternally on the last lap
a paper chase leading to
a summit where there is
a meeting of insomniac
poets, on Pencil Hill.

— The End —