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elizabeth Mar 2018
i've wanted to be a mystery for as long as i can remember. my whole life, i ached for someone to wonder about me, to need to know more, to write pages of poetry for me, to feel love songs in their body when they saw me. i desired words of love and lust and wonder to describe me. i never understood what i was doing wrong, why i wasn't receiving bundles of pink, heart-shaped valentines full of adoration, why i couldn't seem to make anyone curious about who i was. i'd watch others only share small pieces of themselves to capture the hearts of random lovers, and i so wished to do the same. i know that, deep in my core, that's not who i am. my heart is tattooed on my sleeve, and every emotion that goes through my mind appears right across my face. i feel too much, there's no way around it. no one will ever wonder about a girl if you can easily see what she's feeling. i've tried to crush that part of myself, tried to drain my body of all the excess feelings. it refills though, like a river after a drought. the water always returns, most often in storms. the feelings rush into me and make it impossible to mute them. i've come to the conclusion that i will never be a person that a stranger on the bus sees from across the aisles and thinks about for the rest of the day. that those who want to be wanted rarely get that. that i will forever be the one who writes poetry about someone, and it will never be the other way around. it hurts, but i've realized now that no blurry, rushed words about a love for me will ever grace a page in a diary, even if that's the only thing i need.
Tammy M Darby Nov 2013
Hunched over the worn desk
In the ***** yellow light
Trying to arrange thoughts in array
A  small mad woman with a pen in hand
On the paper drops of life did lay

The mind soared to the golden heavens  
Dove blindly into the gates of hell
Using her favorite metaphors wildly
Dark poetry from a ghost-filled well

Eyes shining with frightening excitement
The feather pen moved on its own
Stories of a thousand lost years
Through legends of Troy, Atlantis, and fairyland, she would roam

Weary now of endless imagination
The ink dried the words would keep
Impish smile of triumph on her face  
Rest her mind in an enchanted sleep


All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby
All Material Stored in Author Base.
Amena Sep 10
I guess they love you
Because all the poems I’ve written are
About you
I guess they love you
Because every single love song I hear
Describes  you
I guess they love you
Because In every passing face
I see you
I guess they love you
Because I’m not sure if all the writers and poets fell in love before
With you
Seanathon Jul 2016
You see this building? I built this building. But nobody knows that I built this building.

I can only assert that I did build this building, and refresh my own memory of building said building.

But at the end of the day, it's just an old building. And ironically enough, I've never stopped building.

There are a few other people who helped build this building. Like myself they can say that they did build this building.

And even if all of our name were there on an engraving, it would never truly be anyone's personal building.

Because we built it for those, so that they could start building. So that they could get going and build their buildings.

Because the framework we built was a structure of learning. And we each taught ourselves through the process of learning.
It's true.... :D
Ken Pepiton Aug 2018
Weave we've woven a web...
What I said, what I said, what I said
we been sayin all a long

Oh the futurists mythed the inter-resting-time

This man fears population explosions, he is speaking in 1991,

I'd built my great 100 by 75 miles ten stories building resting place where ten billion story tellers could hide and watch whaat's
comin' down.
By then, decades before, in the desert twixt Vegas and L.A.
I asked this guy who actually wanted in my pants,
I sat on the window silly V double you, did he know,
I asked, no, I told him, after I had been starring at the stars for some time, this time that'ime, when I think about it,
I told that guy the whole world was waiting,
suffering,
await'n' the frontal cortex maturation of the sons 'oGod.
I said "and I'm one." Don't touch.

My private calfornia became my private arizona and neo and river chose idaho, ( no, that idaho, that was a movie-story)... not part of the rite

that was the legend of the clan, when we had electrix. That ride set an I'll-go-rythm of if/then/else switches to HIGH honor if-ic.
If.
If you can keep your head... the rest, true rest, is history.

we know a voice who swore he was there when "Been there, done that"
became an
eternal cliche of the gods.

We are participating in the future. We are thinking.

---
that hapt the same night as the discovery of the perfect-ish
four sided pyramid of charcoal brickets burning one
at at at a time
touch another to the glowing pile on the sand...
(audio)
=====
why are ficts so far from the facts in the matters that matter

re-lig-em leg-it-am-it-all, damitalkenslowdown

so re-lig me to my ide-idea, beware

We seen this coming do you? This is thirty years ago we know, this we know this we

we are in sanity, as insanity is the only way to packitin
sane sorts of things that all must touch in order
to re
main sane. You know, you know. That makes lying im-possible or null-possil-be
per se.
Word.Righton. Trooph truckah! ToA allaway Found

a calico cat of the old school sawdust variety.
if you,
if you see her, please de-if her re-onance, it's chipped.
You can keep her, if I can say such things here and not be thought an ownery old cuss,
clammering through empty lobster tails to see what the attraction may have been,

Back. Then we are not
off track or trail, etched acid canyon of silicon paved with godelsufferingold, by golly, I'd be live if I could see my way clear to walk such streets at
the speed of light
no, gravity and no, too slow,
thought.
ought... that's a thought
not... that's a thought
ought... that's a differ'nt thought, takes time...
that's a thought you could spend thinking it. You get nowhere.
now and then we find clusters of ideas in time, as if they buble from some spring in the headwaters of the mind we matter in

Der Lesenmann, bitte, kanst do lesen? O h, dear reader, take my hand, my phantom hand, the one I never lost, tell me

did you enjoy our journey, so far...

Weave a ways, weave a ways to go. If this and that cross
again
we may hear what that preach meant to say, thaat day
o'visitation, way back when.

olden time. grand mals time to meditate sign-ate de-sign-ate,

Dada do we know when we know, when we are two and the past is, too.
Papa do you know the big bang is the answer everyone found, in the olden days when you were ten?
Oh I read about that backthen, I was twelve. Weekly Reader kept my gang informed, or Me, and I told all my friends, my listeners who did not read but needed to pass the current events test.
Now, we all a passin' those ****** one time at atime

Upon my word, begin...
This sprang from a 1991 discussion about the world wide web, in which Terrence McKenna  Ruper Sheldrake began to imagine the world we live in post Y2K and  9-11 and 420 and Prop 64, where are you
Nat Lipstadt Feb 27
being a poet is not planned

~for Gabriella Garcia~

~~

a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots

what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking

was he thinking?

that it was an ejection
that it was an *******
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?

that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?

try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem  flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too

who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?

knowing well and full
now

the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas


~~

upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
____
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned
Seanathon May 2018
This is the wind born
As it wimpers through the trees
A willful whisper
Midst the meadow mindfulness
Willing it will ever be
To do what? To whisper in your ear of course. (:
calcium Oct 2018
I’m no poet
But I sure sound like one
From my grammar to
the misused punctuation
I can express
What I feel
From my mind
To white paper
The paper is my canvas
my mind is the paint
the pen is my brush
and the reader,
The Art critic.
Go ahead,
critique me
but just like a painting
I don’t plan on changing it
What you see
is what you get

I’m no poet after all
Seanathon Jul 2017
I want the back of your head
I want the smell of your hair
I dream of it
Or so I've been
Asleep for many years
With arms in shape
But not for me
But to carry the weight
To preserve the strength
To ensure the future of our family
For this desire
For this my soul weeps
And my arm ache
I want you more than I want me
The memory is what gets me. Be it not mine to keep.
lucav Sep 2018
ethereal utopia burned to hell,perhaps the carnage of death made them scream their scriptures at the sinners.
Lucifer clutching the hearts of the vertigo minded devotion to a blank faced god,showing no mercy to the imperfect yet claiming righteous love.  
The blind will never see and the sinners will always seek some relief from pain,or perhaps their counterparts seek to relieve the duty of the never ending pretentious love for a celestial being they know nothing of.
just something i wrote as a submission
w y n n e Aug 2017
73
is it okay to miss him the second he looks away?
David Lessard Nov 2018
I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)
Marla Oct 2017
He writes in seclusion
Despondent and morose,
Beckoning to your
Hearts and minds.
For hours at a time
He sits inside,
Having drawn his mental blinds.
No voice can reach him
But the one inside
His head,
So what a surprise
For all to find
His work was never read.
All the craft and all his labor
Lay wasting in his bin.
If someone had seen
The soul of this poet,
Perhaps lonely
He may not have been.
A poet's craft can oftentimes be lonesome.
Max Dec 2018
Just a little poet
Who's always afraid to
Show it.

But then I met you.
Sometimes I was scared to show my poems, but then I met her and she said she was proud of me, and I felt way better:)
Amy Leigh Jul 2018
Never fall in love with a poet.
They will break you apart
like stanzas.
You are a metaphor,
a simile, an oxy-
*****.
Never fall in love with a poet.
They will tear you apart
like a rough draft,
burn you, and then
call it art.

© A. Leigh
zoie marie lynn Sep 2017
if
if a poet falls in love with you,
you can never truly die.
your lips would be spilled out,
along with perfect puckered lies.
there's always something to love,
even as you sleep in a bed deep underground.
everyone will know what you were made of,
even if you're nowhere to be found.
you are the living breathing poem that all poets need to thrive,
so if a poet happens to fall for you,
you can never truly die.
mortal bodies, timeless souls
Racquel Davis Jul 2014
First, I claim my land and choose my artillery for
Paper and for pen.
Before going into battle, my men are prepped with
The message and plot.
On my claimed land I lay bricks and marble of
Rhythm and theme.
Now, my land is ready to hold life in
Imagery and in style.
Finally, I build a fortress there in the reader’s own mind.

©Copyright 2014 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis
Updated 11/23/16
Left Foot Poet Mar 2017
She, my cutter,
my body, her cutting,
with tongue and finger nail,
any handy human implement,
she sculpts me to
her eye's configuring delight

she, grabs my wrist,
and my face
by her hands embraced,
unblemished once
now becomes scarred tissued,
no guise, no lies, no bearded mask,
no disguise -
all forsaken
hidden hardened skin,
speckled red/white translucent,
she kisses with adoration her
heart designed
objet d'art

no better blade than she,
with every cut,
transformed, she becomes
my devotee,
I, her escapee,
I am her, she is me,
inseparable, my every command,
she obeys*
for our love cuts both ways
will19008 Jun 14
where are your words
where are your words
where are your words now
poet?
No Name Poet Feb 2015
How
Can     Will
You              You
Break                   Fix
Me         ­                     Me
When                 When
You          You
Fixed   Broke
Me              Me
In                        In
The                          The
First                   First
Place         Place
Darling.
Piyush Gahlot Oct 2018
I write to express,
Thoughts I can't suppress,
When something makes me depress,
When things happen in excess
Feels good to pen down, I Guess.

When I am alone,
I get in my own zone,
When my heart groan,
When I miss her skin and bone,
I write words expect them to make perfect tone.

When I am in a long Uber ride,
For sleeping I stride,
For you when my heart cried,
Writing something I tried.
Rhyming I applied.
This is how I write.
Trying to explain why I write.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
The circle closes over the dead woman's space.
Family and community heal, the scar tissue
between a young girl's *******. She had
shared conversations with my father about
the holes in their hearts. My heart, the
muscle, not the spirit, flutters when a
young girl bikes by or the heron flies.

By September flies are down, we can come
out of our canoes and risk the woods. Summer's tissue
is torn each night. Space above gives perspective
to the life one had. Jesus speaks your name?
And is Beatrix now traveling astronomy's corridors
at the speed of light, aware of herself, to the blessed heart?
Durante too is moving on, wayfaring with his virgil.

Much of the family gathered. My grandfather, Bart,
it was remembered sold his house to none other than Duke
Ellington and Lena Horne lived up the block. Andrew
played with her daughters, sons. Until every Italian
had moved east into Long Island, thinking themselves
better than blacks. I find each and all --
Hindus, Muslims -- hard-earned bone and prone to ache.

We are most happy the dead one's not us.
The chosen one, the unfortunate one, the
one whose name Jesus spoke, is gone
and is no longer one of us. She is the other,
as distant and separate from the family
as a black man or Hindu's sister. Missed less
than last night's sleep or meat and grateful

for such peace. I will be too if it won't
come too soon or too often. My observation is
54 or 84 you always seem to want more
what was accomplished or never finished isn't
enough. Greedy, overweight and blameworthy
is how I've felt about every wasted day.
Summer's tissue torn by the first frost night.

Judging by her feet, Judith will be a big
woman, great granddaughter of Bartholomew,
who sold his redlined house to Duke. See how she
stands near her mother, Jeanette, who
resembles so fiercely my grandmother, Concetta.
The circle closes over the dead woman's space.
Summer's tissue is torn, the family is lace.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
Hungry poet
greets each silence—waiting
for his supper—HA !
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2015
be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit

give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration

so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction

more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying

speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them
Oct. 6, 2015
4:30am
Manhattan Island
King Panda Mar 2016
God
what have I created?
such fire
and sin
spewing from my
pen
drawing blood
from all of these
prisoners
the devil
spilling out like
vapor
from the cracks
in my
door
such poison
am I
such a delicate
observer
of death
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