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thehiddenwriter Sep 2016
Hands all over and
Tongue shying to enter
How shall I tell her
That I'll always be her lover
Filmore Townsend Nov 2013
quandering, pondering
and whiskey has become
first and only desk liquor. now
digressing to the Blue Eyed
beauty writ of this the final
page of notebook. and now,
reflecting on this early hour.
an hour when the goat's
head stares thru to soul
with always lifeless eyes. stares
thru this soul with lack of
energy, with entire days'
lack of consumption. and with
ease this one has been long
and gone in falsified attraction
of angelfaced Blue Eyed
matriarch; this one patriarch.
thought entirely conceived. contrac-
epted by reality of situation. by
reality in general sense, yet words
spew unfiltered with lingering hope
behind slanted smile. shying stares,
all the while watching from eyes'
corners. voices of all but her's
fall deaf; vessels otherwise mute to
concerns not of the Blue Eye's. and
here this one finds self lost to rom-
anticized thoughts knowing they can
be found sterilized via logic.
contradicting always, yet
no brass holding finger locked to
joint. and realizations of actual
place spears forehead; spears fore-
brain. disrupting what is preconceived
concerning entangled souls. hair falling
aside temples. point of restraint, this
one must end before depression catches
hold; this one calling abrupt ending.
SG Holter Dec 2017
Streetlights passing by reflected
In her storm of mixed
Emotions render her tears
Falling stars.

Makes a wish with every salty  
Drop on her lips.
Lips one man would touch briefly
With the tip of an adoring thumb, and

By that satisfaction alone
Die fulfilled,
While others see her as a tool, tossed
Back into the box when dull and

Fit for a throne, yet only every odd evening
Finds her way to bed from the sofa
Before sleep finds her fading with fatigue.

Shoulders, neck, back, wrists, all
Aching in unison; a choir of
Discontentment, yet still driven by the
Love for her teenage

I always hope she's laughing. I
Always hope she sleeps.
In my mind I rest a hand upon her

Belly when she dreams; the
Only way she'll accept a touch
Without shying away
With a faint, forced smile.

Beams of full moon finding their
Ways through bedroom curtains to her
Nearly closed eyes. She yawns a tear or
Three and turns towards the pale

Warmth; moonlight again rendering
Them falling stars.
No wishes for now.
Rest is her only lover.

I always hope she sleeps.
Keith J Collard Aug 2012
Colonial mansion, in an ocean of grass,
windows aglow as I walk past.
funeral service now used of verandah,
but I hear music, not mournful stanza.
french doors open to a reminisce,
with boyhood heart, of vitreous.

Footfalls on parquet floors,
tux and gown past crown moulded doors.
captured ambiance of a setting sun,
shown from chandeliers highly hung,
day I was born, born the day of prom,
I smiled cordially, and my date fawned.

Girls betrothed by corsage on wrist,
rare french curls--a lunar eclipse.
bedraggled boys now dapper and genteel,
vest and bow-tie, a knightly feel.
chapperesses smiling at maidenly gait,
happy drowse in  mansion estate.

Cuff-links, silk gloves, nail polish of gloss,
beheld tonics and sweets, carefully aloft.
opening cord, an arrow from cupid's bow,
striking coquettes to their tippy toes.
they sprang to dance,I stepped back,
invisible in shadow with tux of black.

Shoulders, lake ripples easing to shore,
hips, gentle waves, right before they pour.
boys stiff, as if waists beheld sabers,
legs, sweeping brooms of on shore waiters.
"your too handsome to stay here unseen,"
said rivaling chaperess, past semblance of queen.

"You should dance ,"said glittered lips of pink,
bent like sparrow wings, during teacup drink.
privy to why in shadow I hid my blush,
her class my crush, that crushed me so much.

She strained me, even the shadows she gave,
black silk, stretching,--convex and concave.
crude metal and wood classroom seat,
clasped her waist of slender physique.
she was guarded by a window in curtain mail,
and tended to by servants of light and gale.
light loved her skin of Mediterranean sand,
and wind enthralled by each and every brown strand.

Light penetrated strands, blondly hot,
wind would blow, cooling pony tail off.
her shadow curtsied under my desk,
long legs danced in irritableness.
mourning class is abuzz with scent of prom,
flower not frost, rules the school's dawn.

I gave my consent, to an earlier invite,
then on, suitor blinded me with light.
and Great Gatsy, and looming prom night,
subjects of sparrow wings pressed tight.
" show of hands, who do not have a date?"
slender wrist arises, from an arm curvate.

alone, she shown that no one asked her,
this stone of Rome amongst boys of plaster.
hand fell with boy of teachers match,
wind shrouded her,from the window sash
rays gave discomfort,to gaze her way,
but I looked through burning ray--

To see a trace of a tear,in eyes ovate,
a goddess unsought, with sadful face.
I, poor, fatherless, could not possibly go,
to prom with princess of arched portico?
I could not interweave my hands to dance,
or know where I could place my glance.

Wind blew a scrap from her desk, indiscreet,
it was pierced by light at my feet.
"will" and "with" were dotted with a heart,
"prom" and "me" before most painful part.
my name in her beautiful free hand,
the color red from hearts inkstand.

(Class bell rings) I travel over star lit lawn,
the music gets louder as I return to prom,
eyes turn to cotton, in shadow as I ponder,
as pain was forgotten, I came upon her.
invisible hands, lifted my chin to a red shape,
our eyes met, her's smiling, mine agape.

Only a glass-maker could imagine my sight,
seeing hot curves form in dance floor light.
only a wax-wing could have rivaled her eyes,
waves gently broke to gown down her thighs.
"will you dance with me,"she softly entreated,
" I don't know how,"a coward repeated.

A princess which tournaments were held,
for which every timber of mansion were felled.
not for Rome the mansion's Corinthian column--
--for her--from quarry prom did befall them.
I could not tarnish this feminine form,
with my lineage in crown she adorned.

I turned from beauty, to dark acres tread,
under willow, I play the last thing she said--
my name--as I shunned from last chance,
now back under willow, cane marks my stance.
I have preserved her forever, shying fate,
even if it was with my own heart-break.

I still see her--in the most beautiful prom poses--
--still--as lights flicker out and a coffin closes.
Anthony Williams Oct 2014
You strayed independent across my unlaid path
impressing me with a hideaway around the thistles
where inlay thigh flints spark like butterfly wings
fused to outstretched but still flimsy present glinting
loose eyes a smoky incense close to gleam igniting
potent tinder sax on a beneficent Burns' night portent
whispering wick lit slivers of be live next to me glen scent
fluttering and roaming through saliva kissed gloaming
a light shaved window opening a misty eyed gap
opportune as a mysterious space between maps

crossed with aye formations and melted highlands
I slide into a bonnie loch when you return my glance
smooth as a swan stroking shallow into deep meeters
the swirl of bagpipes barely rippling the surface meters

a proud union betwixt us found expression
unflagging love notes ** streamed passion
red into sky blue twitchy nerves lend fingers
fondling unfurled clouds into catchy dance rings
retracing steps into tempestuous hearts I rose
so dryads can black watch temptation intertwine
painted inside as I woad your Pictish tartan

only now the pedestal wobbles a little
but you don't fall to my arms
brave destiny's turn is fickle
and straight on without being toppled
you hesitate but give no nod to lead
no quick look behind you as I hoped
shying awry to continue walking
the hot moment runs past cold
safe as before inhibitions land
like icicles on my fanciful back

upstanding Meissen men often talk
of perfection showing no cracks
and chuckled as they left their mark
in crossed swords kilned with clay ores
giving a porcelain lion soft pause
for thought about a heart out clause
and about lifting any kilt or unstuck thought
to keep established ruling embarrassment
but is that parley risking nought?
the mane's trimmed short
too correct to tip the hat
to a potential welcome
down falls harassment
south of the borderline
sad that no one can put
that man lass
moment together again
but ever slow drifting apart
the dream mist
goes on
by Anthony Williams
Shloka Shankar Feb 2015
She bares her soul
to no one —
a façade for each mood
that infests her thoughts

like the plague;
reticence stalks her
every now and then,
as she tries shying away
from her darkest

secrets ripe as cherries
hanging from the bough…

a charade of whims
planted mysteriously
on her sealed lips.
First published in 'ZO Magazine':
Kimberly Clemens Nov 2013
A map guide clarifying the wrong place
Stoic expressions with implied purpose are no help
Busy streets bustling about this foreign land of no lights
High buildings sporting officiality block my view
Of the mountains and rivers now paved over by ideals of the future
A showcase of grey streets, walls, and skies; I am left hopeless.

No color, no contrast, just black and white: the architects are hopeless
All the intricate designs and patterns are of a different time and place
I cannot be trapped in the colorless cinema of the town; I search for a vibrant future
Native minds drear into the day, knowing not that they desperately need help
The neon lights and rain shower rainbows are not an element of the city's depressed view
It's as if the colorblind man blackened the city and closed his curtains to the light

The planes cannot find where to land because someone put out the runway lights
Auras only shine in black and white, the long since hopeful are now helplessly hopeless
I exhale my dissapointment towards the uninspired dead end view
And mournful rainbows melt out of the sky, defeated. Why did I come here in the first place?
Perhaps I am the prophecy, the ******, the angelic omen sent by God to help
Or perhaps that is conceited; one person alone cannot brighten this future.

No amount of psychic ability or math calculations could have predicted this future
Somebody shot down the angels, choked out all the lights
Malicious villains took over as citizens realized superman wasn't coming to help
Thus the people watched as the color drained out and faded away, oh, they are hopeless
Cacophonous chaos throws broken hearts, leaving shards all over the place
A kaleidoscope zoom reflects nothing but melancholy expressions into my view.

When was the last time the sunshine peeked through the window's view?
Did the sun burn out from uncertain predictions of the future?
I try to envision when only the bleakness of TV sets in the city were out of place
Because psychedelic intricacies ruled, shinning proud neon lights
But then the clouds greyed the sky once the colorblind man began to feel hopeless
His dimension of colors disagreed with the perception of others, shying him from help

Nobody could answer his message in a bottle, his SOS, his plea for help
So day after day darker walls constructed over his already restricted view
At points in our lives our faith finds nothing to battle the hopeless
But news of the blind man seeing purple mountains ignites faith in the future
Of the man of no color who painted the city grey and drained the neon lights
Because his color is not non-existent, but waiting to be found in his own secret place

So perhaps we can help transform this dystopia into a brighter future
We cannot let be a view that we know has the capability to glitter in the light
We will smolder the pollution cloud of hopeless energy and enlighten this place.
Gladys P May 2014
Inspired*  by  Disney's  magical  kingdom,
And  ench­anting  fantasy  tales,
 You've  reached  the  learni­ng  age  of  five,
Leaving  precious  memories,  deep ­ in  my  heart,
Like  dainty  little  footprints, ­upon  a  trail.

Since  the  first  day  you  ent­ered  my  classroom,
Shying  away,  in  a  world  of  your  own,
And  nearly  in  ­tears,
Waiting  to  be  picked  up,
And  taken  b­ack  home.

But  you  gradually  surpassed  this  f­ear,
Allowing  me  into  your  life,
As  I  reach­ed  out  with  dedication,
And  unconditional  love,­
Opening  the  door  to  your  futureand  watched  you strive.

By  quickly  learning  your  ABC's,  123's,  colors,
So­unds,  and   mastered  the  writing  of  your  name  quite  ear­ly,
Including  other  tasks,  and  now  it  may  ­sound  effortless,
But  it's  a  gift  you've  cert­ainly  gained,
And  today,  I'd  like  to  wish  you  a  safe  and  success­ful  *journey.
Amitav Radiance Jul 2014
As I call upon the night
To have a conversation
Darkness gives way
And night comes alive
Conscious mind at rest
Sub-conscious takes over
Memory box is brimming
So many anecdotes
Not afraid to emerge
Confident around the dark
Shying away from the day
Night has a life of its own
Feeling antsy and inundated
Quivering hands open the box
Full of pictures in sepia
A retrospective of events
Which were long buried
Sleep has abandoned me
Old memories keep me awake
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/                                america, july 18th:
  and the utter media shambles -
like ****** and steroids
for the uninitiated -
     tongues without the rattlesnake
trill of an ᚨᚱ:
   numbed w'ah w'ah peddling
of woe to row the sinking boat:
maniac adult funfair
attempting a nostalgia
for the playground game
of bulldog...

                russia, 25th march:
the kemerovo fire (siberia) -
          children frying, screaming,
perhaps even hoping -
  a shying herod, the example
of: as moloch descended...
          prayers in the fire
                  by the innocents...

england, july 19th -
   alternative to rehydrating
using water...
    a generous 5 hour sleep -
******* on the remains
of last night's lemon
     used to infuse the subtle
smoky of bell's whiskey,

- the jon spencer blues
  explosion (bellbottoms)
- britney spears (criminal)
- twenty one pilots (heathens)
- calvin harris (this is what you came for)
- camila cabello (habana)
- rihanna (disturbia)
- birdbrain (youth of america)
- ghost (ritual)
- focus (hocus pocus)
- edwyn collins (a girl like you)
- the guess who (american woman)
- the knack (my sharona)
- cronica (herr mannelig)

and then onto buckling in
4 beers and thinking
about black holes as the pin-head
of antimatter -
a dead sun...
     dead, but not dead...

   and the first, crude graphic
tomb raider game...

   rather than having completed
     since only owning
a demo...

the possibility of 2D objects in
3D space...
       well: the universe isn't even
exactly 3D: it's hyper-3D...
    but in the tomb raider game
you could walk up to a minor
detail in the game, a fern,
and observe two-dimensionality
in a "three dimensional space"...

   namely: the ferns were all 2D,
and rotated within a "hyperbole"
of the eye -
   however you observed the "object"
it rotated round and round,
never allowing you to see
    its demoniac otherside -

i can only expect dead suns to
behave in such a manner -
   two dimensional objects in a three
dimensional subject matter -
almost paradoxical -

     rotating at immense speed...
invigorating a near but not quiet
a postportem of a death...

       and you really can see UV light
staring at a glaring hot sun with
a naked eye -
   and see the same hyper-rotation -
it's almost like looking at
molten silver, but with a hint
of violet - i.e. akin phosphorescence:
but in the daytime...

and who said you need to
ingest hallucinogenics -
    and enter the labyrinth of a short,
short, history,
    of the chipmunk caveman?

i'm just drunk, you're probably
    but those guys doing
a timothy leary sermon?
     gone.......................... gone -
     they hit the tangens curve.
Sofia J Coman Oct 2018
You can go there.
It’s easy, really.
But once there, you
cannot tell anyone
what it was like.

An experience
must be felt in
order to be believed.
Otherwise it’s just
an idea in my head.

But like a horse
shying at shadows
some of us flee,
cantering away
when our time comes.

The setting sun
sings me to sleep,
the dark morning fog
welcomes a new day.
A new day to try.

And fail.

We cannot see it
without light, yet
the light itself casts
the fearful shadows.
So we hide from it.

What was it like?
You cannot tell me,
once you were there.
It’s easy, really.
Why can’t I do it?
Why can’t I?
Arjun Raj Jan 2016
The long breath before the plunge into the sand,
That which makes you want to not pick yourself up,
For once you know, you get ***** by the end of the month,
But the greens you can count on,
Makes it rather a fair deal, or does it?

The real question is, would you rather deceive yourself
and the rest of the world, for the denomination,
to only trade your fortune to be in the rut  that is called
the day to day life of the survivors,
Suffering from the plague that is called The Normal
Himanshi Mar 2014
Set sail on a clear day
at dawn, my love boat.
Facing the enormity of the seas
light waves, soft against the hull
pushing forward .

Coy observer,
of the seas that meet ,
bestowing their souls
to the ocean.

Reluctant, hesitant
shying away, blushing red
as she sees the ocean
now open his arms to her.

Took slow steps into the
fathomage of the ocean
showed her brazen self to him
And flew away the cloak
that bounded her screaming soul.
One ghastly day,
a storm broke through,
it broke the hearty ocean.
And went away all the seas,
leaving the boat deserted.

Waves got higher and stronger
hitting the stern every minute.
didn't topple, the love boat
the mast ,still saving her.

And days from then,
the boat still sailed,
in the wide wide ocean.
No island in sight, but
stood strong with waves
in its favor.
Sailing, just sailing, My Love Boat.
Morgan sb May 2012
Slowly drifting 
Fading fading 
Sitting still with no rhyme or reason
Routine routine 
Yes sir yes ma’am 
Yes we’re very pleased 
Well I’m not 
But that doesn’t matter I suppose 
Call me melancholy 
Bringer of gloom and pessimism 
Never shying from reality and realistic tendencies 
Sitting sitting 
But for what?
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
and would i ever get embroil myself in a morning of: coffee,
croissant and a newspaper? i find it strange how newspapers
are printed for workers - sold in the morning,
and read in the hazy hours before the mind
catches up with the body at noon
lead to nothing but village sentimentalism -
and dupe sensationalism -
they really know when to baptise them:
a few weeks into their lives (most never
object to confirmation, i, for one, started inquiring
about the Gnostic cults, and said: nah, you'll
alright without me) -
baptism is a bit like newspapers:
i really didn't ask for it... sorry, i was in diapers,
i knew that i'd be wearing diapers
if i went to my confirmation by the Bishop
of Chelmsford - imagine what a cardinal
could do to me... but that's what newspapers
are, they are written in reasonable comfort,
i don't mean the sort of journalism
akin to all the president's men -
that's valiant... i mean the opinions sections,
i read a newspaper and think of only one thing:
****! i threw away something i actually
need in the recycling pile of garbage...
so you go back to the bag and sift through it...
which is what it's all about:
newspapers pulverise the half-awake readers
on the tube... making newspapers free is also
a tactic... i read newspapers, about this time,
nearing midnight... i've spent the entire day
occupying myself with colours, squares and clouds,
i leave my desire to see phonetic encoding a - z
till last, when i can relax, and actually recycle
all the opinions of the day...
shamefully, others pick up a newspaper,
early in the morning, and just nod, agree, nod, agree,
pigeon on parade... makes it easier to earn
a few more disciples when half of them (if not all)
are still trying to remember a dream at 7 a.m.,
all the opinions sections are fabulous!
mental health matters... like **** it does:
you're saying a box inside that storage room that's
your brain aches like broken arm...
you go to a doctor, and he replies: it's all in your head...
well, d'uh, metaphysical health was always clumsy
with what became spaghetti entanglement
for philosophers - the one never translates into
another as honing in on, and synonymous -
but that's life... but the two were never supposed to
be at odd, or, quiet simply: parallel -
after all, thinking, if a limb or an *****,
is more than what the automation of the brain is:
receptor to nervous stimuli - if there's an *****
such as a mind, and it's verb optimum is sick...
it's like seeing the desperation of someone doing
cartwheels on a tightrope, while deciding a next
chess move playing someone down below,
and smoking a pipe - thought, in the end,
is a dilemma where to many verbs are associated with it:
it's so spatial in that it tries to encompass a near
exponential number of ? / hmm hiccups -
                              as it does encompassing a near exponential
number of ! / eureka hiccups -
the German Chancellor and the fourth cottage -
and the opinion: nacktarschuzdeckenwunsch
(the desire to cover their own naked backsides) -
ah, newspapers and the morning,
whoever reads a newspaper in the morning is a sheep...
who doesn't even thinks that comics didn't slowly evolve
to be comics? they are pristine Geminis -
i wouldn't read a newspaper in the morning,
because i know most of these articles are written in
the afternoon, notably the opinion sections,
by people donning kimonos, drinking wine
and smoking Magritte's phrasing of: not a pipe.
i can't treat them as trash either... i call them
midnight literature... after i've spent the day not
looking at phonetic encoding symbols,
i finally zoom in, revise my eyes and ease into a crescendo
of appreciating newspapers, for whatever they're worth,
which, according to the Thursday's edition of the times:
£1.40 - but reading newspapers in the morning
is horrid - too much world, too much care,
too much moral acting - too much conversation...
the world is too big, and i'm too small...
so i do what the writers of these articles read:
although i have a stronger solvent to read their preaching
parody of Mt. Sinai - but what i found, apart from that,
well... couldn't poetry steal something from
the journalistic medium? in the way art is appreciated
without critics? shouldn't poetry be the only medium
of art where other art mediums are appreciated?
for example, i find that when i'm hearing the clicking
of the keyboard, and there's a record in the background
i have a full meal in front of me,
i forgot how good tubeway army's album replicas
is... as a second course meal... nothing of the top 30
canape charts of nibbles of artistic output...
poetry can congratulate over mediums of art,
it can steal from what journalism encompasses -
namely the critical pieces of the journalistic anatomy -
art, doesn't necessarily have to be a matthew arnold
moment of as soon as i returned home, i pulled off
my coat, flung myself on the sofa, and wept the
bitterest, sweetest tears
: after coming back from
a Liszt concert... really?
i think that ballet is supreme sadism and Bach
had wax in his ears... fame and the adoration of women?
too lazy... like drinking too much, and listening
to what i like: without adverts selling me car insurance
and German shampoo.
yes, i am bothered, i'm seeing something in England
that's worrying, something akin to a Marx & Engels'
study of Victorian England - only this time it's
existentially tinged - not economically -
and yes, reading a newspaper at any "sensible" hour
of the day is rather pointless...
you can get very impressionable in the morning,
at around midnight, with a whiskey and a cigarette...
while everyone is already nodding off in Luna's
embrace - never understood reading newspapers
in the morning... or in the early afternoon -
it's better to digest the **** of the individual by the world
while everyone is asleep... less democratic constipation
of everyone having a go... or as Auden said:
all the ****** of the world write at night...
well, during the night: everything is apparently black
& white... the vacuum of the space, and the punctuation
of Zodiac are what this sort of writing best describes,
given that, we are the mediators of two opposing
chasms... to be honest... poets hate colour,
the whole spectrum of colour, from
red (λ nanometres 760 etc. and Herr Hertz, whatever)
to violet (λ nanometres 424 - 380) -
    so tiny, this puncture... equatable with
the size of the universe and that spec that's called earth -
to me? all of this is a massive accident -
as the gambling king said (god): oops... dunno.
but from what i can see... poets have colour -
hence the white page where all colours are entombed,
and better than scattering the white into the visible
spectrum, beginning as Newton with a needle hole
and a prism... no... we're probing it with something else,
intent on it being given to us in total,
a sum of all parts... or as they say: shying away from
the people in grey suits... virtually taking risks on meeting
the people in white coats - and how to slur and
window-lick our way into confined spaces
perfecting our skills in Paper Mâchés and Matisse-like
The Year Nov 2011
This has become more important.
Lost in my dreams, lost in my mind.
Blame onto me, I know the fault.

Faulty lines, different views. I miss you.
We are better apart, but only you know.
It beats on, it beats on.

Staring up, steaming, and breathing.
No tears, it’s not you.
It’s what you made me realize.

Realize that I am not human.
Shying away from what’s good, what’s right.
Cowering lifelessly, withholding, complacent.

Jellyfish, no brain. No soul.
I’m a star, bright and spectacular.
Only you, nocturnal and beautiful, stayed to see me.

Once the sunlight broke, I was gone.
Those nights, my brightness.
Now I simmer alone.
Jay Jan 2014
The way her hair framed her face
was unlike anything I had ever seen.
It accentuated her character far too beautifully.
She often stayed shying away under it,
but when brushed away,
it revealed the most adorable face.
Her smile hidden behind hands.
She was fragile and amazing.
And as I gazed into her eyes,
I felt something I haven't in a long time.

Let's run away together.
Leave everything else.
And please, let me look into
those passionate eyes of
yours a little bit longer.
Willie Dec 2018
So many beautiful faces pass me by
Different every one
All too lovely not to catch my eye
But no-one sees me, none

See my eyes follow them
Yet shying away at a glance
All this cowardice is tiring

To the soul
It breaks me down
Am I invisible to those I wish to see
Do I wear the crown?

For my head lies uneasy
Knowing I am unnoticed by those
I wish to love
To keep close


I am but a speck of dust
"That other guy"
I am anonymous
Another sparkle in your eye

My fantasy remains
A shallow echo of what could be
A faint whisper
A part of me

I am unloved
I am unseen
I seek what I cannot find
No longer an innocent teen

I must find out what loneliness holds
I must become familiar with its solemn embrace
To shield my sorrow
To save face

I must protect my fragile heart
From ever feeling
What I can only imagine is worse
Than the loneliness I am wielding
My first poem on here.
Allan Frei Feb 2017
Bustling tall building
Height of success
I'd climb it if I could
With my young hands
But the topic will digress

And take up an idle way
With some ADD
On OCD, undeserved
Funny how things are no matter
******* and your life

When work's to be done
Here's shying from, shirking from
Working until done
We can overcome

Right after this segment
Oh shh, show is back on

What was it we were fighting for?
Oh well, I forget it
Michael Amery Apr 2014
*** slave workers
Bent over stained beds
In forgotten brothels
Far from country and home
Have more joy than you
Or I.

Skeleton thin children
With skin stretched
Over illness bloated bellies
In poverty ridden streets
Under a relentless sun
And equally relentless culture
Kick a worn ball around
And feel more hope than you
Or I.

Flea ridden mutts
Runts of the brood
Feasting on garbage
Shying from the kicks
Of rotten teens
And sour drunks
Reciprocate more love
From the hand of a kind stranger
Than you
To I.
Al-Farouk Jan 2017
Here comes my confession
A confession that is beyond your realisation
A confession that is not a misconception
Do expect a confession this momentarily
I say.

Here comes my confession
Please brighten up your gadget
Relax and move with this
Serious confession
Are you ready?
Are you?

Here comes my confession
Come closer
Eyes wide open
Ready to synthesise this confession
I bow for your time
Its a plea.

Here comes my confession
This a plea do not flee
Oh yes I am now ready
To give this waited confession
Yes waited by you....
Yes! you!

Here comes my confession
Shying temperatures rising
Oh My! I sense embers of fear in inner me.
May this fear instinct be destroyed

Here comes my confession
When I go to my room
Something strange I do
I fear to tell
This thing deeply disturb my level of paranoia
Do you want to know the thing?
Do you?

Here is my confession
Here it comes. ..
When I go to my room
The strange thing
I do
I commit
Opening my door with a key.
Oh this is strange
And this is my confession.
You should claim your love,
Your dust uplifts the imaginative,
Fancying the image your Pixie holds.
A tiny ring held your winged image,
I received the token from a dwarf,
Whom greedily devoured its bearer.
I washed clean its sweet carnage,
With your bare left hand in mind,
But when I placed the jest upon it,
The wedded finger held its ground,
An invisible band lay midst its place.
The pink blood on your cheeks spoke,
An enchantment had been yet laid,
The incantations of mine too late,
Replied the rosy blood on my cheeks.
We smiled in the twilight hence,
Reflecting the muted gore,
Shying from its shove.
You should claim your love,
The passion infused plucking
like each note has a soul of its own

The high notes like pinpricks
Low notes like a loud heartbeat

The sound of content loneliness that taught me happiness

The tempo slows like water shying away from the shore

Peace born out of urgency
Love born out of technicality

The hours given to the tone, timing and tempo
The effort in perfectly letting go

Perfectly unique every time
just close enough to be the same

The beauty in form
The form in beauty
I would love some constructive criticism
Kiana Lynn Jun 2015
When you’re young,
you’re malleable, learning things that’ll make you who you’ll become.
I remembered growing up, shying at compliments,
it was programmed in me, but it didn’t truly reflect my confidence.
As women, we’re trained at a young age
that we’re always treated like models on a runway stage;
look good, ooze confidence
but shy away at those compliments.
Don’t get too sure of yourself,
always deny, don’t over indulge oneself.
Why can’t we just accept,
“You look beautiful” without feeling like we’ve over stepped?
We’re trained,
in our brains it’s ingrained.
But I’m telling you to embrace it.
We can exude class, beauty and wit
without feeling bad for being proud of it.
I’m not talking cocky, but confident.
Accept that compliment without shying away.
In a world like ours,
with people idolizing made-up, photo-shopped movie stars,
confidence is hard enough to find, let alone keep
so embrace your beauty and without feeling like a black sheep.
Michelle Paret Jan 2014
Ever since I could remember
I have been so intrigued and intensly curious about space, the planets,
galaxies, the moon especially, black holes, and time travel
I would be in the happiest place on Earth at the Rose Space Center in New York City
The cosmos
They're mysteriously beautiful, captivating, divine
I vividly remember being 7 and 8 years old, looking up at the stars
with my dad or even alone and thinking
"What's out there? What is space?" I would crave to know.
I would pace back and forth thinking, just thinking for hours and hours a night what it all could be.
I now see that that was just my way of experiencing curiosity for something much bigger than humans (which I understand now is the Universe)
Realizing that there is something out there no one on earth could ever explain.
An energy, "god", a being, whatever you wish to call it.
That was my 7 year old mind conceiving those thoughts for the very first time and understanding what I was actually thinking.
The conversations my dad and I would have in our backyard about space
have become my most precious and cherished moments I have with him
I get lost in thought when space arises
It is a topic that I feel very close to, connected, one with
It brings an almost nostalgic emotion to me
A deep seeded love
I currently experience this same emotion with a few other cerebral passions,
but the thought of space was my very first
The second passion is something that is very special to me due
to the long hours and days and years I've spent learning as much as I possibly could
About 5 or 6 years ago, I realized that I was increasingly curious and infatuated
with human behavior, body language, emotion
The natural drive in me that insists to look into other's minds has
never faded, only increased
There was a critical point in my metamorposis/enlightenment where I just stopped
I stopped everything that made my existence anything but an existence
I stopped talking
I began listening
I stopped looking away
I began watching
I stopped moving
I began sitting still
I had become a true listener, observer, meditator
Watching body language and two people having a conversation is
mesmerizing to me
How they move to express a notion
How odd we truly look
I apply the things I've learned in my everyday life
I notice patterns and quirks about everyone that they most likely don't even notice
It comes very naturally to me to be able to know just a little about
a person and figure out the rest entirely on my own
And when I later find out I was right, it just makes me
feel even closer to that person
(For a very, very long time, I would conceal my thought processes and the things
I was truly passionate about because I always knew I thought very differently
than my peers
I began to believe, maybe I was just "weird"
But during the early stages of my metamorphosis/enlightenment, I realized that I am not.
I am special. I am something not everyone can be
I am something that possesses a soul so warm and spacious that it took me
17 years to grasp and connect to
My soul is as light and wispy as the finest, graceful feather getting
blown by the gentle wind on the bay
No one else can feel the way I feel
The way my soul feels when I am experiencing love, or friendship)
The third, most exponential passion
The absolute most mind-wrenchingly perfect combination of the cosmos and Psychology
It welcomes me to solve my instinctive, cerebral yearning drive to probe into someone
else's mind, soul, body and see them for exactly who they are
in their natural soul state
Astrology explains everything, absolutely everything
I ever was, am, and will be. It is so incredibly dead accurate about me that
shying away from this study would be the biggest lie to myself
I became genuinely interested and educated in Astrology during an odd time
during my metamorphosis/enlightenment, but has definitely
molded my energies into who I am today, right now at this very moment (cliché, yes I know)
and guided me toward true, deep, self love and a mind of endless possibility
The feeling I experience when I am speaking to anyone about Astrology and they
ask me all these questions about it,
being able to give them in-depth answers is the greatest
feeling in the world
I lose complete track of time and could talk over night not realizing
how long I have been talking for

It's the passions like these that make life beautiful
The passions like these make one wonder, act, and seize
the things they were destined to be here for.
I am blessed by the Universe Herself
Her love for me is so pure and prominent that I have fallen in love
with Her
Maybe this will all come together in some sort of way
that would make me think
"So this is why..."
I wonder
I love
I see
SparksLC Oct 2013
So lost, do I feel...
That what I once knew, will no longer appear.
Terror racks me deep inside,
Forever yearning what once stayed close by my side.
Desperation has bloomed beside my feet...
For what I most need.
With pen and paper taut by my side,
Shall my will continue to thrive,
Afore the ink in my pen dares to dry.
This mere extension of myself,
Paints the colors of my soul.
Of what one will never know,
'Till the new becomes the old.

Too long have these words gone unsaid,
Tainting the many pure thoughts, that have swam through my head.
Trapped deep within my heart so dear,
All of my passions, now contorted with fear.
Curiosity forever sealed within its cage,
Desperately wishing to be saved.
A key-less lock hangs loosely,
Taunting those it may.
Holding the door of my prism open, yet preventing any escape
As my lifelong dreams bitterly scream my name.

I cringe,
Shying away from the guilt.
For locking away my desires
And abandoning my will.

Will you ever forgive me?
For leaving you so alone
To gather up dust and grime,
And wander without a home.

Will I ever forgive me,
For deserting my only hope.
Locking it deep within my soul,
Till my hand moved once more.
Spreading my blood across the parchment,
Forever earning my own name.
Holding tight onto reality,
Unwilling to look fantasy in the face.
Creating the key to my own prism,
Will I protect this sacred place.
Sword and shield,
'Til infinity fades,
Do I vow.

© 2013 SparksLC
Hello all. It's been quite a while since I've written anything. My hdd fried about 8 or so months ago, and the loss of most of my work devastated me more than I realized. The pain was so real, I avoided my writing so that I wouldn't have to face rebuilding what I worked so ******* from the ground up. I didn't realize how long it had been since I'd written anything until I started to fear that I was losing my skill as a writer. This poem is a depiction of everything I've been feeling for months. I do apologize if it's not as good as my other works, but it's been quite a while since my pen dared to touch paper. Please R&R; and let me know what you think! Thank you!
Pax Nov 2015
I’m trapped; caged in, hard to get out
words flies, as truth denies

Crows flocks in hunger
eating little by little of what you served

Shying away, evasive in many means
caffeinated poison
keeps me
OBSCURE words, Hides many things..........
Poetria Nov 2017
quiet, stolen brightness
oh, it doesn't belong to me
but this sky is your black ceiling,
I'm just trying to be seen
and I see you-
I see you-
I see you shying away, yes
every few days, there's less,
every month the same cycle,
over and over again
and you don't know
how much is too much
and you don't know
when you'll be enough
and you're stuck
cutting those pieces
and you struggle
to bring them back
back to largeness,
back to circular-
phases of the moon,

and the Sun does smirk
in the morning blue.
write this whole thing solely for the last two lines? does that make sense?
Semicolon Oct 2018
Have you ever seen a sunflower reaching out to the sun, following him wherever he goes?

Or an evening water lily shying away and blushing under her lovely pink at all times when the sun is in the sky?

Have you ever seen a dandelion break herself into countless little pieces and fly away to places unbeknownst, just to make herself full again?

Have you ever seen a rose, apprehensive of what might destroy him, guarding himself with numerous thorns, yet so beautiful that you can’t help but ignore his thorns?

Have you ever seen daisies growing through the cracks in the sidewalk, reminding you to look for beauty even when you can’t?

Have you ever seen flowers? Then you have seen love; for flowers are nothing, but love.
"Flowers are love's truest language"
– Søren Kierkegaard

© Semicolon
Alisha Jun 2013
If I were a flower
I'd be a single timid bud,
shying away from bloom;
refusing to unfold my trembling petals.
I'd be the bud of a rose,
turning my back at opportunities of bloom
even when the sun shined invitingly.
I'd be the flower
that was stuck in an omnipresent state of frost,
causing me to disintegrate  into nothing,
but a pile of remorse
Jay Nov 2013
I knew you
in an instant
when I saw you
pass by
like I've known you
my entire life.

We lived out
each other's lives
in one another's eyes
making love with
awkward glances
and shying smiles.

We shared the simple
yet meaningful conversations
that one has at  2 o'clock AM
all without saying a word.

It was very easy to love you
and spend my life with you,
even if it was only for an instant.

You poured the coffee
and I left the tip.
My dear, if you are reading this, don't fret, for this is fiction.
martha Apr 2016
For the first time since I can remember I felt like I was graced with the same regality as those who sit on thrones built from bricks of solid self-esteem, sealed with the plaster of confidence.

Every sweet silver tongued sentence that dripped from their mouths like honey helped to sow the seeds of yet another flower on my crown, blooming with the promise of an ever elusive beauty I have never had the honour of meeting before, until my crown blossomed with the sweetest scent and the prettiest petals you had ever seen.

These buds would encourage this forbidden nectar to fill in the gaps, to flow around and in between every crack and crevice in my self-polluted soul, mending, often overflowing leaving distinct pale pink kisses on the apples of my cheeks, and the dreaded dimple that is so often hidden would emerge from the shadows the moment that sweet nectar touched it and it was no longer afraid of showing.

Then you, sir, with your eyes shying from stardust could only speed the process, equipped with nothing but a rusty toolbox consisting of rosebud lips and blistered hands I know would never dare break my fragile stem, but be the foundations for my desperate, clinging vines to grasp so maybe someday I could taste the sunlight coating my lips, and veiling my skin the same way it did that one time I actually felt beautiful.

My legs were solid and strong, making just the right contact with the earth for me to keep my balance, my stomach a valley with just the right kind of hills and dips for my weary eyes to travel on, and I was blessed with a head held high paired with piercing eyes that only said that I wore all my flowers proud upon my crown.

Even if seeds of doubt still plant themselves in the caverns of your mind telling you that they will probably wilt the next day, you still water them with the tears you have left because ******* they are prettier alive.

Suddenly the sweet sound of ‘thank you’s echoed from my mouth to replace the bitter, constant taste of denial, and loathing took the form of loving and I embraced every second of it.

When someone at long last sees the galaxies in their own eyes and the pure luminescence of their soul, why must it be cruelly crushed by comments determined to blow them off course when they finally know exactly where they want to drop anchor, what is wrong if I decide to start with myself because I am living with me for the rest of my life and I realised I had better get comfortable. Self-respect, self-esteem, self-confidence, it all begins and ends with you, you are not just a chapter, you are the whole freaking book, so allow kind words to embed themselves in your skin and etch their outlines on your bones and it’s a pretty good way to start the first paragraph.

So let me be an empress, let me be a queen, no longer the princess of low self-esteem, rip off the nametag that reads ‘handle with care’ because you’re not breathing right you are not even aware of how much you are worth, step into your skin, accept every beautiful inch of you because you’re not going to win a battle where you fight by beating yourself, your body is not a warzone, but darling if you breathe in all the dirt you can take you’ll be exhaling the prettiest of flowers.

I know that it’s hard, but trust me, honey, you will grow so tall, you will blossom my friend, even though you may fall once, or twice while you climb.. keep your eyes fixed on that sun, and you’ll be just fine.
my first spoken word poem I performed last summer for the first time
halfheartedsoul Jan 2015
I fight the night,
Fear in my chest.

I fight the day,
Head throbbing,
Eyes barely open.

I fight the world,
Will weakened,
Shying from wandering eyes.

A heart darkened like mine,
With eyes darting back and forth,
Speech speedy and mumbled.

I worry what I look like in another's eyes.

I worry of actions taken,
Of those that can't be undone.

Yet in so many ways,
I couldn't move an inch
To show it,
To make a difference.

Wrap me up my love,
Powder my face and
Unleash this crippled soul
into the depths of the dark ocean.
Amitav Radiance Aug 2014
Snail glides across
Peeking out of its lonely abode
Solitary, and travels alone
Shying away at the faintest touch
Retreating in the abode
How far it may have wandered
Finds the quiet haven miles away
John Mahoney Feb 2012
i drag the canoes over the granite shingle
of our island's beach the battered Aluma-Crafts
leave my hand a dark metallic looking gray, which
even smelled of metal we walk up to the
campsite, a ridge, overlooking the lake,
spread out around a fire ring set beneath
pine trees so thick that no understory grows

as the long summer day cools we decide after dinner
to explore choosing one of the island's many
game trails, leading from the water back up into
the woods beyond the campsite, we pack the
food back into the bear proof barrel, grab our
boots and set off down  the trail

the pine give way to a grove of aspen, the
leaves fluttering as if by some wondrous
enchantment, as the shrubs started to grow
thickly on the ground channeling us into a
narrower game trail with the large, misshapen
granite boulders like a maze stretched out before us

suddenly we stood face to face with a giant
bull moose with velvet covered antlers that seemed
to be at least four feet across, he shook his head up,
like a horse shying, so i slowly moved us behind a tree
     to give him the trail

around the fire wrapped each in our
own paddle-worn thoughts
we could hear wolves, calling
across the island in mournful howls
such a delicate balance of nature at work,
my moose so full of life and spirit would be
     safe yet from the
Sin Jul 2013
I found myself in your apartment. blood red lights stringing along the walls, mimicking the flashing in my old driveway. I played music sung by dead girls and blind boys who couldn't get over them. I left the window wide because the frigid air slipped off the pine needles and bit at my wrists. numbness and normality were no longer friends of mine, and misery was my first lover.

I left myself on your back porch. seven cigarettes stuffed down my sweater, shying away from heavy rain. it raced down the roads and I thought of how you tried to run away from us. I watched the streetlights carve patterns into concrete. I watched you slip away in the plastic blue chair across from me. my favorite song dancing and curved in my ears but I only found comfort in the voices. I longed to fear the world again, as I should've. as I used to.

I hurt myself with the drag of the first cigarette which you watched me light effortlessly, the flame flashing in my face for just a moment. I felt your bambi eyes trace my tender, quivering jaw. you were a fragile fawn with heavy bones, knobby knees, and empty whimpers. and I was the forest hiding your shaking limbs. I swayed with white wine running through me, raw liquid heat that warmed my bones and calmed my screaming mind.

I lost myself when I flicked the third cigarette three stories over the rails, dripping black like my favorite ink. dark as the nights we curled together, seperated by only greedy fingertips. nights loaded as your sleepy lies that I so longed to trust. but I was gone. I had stood silent in death, led by embers, led by your voice which still echoes in my skull. led by the world my brain had painted when my eyes couldn't grasp reality. you twisted my spine until I had no sense of direction. I am still so lost.

— The End —