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Joyce Joadiyce Jun 2019
To the planets
Of the stars
Moons-like ours

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Copyright 2019 Joyce Joadiyce
Glass Jul 2018
there is a red sparrow  
tasting caramel pecans in the backyard while I lean
against the kitchen counter reminding myself
‘your so passionate about submissiveness and dominance'
(relevant volume of an alleged innumerable intact)
that it’s another morning with a warm cup of coffee
and by the time I arrive at the subway station, there is a man
sitting on a bench painting temptation with blue, reds and purples
whispering oblivion monsoons
and real affection;
yet there is a silence reverent to
a ballad of praise; conjuring all
of the autumn phases, but halfway through the night
I could discuss about clinical studies with the
bittersweet absence of an empty
entrance “debilitated by spring

- G
Bella Jan 2019
Your beautiful colors line our earth.
Loving the ground,
holding it up with your webbed reaching fingers
sunken down into the soil.
You lift the ground keeping it from falling into the sky.

No other can compare à ta beauté,
alla tua eleganza,
para o seu romance,
to your delicacy.

You freckle the face of this earth.
Without you-- the world will lose its color,
we will bleed rainbows if you go.
Queens of color,
petal filled sunshines-

your yellows and oranges bring joy,
your reds and purples bring romance,
your pinks and blues bring childlike gid.

We crave you when you go.
In winters when you leave only small bits of yourself behind
we long for your return,
knowing without worry that you will return.
For we would not know what to do if you did not.

You are called by so many different names.
Buttercups, Bachelor's Button, and Baby Breath,
Izalias, Iris, and Iberis,
Pansies, Poppies, and Pony’s,
Waterlily, and Wisteria--

Anastasia Jun 2019
behind her bangs
she saw
in the field where she sat
was dusted
with violets and bright, ruby poppies
the sky was painted with gold and violet
hues of blue and pink.
behind the darkness of her eyes
she thought.
she opened them,
and saw that
ink had bled into the sky
deep purples
blacks and blues.
inspired from a short story i'm writing <3
Shane Leigh May 2017
I often wonder how many steps would take me to Mars;
Whether the Moon, indeed, casts its shadow over us; or
If we truly see the gaseous rays of the Sun.
Do we truly wish to be different from another?
Do dragonflies and lilies dance in the fading colors of the day?
Such beautiful reds, and blues, and purples until finally,
Giving way to vast lights of fireflies in the night sky;
Oh! How I wish to catch you and keep you.
The jar I’d keep you in would be glorious.
So glorious!

“I have caught a star,” I’d shriek;
But, as I’d look at you, I’d pity your existence.
Are you not safe in my jar bright star?
Safe from croaking frogs and wide-eyed lizards;
Safe from extinguishing lights of your light.
Oh, how I pity your existence fair firefly.
I’d set you free and watch as you fly
To the night above where, again, I’d wish to capture you.

All is fair.
I listen to the howling of distant wolves and wonder
If those wolves, with sharp fangs and glowing eyes,
Would relent to me.
Relent to me creatures of fair coats and mesmerizing eyes
As we swirl into the endless black hole that is my imagination.
It ***** in all things and spits them back out
With vibrant color and –
Let us journey to Mars and back: Come … Come!

It’s beautiful,
The dark sky and its vast space full of blinking and sparkling
Street lights bright with colors – on and off like strobe lights.
It puts me in a peaceful trance
Like my dearest aunt’s sweet lullabies
Before it goes dark.
A spotlight blinding my half-opened eyes
And the touch of a hand firmly against my head.
Pulled taught are my legs and arms;
Tightly held my ankles and wrists.
A jolt of electricity;
Again, more darkness.
Then the sparkling lights of far away fireflies,
And I ponder,
Just how many steps would take me to Mars.
© Shane Leigh
Torin Galleshaw Nov 2018
maybe theres a way
to save me from these blues
I don't go anywhere I want to
I don't choose
can't keep my head up to the stream of cosmic music that is blissful above my head
I never find the answer there
and its dark everywhere
and even a breath is poison

now I know

this'll be the thing to save me from these blues
these blues
until the color on my walls
is bright and shining
from the window an endless wave
of purples, greens and yellows
I know
when the stereo won't play a somber tune
sounds wide and vibrant cascading through the room
until the heavens chime in and sing along

now I know
Monika Sep 2018
i want you to know
that you are still the only one
who can make my world light up with color.
i can't stop thinking of the way
your lips were always stained bright pink
and my cheeks turn red when i picture
your kisses dancing on my neck,
forming figures that i never knew existed.
i see blues and purples and greens
when i think of your fingers on me
but you're not here.
how can i miss hands
that were never on me to begin with?
how could you have made
this black and white world
start to take on color
when you're thousands of miles away?
how could you have disappeared
before i even got the chance
to see the stardust
that took home underneath your eyelids?
Lily Nov 2019
The scene was almost perfect, and
With the sun’s evening glow permeated the
Entire backyard, the flowerbeds at the back
Near the oak fence were extremely vibrant,
The bright oranges and purples and pinks
Leaping out at you like a lion.
The swingset created unnatural shadows on the lawn,
And the children playing created laughter that
Could be heard down the street.
The scent of neighbors burning leaves was strong,
And as the man sat on the back porch,
A beer in his hand and a Bible in the other,
He couldn’t help but wonder how long it would stay like this.
How much longer would he have like this, before the
Sun set,
The flowers wilted,
The swingset rusted,
The children grew up and moved out,
The lovely autumn weather turned to a blustering winter,
The Bible being more powerful than his beer.
One of his children squealed in delight as he
Swung higher and higher on the swing,
Trying to reach the clouds with the tips of his fragile fingers.
The man tries to put himself in the mindset of a kid,
Who believes the present is all that there is,
And whose mind doesn’t comprehend
Worrying about the past and future.
The man sighs contentedly, opening his
Bible and beer simultaneously as he thinks,
“I wish I could actually keep the present that was given to me.”
I got inspiration today from Kurt Vonnegut's "Slaughter-house Five"; he writes, "And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep." It was a very interesting line, which sparked my idea for this poem.
I never did know when to shut my mouth,
So I guess it’s no shock to feel it smarting against your back handed swing,
But to be honest, I bet it hurt you more, does it sting?
Can you feel it in your bones ?
Copper taste against my tongue,
I’m choking on my own blood,
Does my manic laugh horrify you?
This Cheshire smile plastered across my face,
Do my cheekbones slice your knuckles?

That’s going to leave a bruise,
Not that you care,
Twisted my head back by my hair,
My body is peppered in greens, purples, blues,
But with the way you turn your head down you’d think I was the one abusing you,
When you wrap your meaty fingers around my windpipe does it give you pleasure?
What goes through your mind while your holding my life in your hands,
How many of my ribs have you cracked upon your feet,
Only to lick my thighs later like a treat,
One of these days it’ll be my fingers around your neck,
And I won’t stop squeezing till your dead,
Until then use my body to your hearts content,
This dangerous dance,
Like egg shells beneath my soles,
I’m waiting for you to slip on the blood you painstakingly draw from me blow by blow,
And in your own sick way you actually love me,
Convinced the only way to save me is to hurt me,
But I’m not that sick or twisted to believe the words you croke out,
One day very soon it’ll be you who shouts,
Ya I never did know when to shut my mouth,
So I guess it’s no shock to feel it smarting against your back handed swing.
If anyone was triggered by the nature of the poem , please accept my apology. Domestic abuse is very serious  and not something I take lightly.  

1 (888) 579-2888

Above is a Canadian victim services hotline.

If your in a bad situation please seek help.
Rohan Press Apr 2019
Remember the headrest—muted
and pasted to your arms.
How it felt to smother in voicelessness.

Remember hair stains, decade-weary leather.
Remember the revolutions around ourselves.

Remember as inky sky purples from sunlight;
Confront the oppressive curls of memory.
Jade Sep 2018
V. Ethereal

Maybe being drunk
is the closest I will
ever get to zero gravity--
to walking on the moon.

My fingers curled
around the neck of a liquor bottle,  
I wander to my bedroom window,
as a tipsy weightlessness settles
amongst my limbs
(and my thoughts).

Swaying slightly,
I part the curtains and,
in my intoxicated stupor,
search for Polaris in the night sky,
point to it,
press a clumsy hand to the glass,
convince myself that
I have captured the star,
and all the omniscient power
it possesses,
beneath my finger tips.

Star light,

{lips pant--

star bright,

{my breath appears a catalyst
as the window pane glazes over
in an impenetrable paroxysm of fog}

first star I see tonight,

{I take a swig,
raise the bottle--
a toast
to the cosmos}

I wish I may,

{Lashes meet in
silent matrimony}

I wish I might,

{Behind closed, desperate eyes,
ribbons of colour dance
towards me in a disoriented jig}

have this wish I wish tonight--

to be
obliterated by the very galaxy
that birthed
these grieving bones
and this tumultuous heart.

Because only then--
as the Gods paint the Night
with the innards of my soul,
acrylic purples
churning against the blackness--
will I become what I
have always dreamed
of becoming:


Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer for optimal experience)
Sam H Sep 2019
chasing bliss
is like chasing tides
one moment at reach
but never collides

my bones are broken
from the life i suffered
now, i cant stand still
so i let my body sink
beneath the gritty silk

i'm half submerged
from the neck down
i relish the ocean breeze
and marvel at the spectacle above
of purples, pinks, and blues

i stare into the horizon
as i await the currents
and when the sounds end
i close my eyes and whisper gently
take me to zion
guess i caught that bliss after all.
empty seas Nov 2018
i’m trying hard
to keep it together
desperation is my middle name
restless nights
and hopeless days
i can’t do enough
can’t be enough
to keep up this juggling act
everything is falling apart so spectacularly
a fire of blues and reds and purples
one that only i can see

so i play a little game with myself
let’s see how well i can pretend everything is okay
i’ve gotten good at it recently
as my plans for my future start to crumble in my palms
i can still feign interest over a friend’s passing fling
i’ve even been able to pretend
my self esteem is going up
accepting compliments
even convincing myself i’m not a failure
it’s laughable, really
a ******* like me,
who can’t even keep
her life from falling apart,
finally loving herself?
not gonna happen

so i laugh
and sit
and watch
as everything falls apart
Wowee everything has not been good recently, and someone has made it worse, but I cant let it show bc I’m basically the therapist of the group
I’m supposed to be the emotionally stable one, the one you can always ask for advice or help in school work and I don’t know how long I can keep up this facade of being okay
they sit on my skin
with whirling purples
deep blues
mustard yellows
dark browns
colors mixing
like a painting
that lies just beneath
the skin
a man
who never loved me
left me these
to solely
remind me
that i was never wanted
i was a mistake
and i'm reminded
during his often
drunk fits
the alcohol
seems to control him
more than he
could control it
Dennis Willis Feb 2019
I broke open
like a meadow
in spring
breaks wet
with seams
bursting yellow
purples beneath
in a field
of green shoots
like the green

[email protected] Dennis Willis
Camille lily Sep 2018
Man is  born unto the  rainbow of opportunity.
The dazzling palate before him as he draws his  first infant breath.
Perfect and untainted, this tiny being as he  enters this vast world.
His only purpose being his very existence.
The sheer wonder of this colourful land in which he finds himself.
A world of moments, of sounds.
Of touch and scents.
Of visual exploration through those eyes that have yet seen no horror.
Skin that has yet to feel physical pain.
Soft and unspoilt as he nurses close to his mother.
Skin not yet a fortress behind which he will hide many ills.
A skin that will learn to shrivel in shame.
Harden in the face of fear, like armour.
And wilt  in the absence of love.
Bloom  turning from rosy red to sepia.
For though man is born unto the rainbow.
The horror of humanity is diligent on his heel.
It’s hulking cape of  blackness, angst and despair.
As man destroys all he has been given in nature.
Turning his hand then against his fellow species.
Born into a roiling sea of corruption, control  and greed.
Where the myriad of healing greens,
Of mysterious purples and creative oranges,  lost forever.
Their brilliance fading like an aged tapestry in sunlight.
Turning to browns and greys.
Leaching their beauty through a lifetime.
Until there becomes only  blackness.
Until his is the dark heart of despair.
Bleached and brittle like driftwood on a desolate beach.
Washed up and empty.
The human condition and its agonies too much to bear.
Logan Robertson Feb 2019
His hearing loss is going fast
Speeding past his aching heart
There's no foot on the brake
Just inches of peril
And how he wishes there was a pearl
One, one with life
Not one that now opens to a calamity
As old age creeps
Wrinkles and gray
Are part of the bay
As the sun weeps on the horizon
But his ears
And maybe his mind
Are a different story
He sees an impending sunset
Where the bay meets the sand
Where the pearls bask in the sun
There's still a splash
A tongue roars somewhere
He guesses
He sees the crescendo
A beauty, blues merging with white
Ripples and small waves everywhere
Seabirds might be squalling in the sky
He hears nothing
He feels a tap on his shoulder
His imagination
It's the whisper of the wind
For a moment he's at lost
The ones in the bay
The purples, whites, and golds mutating, too

Logan Robertson

For this old friend, there were setbacks. Life marches on. It was sad watching dad, then mom.
CataclysticEvent Dec 2018
Like gasoline and a lit match.
We burn alive.
First in orange and yellow.
Then blues and purples.
Until all that is left
Of me

Is a pile of grey ash.
Swiftly swept away,
With the wind.
Just like that

af Oct 2018
Ladders and highs
And purples and crazies
Burning under the stars
Looking through the uneven stairs
Passing through open walls and
Broken windows
Hallowed and cut bleeding through
The darkened streets
Glowing into their skin
Death as a form of retreat
From their civilian madness
Holing into sewers and breathing waste
Hurting themselves on barbwire fences and needles
Digging holes into flesh and filling with temporary satiety
For those sleeping in alleys high and immobile
Choirs of  phantoms and squirrels and birds
Greet with unremarkable pitch
Verse says the end has come
But is just unfolding
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