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ryn Oct 2014
Collab, collab! Oh thoughtful collabs!
Amalgamation of two unique minds,
Merging of dual thinking labs!
Cerebral workshop of life's diverse grinds!

Collab, collab! Reinforced true!
Melding of minds and honed crafts,
Mounted up with bolt and *****!
Assembled solid in monochromed poetic drafts.

Collab, collab! A trend that's trending!
A fad that now seems ever growing...
Each other's style we will be wearing.
Matching ensembles, yours for the liking.

Collab, collab! More of it please!
Ocean of creativity, pearls ripe for picking,
Journey for two across artistic seas.
Wonder who with next I'll be swimming...
Tribute to all collab attempts!
Keep it up people!!! :)
~

I am
Unpoetic, for
Isolation built from self-paved
Solitude has wilted my writing's
Possibility for sweetness
And sugar-faked beauty,
But poetry is crazed
For a taste of
Vast feelings,
So here
I am-


~
All feedback is welcome
Bryan Lunsford Apr 2018
Our love had the essence of such a poetic start,
As it’s now quiet with nothing but slow songs playing in the dark,
I hear the rhythm of a piano fused elegantly with a lonely harp,
Where I lie here placed in my bed with a broken heart,
I write my emotions down and turn my pain into an art,
As I cry page by page and continue to fall apart,
I analyze our beginning, our ending, every moment and part,
With our love that had the essence of such a poetic start
Traveler Feb 2016
Actually...

The substance surrounding

"Invisibility"

Is made up of
Poetic words and stanza...
re po
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.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 14
I get her, she writes me,
so eloquently,
”the nub of me; gist, manifested poetic”

one of the many poets I have never met,
one of the many poets, by whom,
I have been suchly, justly, richly and correctly
accused

this mesmerizing judgement,
her-over-easy, mini-essay so succinctly
assaying an accidental ability mine

explodes
a happy passageway to my brain,
a new aperture, the neurons firing at will,
the tormented inquisitor’s unasked question,
how did this happen to me?

rocking the Sunday morn cradle’s calm,
ok, ok, write me, write me,
demands my no longer free will,
utilize the free wi-fi of we fidelty

the bay, surgically barely treading water,
its surface of multitude of small waves
but now an entire ****** expression bidding welcome

the breezeways genteel,
smilingly
invites and push us into its
directionless & tideless soothful embrace,
to the shoreline we goeth,
to watch the occasional crossing vessel intruder,
woking the waters gentle

its white path residual wake foam-formed,
then almost instantaneously absorbed, bubbly bursting,
a history of a million moments awakened,
then, instantly returned to restful sleep,
akin to a newborn’s gurgling happy dreaming,
wiped clean away off to
Peter Pan’s it-never-happened-land

this carnival trick sideline of deep tissue knowingness,
sensing the essence of the who and the whom within,
with no data to go on other than their poetic collection,
the hidden meanings of the spaces and places between
the gene sequencing of their wondrous word-fullness
DNA poetic children, freely given,
and well taken
by me

I cannot explain it well enough, but then
a strayer thought breakaway,
a prehensile comprehension insertion
proffers itself as an explanation
intruded,
and here,
extruded

the perfect world exterior before me observable
thrusts itself through picture windows onto my demeanor,
a ****** addiction of mine, my soul enslaved,
cannot bear to be taken away from

this vista,

which begs me,
bring all those you know!
here, to share, this precious precise nook
where eye insightful incisions elicit poems-by-command

but I cannot, bring you here,

so I see~imagine it better through
your eyes, then
your
gist
is in my stubbed pencil nub, it is
your
poem’s destiny manifesting,
penciled through my scruff edged fingertips,
which-when-then transcribed to paper, to history,
‘tis all you
who writes,
not I

for now
you
are the solitary vessel waterborne,
you,
you
are the captain and I

but a
Samson-nite, burdened, baggaged and blinded stowaway,
hopeless, yet still see-worthy,
with your guiding eyes,  
keeping me to keep
your copyright righted,
onto its course true



7-14-19 9:43am
in shelter, on the isle
she’ll ken her authorship by the title
sophia Aug 2017
he was like a written poem carved from the wholesome heart of an ideal poet. he was free and never needed a rhyme or a crested harmonic tone to be complete.
read between the lines
with an eagle's eye,
only then will you
unveil and decipher,
the hidden secrets of a poet
Elena Mar 30
With the footsteps of determination and friendship,
together we will carve beauty's eternal pathway.
ConnectHook Oct 2018
The past participle of deal is dealt;
Thus, when the cards fall is when it is felt.

A deck of cards knows its own unsealer
as well as the skill and art of the dealer.

Trump cards, (although not normally plural)
are to share. The enjoyment is jural.

We hope they are more than dealed incitements:
those fifty-five thousand sealed indictments . . .
Inspired by some stuff I heard at The Prophecy Club.
Maybe more hype but it was still interesting.

https://youtu.be/EXtmWpqN4UA
Grace Sjolander Oct 2016
My Anxiety is a parasite
Living inside my head,
Feeding off of every thought I have
In a hope to prevail.

He makes me feel sick,
Much as a parasite would.
He changes me,
Reverses me
Into something I do not wish to be.

He consumes me,
Uses me.
He uses me in a way
No girl ever wants to be used,
Screams at me,
Nullifies every positive thought I have.

He controls my everything.
Constantly lifts my fingers,
Slams them into any surface,
In a hope to hinder me
And leave me distracted.

He leaves me useless.
The desire to wither away
Into a small cloud of dust
Penetrates my mind
With every pulsing heartbeat.

My Anxiety
Is best friends with My Depression.
They skip
Through the meadows of my memories,
Holding hands and destroying,
Ripping out the flowers of my past.
if you post this somewhere, please credit me :) thanks <3
Britney Lyn Feb 2017
My grandmother always said I look more beautiful when I smile but never thought to ask why I wasn’t smiling. My heart could only bring myself to smile back at her in return. I would spend every summer day I could at her house, swimming in the lake, basking in the sun, drowning my sorrows and letting them sink till I couldn’t see them anymore. I thought maybe they would stay at the bottom with whatever else was lost in that lakes depths. But I was only a child, and we think such foolish thoughts. I guess you could say my sorrows came back like ghosts with a vengeance because nothing was scarier than ghosts and nothing haunted me like my sorrows. I was thirteen years old and scared of the dark because it looked like silence felt and I was so overcome by it I hardly got any sleep. Then I asked myself what is sleep? Are we all just stuck in a nightmare or a dream, stuck in an infinite loop, a broken record, repeat. I wanted to scream as loud as I could but I didn’t dare wake the beasts in the next room in fear that I’d get beat. Emotionally, physically it was all the same to me because what’s the difference between visible scars and a broken heart, they both hurt. Sixteen years old and I’m staring at a rope tied in a knot, representing the hold my sorrows have over me. I tried for hours to untie that knot in hopes it would magically cure my problems. I cried in frustration and finally took a knife to it, determined to be free but only for a moment because the knot was me. I made a masterpiece out of the flesh I had come hate, trying to find some beauty in it but all I felt was sickness, pain. So I tightened that rope around my neck a hundred times, saying goodbye and I’m sorry a thousand more, ready to end my life when all I really wanted was someone to notice. And if that makes me selfish than at least I’m something more than a disappointment. But don’t worry I’ll still see you in the morning because I never could bring myself to commit. Eighteen years old, a legal adult and my only friend said he couldn’t love me if I couldn’t get better on my own. Said it was too hard to be with someone so far away even though I could reach my hand out and close that distance. He broke my heart and walked out of my life and the next day he didn’t have one. That day I came to terms with my life. No one could destroy me because I destroy me. And my worst fear is no longer ghosts, the dark, or the silence. My worst fear is one day, being as oblivious to my child’s suffering as my parents were to mine.
More of a story about my life than a poem but I still think it's poetic :)
Cunning Linguist Sep 2018
Is this electricity real
Or just in our heads?
Your touch is magnetic
But still you're lonely in bed

You take me to places,
I'd never dare tread
When push comes to shove
I'm stuck on the edge

You tell me to jump
So I relent, then mid-descent
your silhouette dissolves
and blows away in the wind ~

Memories haunt me
& I cannot pretend;
Tell me when exactly
did forever after end?

Though I wax poetic
I feign to comprehend
How to be your everything
and not just something I dreamt

You swept me off my feet
And into my grave
In the shadows I’ll lay and wait
And long for your deceased embrace

While someone else crept into place
And a ghost I remain, maybe someday
you’ll come around again
And I’ll see your face

Reanimate my corpse
I'm par for the course
Just paint our perfect life
In my mental frame of sorts

I subject myself to this cycle
Time after time
Soaking in emotion
Hung out to dry

In that moment,
I know you feel the same
But you're so open-minded
Your brain short-circuited in the rain

Am I your personal perverse circus
What's the endgame
You drive me wild and untamed
Toxic and vile, yet I cannot refrain

The signs I ignored
You always wanted more
I split open my soul
and spilled out on the floor

Mythic, this endless bliss
Your poison is venomous
“I taste it and spit in your kiss”
My mistress

Stay forever young my favorite drug
Got me punch drunk
From Jonestown with love,
-Reidums
Why can I only write poetry when my heart is broken
c Oct 2018
Did you melt for me?

Did you burn and break down every time I touched you?

Because I did.

When they say
We’re a perfect match

They don’t realize
Matches burn.

So don’t wax poetic for me
Because I fall
To inferno.
emily mikkelsen Jul 2018
recently
I got a little older,
learned a lesson or two,
like how loving someone
could never be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
like how nothing
would ever be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
how can I accept
that the miracle of love
isn’t really a miracle at all?
how can I wrap myself
in someone’s arms
when I know
that there isn’t any sort
of poetic loving involved?
how do I unlearn
the romantic thoughts
that taught me
about the fireworks,
the butterflies,
and the fluttering fingers
in the dark.
and accept that
maybe kissing
won’t be as spiritual as I thought.
maybe it’s really just a mouth on mine.
how do I unlearn my innocent heart
who lulled me into a false sense of hope
for a lover who would call
the way my body moves
art.
a lover who would feel
the poetry
in every word
I spoke in the dark.
Steve Page Apr 18
I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
Can I stop you for a moment
cos I think you need to hear this

I can work with a little discord
I can dance with juxtaposition
I'm even sometimes partial to
a suggestion by omission

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
I've got a mouthful of metaphor
and little time to chew it

I get giggly with similes
and silly with alliteration
I'm warning you now
I'm devoted to proper diction

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
So give me some extra space
cos I think I'm going to lose it

I'm in love with eloquence
and I fawn for fluency
I can't get near enough
of off-beat rhythmic lunacy

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
But I use it for the good
and avoid the call for nasty

I'm tired of hearing hate
bred from agressive bitterness
I'm looking to collaborate
with writers with forgiveness

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it

So let's sit down to talk
cos I think you need to hear this
Written as an opener at a spoken word event in Ealing.
s Dec 2017
when you ask me if I'm bored
of listening to your story,
I ponder what boredom means to me
and why I'm grateful for mundanity.

you colour my life
in every tone of grey -
in a nourishing, poetic,
underrated way.
grey - the soul
of every colour in the world -
invisible and aligned
like all things well designed.

or maybe because grey
feels like routine,
and you’re the everyday
that's to come
and that has been.

you're where I set my bar for normal;
you're my Sunday night pyjama informal.

You’re my common sense,
my reality check,
my perspective lens,
my goodnight peck;
and even your grim phone voice
& plotless stories on sleepless nights
are part of the palette 
I've come to adore,
painting magic
in monochrome.
Ivana Rodriguez Oct 2018
Autumn has nothing on me now;
Summer has changed me as a whole.
But winter is coming soon, I fear,
And I'm afraid by spring I'll have no soul.

Spring: a season's anticipation,
Awaiting the exciting summertime...
Crashing down comes ice and snow,
And brings me to the winter-rhyme.

Winter, bearing **** days––
To bring out nips upon the skin,
And tears to turn to killing hail,
And morals to turn to bitter sin.

Autumn, so full of nothingness:
Empty, and dead, and decaying-brown.
Leaves that swarm the dried-out air
Like clumps of ashes falling down.

Summer, the warm, and lovely season––
"Hurry up," I say, "and run, run, run."
I'm missing sun in every corner;
I'm missing freedom; I'm missing fun.
I don't know about this poem... comment, please...(?)
:)
I did not want to post this at first, but it gave me a decent reason to procrastinate and not do homework.
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