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C Davis Dec 2016
I am not a waterballoon, bursting at impact.

I am a hot ***, a cauldron

filling,

filling,

full,

overflow.

I spill onto the street,

Weeping for my world.
CK Baker Apr 2017
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls

Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle

Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms

Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues

Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare

It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****)
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
traces of being Aug 2016
.
Honeybees, birds and blooms unfurl
an enchanting spell
when spring comes by here

Memories waft 'neath burled rustic trellis
where flowered tendrils grasp fleshly
like the newness a love once tenderly embraced

Songbirds in your garden sing
of swooning memories rapture.., of velvet eyes,  
the fragrant spicy nectar hidden within her walls                            

A song of honeyed bees'  sweetest stinger,
and the poignant ***** of intoxicating surrender
lingers, bemused spellbound by a thorny heirloom rose

Sharp beauty beloved like a blameless trap
caught blissfully, breathlessly inbetween
all you wish for and all your wanton needs

Desire 's wellspring an unspoken passion
coquet swollen buds adorn blossoming,
sensual, untamed carnal grace

A picture perfect natural beauty;
sunlit chassé … feathered brush, demure blush
dancing with basket of lace petal’d perfume

For to colour a heart's blank pages
rapt in the poesy a joyous ecstasy ..,
enrapture with rainbow's luscious taste

What seems lost is but a tender vestige unfound
a passing moments innocence lost
to steal away like rumors of gold

These silent reveries seep from a hole in my heart,  
as if ripe strawberries of yore, gently weeping sweetness
when pricked by a thorny rose  

The ides of spring do still bleed a timeless ache
onto the page ... sweet naivety stung
by a mesmerizing dart to the heart

Songbirds in your garden do sing
of sweetest things immersed in nature's nectar
blissful memories sleeping in the petals of a rose




Sung to the wind by a song sparrow — ♪ ♫...✩ ☼✩ ✩☺✩
If only now in dreams of yore
a sky full of stars shine brighter,
a garden of flowers fragrance more pungent,
and songbirds in your garden from yesteryear
sing tantalizingly more beautiful ...,
when you were near

.
Tolani Aug 2018
We were both love. I was a sunflower and you were a snowflake. Both beautiful and gentle but unable to coexist effectively because flowers can’t blossom in the cold.

Yet when it ended, the truth became misconstrued.
Suddenly I was a rose thorn that pricked you till you bled.
And you were a greedy bee that ****** the life out of me and left me empty.

We created false portrayals of each other to make this all a bit easier to deal with.

But the truth will always stay.

We were both beauty, purity, fragility, love.
We just weren’t meant to give our love to each other.

And now we both bleed, because the hardest part is accepting we were never meant to be.
We were never meant for each other..
Godlink Sep 2017
In a garden full of daisies,
had grown a beautiful rose.
Something more unique,
than I had ever known.
Though its beauty is breathtaking,
its personality made it shine.
To pick up such a perfect flower,
would be the greatest crime.
The rose was getting anxious,
in defense it grew a thorn.
I pricked my finger,
hurt myself,
but caused the rose more harm.
So through my dumbest action,
the rose would soon deplete.
Here I stand with pain in heart,
a perfect rose had wilted at my feet.
Meteorelle Jul 2018
I used to write the most beautiful things
When I feel loved for everything.

Flowers grew on papers
with every words written down,
Pain have never spoken

I always savor
what's in his favor,
Even I drench in ink
by the thorns he pricked

Storm crossed the yard
In the waves I tried to linger
Left soaking in tears
Waiting for the sunshine
Waiting for it to end

As sweet as yesterday
Captivated by his fragrance
Now I cannot breathe
I want to escape this maze of wilted roses

What have I done?
Why I'm no longer safe in my own garden?

Lost with the clouds
Sadness was profound
You came and painted new colors in this miserable life
I was found

From disgrace
You embraced me
As I suffer illness
You cured me

Even trouble I become
No hesitation, you choose me
Thank you so much for saving me
You are now my forever paradise.
Thank you for seeing the beauty in me.
Ashleigh Black Jul 2014
If you try to hurt me
with your words
as if they were needles
that pricked into my spine
just know that
baby, only words bleed
and that wounds heal
with time.
Becca Lansman Aug 2017
I.
Your skin is milky honey on a scratched throat. Let us explore each other’s bodies like we have been lost at sea. Like this is the first time we have felt land—and oh god it feels good to walk on solid ground.
We have been lost for so long. We are finally home.
II.
I explore that map of your chest, arms back—the rigid edges, color soaked skin, ink pricked flesh, let my lips uncover each story. One by one I will unravel
you.
Let me trace your map with my mouth—learning each side path to and from your lips. I want the journey that comes with the destination.
III.
I want to ******* until the ocean around us contains no more salt. Until our bodies have climbed the tallest mountain. Until the waves stop crashing against the shore. Until we have lost ourselves so completely that everyone ****** is mistaken for a prayer—oh god—I hope we never find solid ground. How good it feels to finally be lost, while completely at home.
Little Wyoming May 2018
I’ve eaten the apple and here I lie
Take me away into the night sky
Awake me from my deepened sleep
For Neverland we shall keep
Come climb my tower and set me free
No more a maiden do I wish to be
I’ve pricked my finger for just one kiss
Come slay the dragon without a miss
My hair flows long within the night
Place the slipper to fit just right
Down the isle I will walk
Our Love is beyond the clock
The guest will greet with cups in hand
I’ve seen the beast and love the man
The curse is lifted and here I speak
No more do my legs feel weak
We’ll ride the carpet beyond the breeze
To live our life above the seas
The attic attacks me, won't back
me up in fights with my heart.
Dust will conclude how long I've
been afraid, cleaned for the
dusk; I don't know my name.
Wading in rivers for its own trade,
confront the buyer at higher
stakes than the owner, lower I fall.
"Tone down the pain" mediocre
control over what I am and
what I will become, my thumbs
pricked for another accusation.
I'll discuss my problems only the
world can understand, privated
and classified; I am just a man.
I am just a boy, and these passages
aren't used to show how much
better I've gotten, only if I say I do.
These words and all the strings
of things I can collect, are something
much more deep than you'll ever comprehend.
you believe I am recovering,
because that's all you're allowed to see.
Can't you sense the great dispense
that one day I'll look up from your feet?
All feedback is welcome and appreciated
Erica Aug 2018
she's your rose
but you turned her white petals
r e d
soaked in her own blood
her pedals ruined because of your words
because of your actions
but she stayed with you because you torture her stem
spraying her with what she thought was water but in fact was
p o i s o n
and one day you grab her wrong and get pricked by her mighty thorns
and after everything
you leave her
with her blood soaked rose petals
and poison stem
Orion Schwalm Jul 2018
There once was a time
Gone by, gone by,
Picking blackberries till the vine was plucked dry.

Pricked finger and the blood of kings
washed the riverbed clean again
paving path for new bled love.

Story of my life: Hot Hand-Grenade.
Tripwire tickled by trespassing travelers
Red wire arteries
clipped and clipped and clipped
and simple minded times when birds sang songs to other birds
and chirped lyrical lines in the dusk.
More wonder. More trust. Less wanderlust.
Dust in the air. Still in the sunlight.
Through glass.
Broke. Fall. Cut. All roads lead to home.
Wood, River, Stone. A guide, a path, alone.
We all walk on our own
Striving for independence
Together.

Now is a time of faded glory, daffodils in freshly-mowed fields.
I still catch myself wishing I had the words to share
The bigness of what's out there.
I still hear myself singing your song of longing.
Still find myself longing for days of childish peace and ignorance
when we could pick blackberries from the bush without bombs falling in our basket.
Still a long way to go to hear the sound of surrender and the silent unfurling of egos into how alone we feel.
Still my heart, that lost love long ago, and surrendered a savior forever.
Hart, of dreams, slip into the stream.
Interstitch the seams.
Alysia Marie Jul 6
I’ve known then that I shouldn’t have hid
words that were pierced by with my tongue
Kept inside these jagged lines
racing across the paper as I hummed-

The tone of the song that brought me near
to the chambers where you’ve kept
Your heart guarded by thorns imagining all-
of the days where you’ve held me as I’ve slept

Yet for those pins that’ve pricked my mind
I hid and cowled away
Running from past mistakes and craved-
to see light of another day

But with these dancing crooked lines,
like the ones of which I spoke
I’ve pushed you into the depths of a realm-
where I’d barely exist outside of hope

I try to right my wrongs undone
by sharing in the entirety
Of what I should’ve sang so long ago-
left only for you to flee

So with this coward of who I am
hiding pains within my greaves
I take it all and shatter that thread of words-
for you’ve meant everything to me


                       Alysia Marie 2019
I’ve tried to right my wrongs by starting anew- by sharing what I was hiding for so long

Yet within those words I seemed to have lost what I was trying to save

That is all.
Angie Christine Oct 2018
He recently shared something with me about holding hands. Everything written in the piece was true. From the start, his hands have made me feel safe, nurtured, needed, adored, wanted, and healed.
See, I rarely let anyone touch me before. Human touch was not something I craved until him.  I didn’t know how much I needed it until I wanted it, but he did.
      As he reached for my hand yesterday , as he does countless times, I began to notice things on a deeper level. I saw the structural beauty and strength of his hands; his skin color, his beautiful fingers, the veins, the hair pattern. I reflected on how many keystrokes they typed and words they’ve written. I thought of how many times they played the sax and played video games with skill and passion.
     Then, I remembered this past year. Those hands created a beautiful room for me in his home. Those hands literally moved ALL my physical belongings exclusively on their own. They held my hair as I was sick with my head over his toilet. They actually mopped up my cats’ ***** when it was overflowing at my old house.              
They have painted, caulked, sawed, sanded, created, recreated, cooked amazing meals, chopped countless veggies, cut every piece of meat he served me, taught me to use his PS4 controller, dried my hair, colored my hair, massaged away my pain, and given me love I didn’t know existed and more.
     His hands have been blistered, scraped, calloused, cut, pricked, sore and he doesn’t complain; they never stop giving nor does he.
And I’m so grateful and honored to be the one whose hand he holds forever...
Written 1/18/18 at 10:29 am
ghivashel Jun 3
I was once your heart’s centerpiece,
petaled in alluring scarlet,
your very darling little starlet,
skin the color of ivory,
with lips like blooming roses,
my love for you evergreen,
encased in a body like a vase.

I braid flowers into my hair,
Spray the room with gardenia perfume,
Clothe myself in red silk,
I cinch my waist,
try to recreate myself,
Try to become a bouquet.
in the body of a vase.

But you don’t care.
To all these things you’ve become immune.
And I wilt,
efforts gone to waste.
My sweet infidel,
you leave and isolate,
run away from me in all haste.

I’ve cut the heads of the roses.
Bended the stems until they were broken.
Shredded the petals until they were tatters.
Let myself bleed scarlet red,
pricked by your thorned bed.

The vase breaks and shatters.
from my upcoming book, "Echoes in an Empty Home." Out soon. © ghivashel.
I have a question for you:
Do you know the brutal agony
That wrenches your heart asunder
When you have your child,
Your flesh and blood,
Torn viciously from you
As you lie helplessly in bed
Ignorant to the tormented crying of your baby?

I have a question for you:
Do you know the burning fury
That scorches and swarms in your soul
When someone you loathe
Can manipulate your every movement
As if you are a foolish juvenile?

Do you know the roaring beast of betrayal
That casts rotten, merciless shadows
Over every bleak thing
You lay your tortured, tear-pricked eyes upon?

Do you know the unrelenting guilt
That destroys every comfort you desperately seek
And drowns you in your own misery
When your entire family die
On your very conscience?

If so, then you are only
A few steps closer to
Understanding the torment
That grinds me up every night
Only to spit me out each morning
For the hell dogs I called my friends
To sniff at in disdain

You are only a few steps closer
To entering the churning,
Burning,
Thrashing
Sea that eats me whole
When the fragile walls around my happiness
Shatters into millions of pieces.

So I have a question for you:
Do you have a single clue
About the real world?
Whit Howland Nov 30
It’s people that offend me
not you

you represent an idea
a point of view

someone’s vision
of how a cat should look and be

calm
but wary

perched on your hind legs
and though relaxed you’re ready to strike

blue eyes seductive and yet
disapproving

I trust you
but at the same time

I don’t want to turn my back
I’ve been burned before

by people
not you

you represent an idea
a point of view

your ears pricked back
like your perturbed

your mind
surface tension

Whit Howland © 2019
The human story.
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