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I felt it crumbling
I felt it falling with the rain
The invisible
I felt it falling
Bits and pieces
Shreds and ribbons
The clothing of my wings
As God unpacked the wraps with haste
Like a restless child
Tearing down the gift
Together with the wrapping

I felt it falling
Scorching on the skin
Of frail reveries
Soaking wet I felt the taste
Of gasoline
And drowned the rain
Into my eyelids
GhostMOTH Jul 20
Sometimes it's hard not to fall down.
Clouds have a way of relating.
My mind just gets so foggy.
And then I get tense.
And then I lose all power.
...
Eventually, I'll cry.
But there's only a 75% chance of showers.
Not every time I'll cower.
Changed the poem to better explain my situation.
Dan Quigley Nov 2017
By the sill sit still;
Listen to water wash the roof
in specks and sheets, a symphony
so complete to hush you quiet.
Even still.

An inundation.
This libation to parched earth has
been a meditation since birth;
to ponder under the pitter-patter
hiss and swish of exponential scales
At the wrongness of raindrops in a sunbeam.

Sit still, brood like the clouds that came
to darken a June day, so silent they gathered
over a land hard with memory,
With fear for passing years and
worries that grew like weeds in summer showers.

Brief as thought these drops like jewels
are set ablaze then strike the dirt; done.
They flash for an instant in time,
with no way back to an azure sky.

There is no telling the distance,
How high these clouds climb.
Just the sound of falling rain.
Listen.
I guess it is a comfort
where I'm supposed to be
I always wanted a forever
and the pain it follows me
If I can't have it one way
I can always have another
And I can share with others
And be sure to pull them under

Making sure they're next to me
Whether physical or memory
I am not too good to beg
for accessory

As I live and breathe
I wear it all upon my sleeve
I put my insides on display
slice and cut and cleave
My very own defense
against my emptiness
I'm broken but I'm open
and full of tenderness

I just entertained a fantasy
and set that thing on repeat
My eyes started to water
at all the things you said to me
I fed you all your lines
and gave you cues and clues
only for it all to leave me lost and so confused
I rip out all the pages
from that day and back
so I don't have to focus
on everything I lacked

Making sure they're next to me
Whether physical or memory
I am not too good to beg
for accessory

As I live and breathe
I wear it all upon my sleeve
I put my insides on display
slice and cut and cleave
My very own defense
against my emptiness
I'm broken but I'm open
and full of tenderness

I hope you believe me but I have nothing to prove
I hope you are certain in your next move
I hope that I feel so good to you
I hope that I feel so good to you

Making sure they're next to me
Whether physical or memory
I am not too good to beg
for accessory

As I live and breathe
I wear it all upon my sleeve
I put my insides on display
slice and cut and cleave
My very own defense
against my emptiness
I'm broken but I'm open
and full of tenderness

I hope you believe me but I have nothing to prove
I hope you are certain in your next move
I hope that I feel so good to you
I hope that I feel so good to you
Do I feel good too?
Do I feel good too?
Do I feel good too?
Anne Molony Oct 2017
I’m learning the new language of love
It’s cloudy and I’ve only
broken sentences
already-fluent in the tongue of
drunk hook-ups and
meaningless touches and
compromised endeavors and
disguised intentions

I have never felt what I was promised
I want to bathe myself in it
showers
pools
seas
of infatuation
if it exists

desperate for affection
addicted to the idea
that a soul could long for me

craving something
anything

unreliable arousal
am I unfairly deprived?
i.
i smell afternoon showers and feel my own skin reclaimed amid the storm.

ii.
i sip grotesque amounts of coffee in hopes of awakening my third eye.

iii.
i sway to sounds of joy and sounds of grief.

iv.
i spill my tangled thoughts like ink to take shapes called poetry.

v.
i stash the love notes from the universe at the foot of my bed.

vi.
i keep washing my sheets because i want to forget he was ever there.

l.a.c
Sofia Von Sep 2013
Endorphin showers for hours
Crash my waves of sorrow and bring me muscles to shine on the world viewed as imperfect.
Its the happiness I never want to leave but it drifts,
its white cloud up and up,
Contact high as it passes my friends I want to share
To care for you all
Vibe in this opposite of ominous
parade bound for cheer, without beer just extracted hormones.
I’ll twirl you like a pencil
dizzy
yet gay, for a day, where I can make someone
you
Happy:)
Poetoftheway Jul 19
Ilion gray
poet extraordinary
is away
learning the codes hidden in raindrops

no reason for surprise;

for the mountains of Brooklyn, the Manhattan caverns of Sunhenge^, corridors of narrow focus for trapping the declining sun rays,

neither high enough, narrow blinding,
to keep a good man from doing good things that life provides as opportunities
to do the right thing

he muses that it took five years for the other poets to understand our
poem-dreams;
avant-garde he says,
but I laugh,
never felt more misunderstood
and reply take care, be
en garde!

no matter for he is learning a new language,
the codes hidden in raindrops in a land of wheat
once called Indian Territory and eager
await his return so we may
walk along the Brooklyn shoreline,
beginning from under the Brooklyn Bridge
where Washington’s men escaped a British trap

and he can decode for me the whispery thunderous noises of
NY
showers that come up so sudden,  so roughened, but right now,
the seductive sun blinks in Manhattan windowed towers reflecting back on to our East River as golden blinks of nature

We will walk lost in the absorption of our
different commonalities, holding the hands of
his young son, and my Wendy,
both of them equal in possession of round saucer eyes
that give us poems

He calls me me friend,
I call him brother, teacher, master, better than the best,
well recalling a late night message that bred
a five year conversation ongoing

not everything need be coded
what you read here
it is not coded,
for the raindrops come clear and clean
and the poems land on our tongues
bounce on the foreheads and eyes of the babes, all stored and saved for the future blessings spoken in a single tongue

7/18/18



^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattanhenge
#Ilion codes brooklyn by NY
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