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River Jun 2015
These reactions I can't hide
Reactions of neuropeptides
Cascading in my electric mind
Causing me to be compassionate and kind.
aarti dhillon Apr 2015
An unkind calmness that took away the solicitude
An unkind calmness that made everything a roun
An unkind calmness that mixed the altruistic with egoistic
An unkind calmness that took an evil tack
An unkind calmness that made solitude more ween
An unkind calmness that made white a black
An unkind calmness that after a fruitful bliss became a dark pandora
An unkind calmness that became worthy of unkindness !!
The elements have merged into solicitude,
Spasms of violets rise above the mud
And ****, and soon the birds and ancients
Will be starting to arrive, bereaving points
South. But never mind. It is not painful to discuss
His death. I have been primed for this --
For separation -- for so long. But still his face assaults
Me; I can hear that car careen again, the crowd coagulate on
In my sleep. And watching him, I feel my legs like snow
That let him finally let him go
As he lies draining there. And see
How even he did not get to keep that lovely body.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
I posted this poem  a few days after I joined HP.  As  is oft the case, poems you are especially proud of, fall to the wayside, under the onslaught of the constant waterfall of new submissions.  With the usual exception of Ms. Lori C., one of the two unofficial High Priestesses of HP, in my estimation, this one, was pretty much overlooked.  Despite some comical jaunts of late re bras and beds, real inspiration has escaped me ever nice I penned "Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay (Razor Blades, Pills, & Shotguns" last week.  So, with your hoped for solicitude, I resubmit it, hoping it finds a wider audience and dedicate it to those of you who I number as friends (you know who you are!), despite the fact that our only shared embraces have been techno~electronic, and yet the quality of your kindness is beyond measure.

The Numerical Quality of Friendship

The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number it, and me, this way.

With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.

The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.

Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue, taste the unimaginable!

Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?

Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?

If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify

March 2012
thinklef Jul 2013
My quest began, before Inquisitive questionnaires, questioned my solicitude.

I traveled round the globe, In search of a Gold, to meet my goal.

In frnt of me, stood a beautiful angel, with a beautiful body.
,nothing wil hold me baq,

the way she walked was so dramatic, which made her attractive, by love I became assertive, but her vioce was fantastic, So I grew attentive, In other to be romantic, which made me sarcastic.

her smile waz beautiful, Which made me Boastful, but yet doubtful, I became Playful, I Never knew she was powerful

her luscious gigantic figure, was Perfectly executed to perfection, Suddenly I became frantic, Now I have to be more strategic.

i only grew anxious, which made her precarious. i turned perplexed, while she remained unagitated, her behavior waz sassy. i grew crazy,

the meaning of loneliness, was created frm her lovely eyes, i wish you could see the angel I see when you stand in front of me, i fell in love with someone, Who separated me frm everyone,

i adore how u make me smile, even from so many miles away, you energize me in standing up tall, Love me again like you did the first day You are pretty, you are sweet, but im still a bit naïve with my heart"

If d sea were to be a burning fire under d sun, and the blustery wind were to blow it, profusely like a stormy rain f volcano, upon d land, i will never leave.

i will always be there for you, i am your little friend, i will always be in love with you, all the way till the end, My eyes blinked twice, Fully opened in tears

Tonite my heart seems in pieces, My eyes drop tears that itches, Now I am here making wishes , Trying to picture u near me within inches.

It was only a dream!
because love when cut,
lets loose
an empire of blood:

i have in my lips,
a treaty of oblivion—
releasing an embittered lemon.

in the throne of the sea,
waves repeat the crash
of perfidy.
by the mountains they ride,
the thick air of strobe.

rocks receive the genital fire
of lighthouses
exposing intones of shadow
one by one.

the beast maimed
behind the zither of trees
makes no sound like
  an aleph.

i herald the collusion of night
   and children
and weep at the solicitude of mothers,

because pines swoon in the dark
and with its hand, the gentlest war
   threshes the flesh and blood,
raining on us forever.

hostile eyes bypass the silence of things
  and lovers closing doors repeatedly,
disrupting the vale from its slumber.

   it is because when love is let loose,
it releases both of us — weary, inescapably ripe with the wind, looking
   for each other as doves do in flight,
  separate and obscured, opening gates;

   the savage aroma of wood
       on the leaves that sway fervently
          tippling away from boughs.
Kon Grin Jul 2018
ive seen the world all people same
we love we fear, deprived, insane
absolute mass and no division for the HQ supervision
we are Trialed in side by solicitude at night
blindfolded OF!
superiority of those that are biting in our nose
medicating under-eighteen that appear so differently
and thus don't reap the boredom we are destined to live through
im sorry that I'm different
and I'm sorry that I speak
for the nation of the flowers
all fragile but not weak
A call out to generation X
Two and a half weeks into this quarantine
Rainy days and
no poems
No words forthcoming
All quiet
I decide that perhaps
if I just put one
In front of another
And keep on for a time
Words upon words
something will come?

At 8:30 every morning
A man passes
walking a Pomeranian mix
A joyful little dog
(I’d steal him in a heartbeat)
They walk
He twirling the leash round and round
The dog leaping higher and higher still.
They dance together eyes meeting
and smile as I know a dog can
and I remember
how I would dance with my last greyhound.
We would tango and box-step.
I always led.

These days the little
Pomeranian can’t get his attention
The leash doesn’t twirl above its head
He’s pulled along impatiently
There are no more smiles
Their eyes won’t meet
He’s slow to realize that he’s become a drudgery
I want to yell out the window
I see you
Where’s your joy gone buddy?
Don’t you know that’s all you’ve got?
You’re bumming me out for real
and your dog loves you!
Wake up! You fool wake up!

I think that now I’ll walk to Ralph’s
I have various thoughts while doing so
Children race their bikes passed me
as if they’re in an entirely other reality
maybe they are.
The wind blows through their hair
As if it couldn’t mine.

Front lawns offer up fields of dandelions
as if their orbs the most prized bounty
Freshly mown grass smells new and clean instead of putrid, rotting in the sunshine
The fulsome wafts of springtime’s
jasmine and osmanthus heaving with citrus and pepper evade me as I pass their blossoms
Yet on the rare occasion a fragrant rose pierces through the weft and hits a nostril
but I can’t tell which bloom.

The smooth talking
homeless girl
has finally covered up that
diabetic open sore on her left ankle
the size of a flattened crimson football
which is something,
although I can see that
she’s being told to move along as
she just can’t sit anywhere she pleases.

I’m counting every time I see the word “dead” along my way.

In the store the ladies that buy
their bottles of white wine in the afternoon
are starting earlier now
with supplies and deliveries
It’s one thirty and I see
Two bottles of Clos du Bois
And four Domaine St. Michelles
in the cart to my right
and nothing else
as they do.
I’m not going to ask her
about her dinner party.

While I stare at packages of coffee
A man pulls off his mask to sneeze into the air before him
And I say to the older man approaching
I don’t think that you’ll be going any farther
in that direction.
It was under my breath.
He didn’t hear me.
I have a mask on.
He turned his cart around and walked back
the way he came.

I have this urge to talk to everyone.
I have this relentless desire for ice cream.
I miss everything.
Nothing here
will satisfy anything
to do with me.
Can one survive a global catastrophe
with candy and magical thinking?

Older people
And by that
I mean really old people
Eye me suspiciously
Almost fearful
As if I myself alone
the menacing contagion
and I guess I could.
Perhaps I do.
It’s hard to read emotions with these masks
But their eyes seem terribly unkind and
brows, furrowed
One stares at me hard
with beady anger and a ready insult
another will jump me in the checkout line
and with great solicitude
unwrap her money from
the white notebook paper
pulled from the manila envelope
Now re-folded with
rubber bands and string
And placed back
into her chest
She is so sweet to the cashier
with her black acrylic wig askew
that he seems quite shocked to hear
she cut in front of
fifteen people
without so much as a word.
Who cares really?

My first mask made me sneeze for four hours straight and made my nose burn like a hit of **** *******.
I’ve been handed a free mask by
a representative
from my local assemblyman
made of a softer material
I find that
it won’t stay up and fogs the base of my glasses.
I don’t think it’s working.
It reads
We’re All In This Together.

I still can’t breathe.

The doomed asthmatic
selling his single ciggies on the sidewalk
dies on Staten Island
from a policeman’s chokehold.
Eric Garner
In those desperate last moments
despite his pleas and confusion
surely there before him appeared
although not quite the end that he’d envisioned or feared
what with steroid inhalers from the pharmacy
a crystalline moment
when he knew without a doubt that
he’d never take another gasp of air
like a bloated goldfish on its side
expressionless and saucer eyed
outside its bowl
What happened to his mind then?
What will happen to mine?

It has been said that
certain tribal kings
have brought before them
after battle
their most worthy enemy
in the process of imminent death
while they sit in numinous splendor
and wait for that perfect moment
to lean in close to the mouth
and inspire greedily
the purest
most sublime
expiration of their life force,
now a pristine delicacy of the infinite,
for themselves alone.
I have been insulted for sharing out
my peasant songs, pataphorical poems,
on the table of the cultural patriarchy
the insults have come in a serial flow
into my dark soul a basin of condemn,
it began as my duty to take my poetry
to the bottom of African latrine,
followed by volley of insults like ;
cerebral panicking insensitive idiot,
a gifted ******* of arsolian poetry
One other contumely went aboveboard
to announce me a better dead ******,
i wondered how much one can ****
without erstwhile duty of creation,
now i have been condemned in starkness,
to be a beautiful walking ghost
of William Seward Burroughs,
Uhm! folly of eugenics, No! i am wrong,
this  accolade, i seriously decline to take,
my innateness is not wounded at all,
by anything near to genetic disorder,
i am only conscious of my luckless past,
of Slavery,colonialism,wars,re-colonialism
Then poverty spiced by open ridicule ,
And partly trenchant and half-****** tease
firmly fuelled by racial intolerance,
i have now been mistaken in awry,
to  be a looming ghost of William Burroughs,
and i am not
i am  purely my self,
without imperious wide blood
any where in my by black veins,
i may easily have chimpanzee blood,
Flowing turbulently through my vessels,
but no tincture of white blood in my zoo,
Burroughs broke his virginity with a *****,
i have remained a ****** for three decades,
As African virgins marry only virgins,
Burroughs was the king of underworlds;
chasing lessbian prostitutes and  gays,
to quench his mad ******  appetite
the turf in which i am a  better sham,
Billy was a serial criminal, ever on the run,
my soul is clean as new pin,
in fact  gorgeously dressed
in the unique royal attires
of as a Bristol pin merchant,
Billy worshiped crime and drugs
my piety is anchored on freedom of all,
Billy went to Latin America for *****
i  have been there to mourn Gabriel Garcia,
the Nobelite who was alone in deathly  solicitude
Billy never lifted a finger against tyranny,
my arsolian poetry is center-pieced on nothing,
other than African chantings for  liberty,
freedom for the white and black peasants
perhaps to unyoke themselves,
from the yoke of vicious human avarice.
traces of being Nov 2016
A sallowest silence drips,
drop  by  drop,
into open muddy palms

The ripple in the gathering cup
of hand, undulates within soul
like poignant ocean waves
eat away at the sands of time ,
just  below  where
a lighthouse beacon beckons
shining from someplace I can’t find

A hidden pathway
lies  untrodden
beneath a thousand
dew drop clad ferns ,
fronds bestrewn with autumn’s
befallen sleight of hand
swaddled in her fading
manifest guise

Where wild mushrooms
rise  blindly  from
resplendent darkness
beneath silken earthen moss ,
to teach the parables ,
how fleeting a moment passes

The moment enwrapped
in nature's solicitude ,
the  only  shelter
mother nature's own refugees
whom dwell in an ever fugitive
sense of belonging

Fallen Lichen scattered
like  wild  feathers ,
traces from a higher ground ;
sown bread crumbs
of  the  heavens ,
abandoned like slowly falling
snowflakes upon a labyrinth
coursing    beyond
emerald dank bejewel

Leading me willingly onward
beyond belated familiarity ,
exiled  void  of  affinity
a Trumpeter swan
in search of wapatos

The stone cold silent languor
rises  up  through
thickly grasping moss

Wind  stirs the ennui
with a breath of kindness ,
chilling a body in a soul
as cold as lonely stone ,
sheathed beneath
its hard yet fragile disguise

A twisted pathway
leading  somewhere  
I  yearn to follow ;
somewhere unknown
beckoning  from
deeply hidden hope
and its urgent calling

Somehow the uncertainty
of the path I am drawn
makes   me   feel
a  little  less  removed

Assured by the gentle touch
deeply rooted ancient earthen spirits ,
beyond doubt , I’m never alone
deep beyond wooded margin
Cocooned in creation’s sanctuary
mother nature’s own refugee ...

                                                          ­*wild is the wind
November 23rd, 2016

It is a time and season I often embrace the roots
my ancient native north American continent  heritage ...
I'm joined at the hip with earth mother
and pay homage through my humble writ offerings
acknowledging the divinity and her infinite amazing grace ―
Becky Bergstol Sep 2010
the relationship held sacrosanct
form an identity's disjecta membra
a confluence of fallacies made anthropomorphic
body diminshed by nervous exhaustion
mind abandoned to melancholy obsession
scattered hapharzadly in front of those
whom had once offered solicitude

filled by yearning to be stoic, saturnine, sangfroid
passsing glances, chance encounters
aren't caustic to the indifferent
incondite hopes nurtured by solitude
clinging to the idea that all is bitingly internicine
misplaced in the droors of time
rofan May 2018
as I sat there thinking about how love is a fairy tale
and now I ask my self is it ?
and even now the memory still here in my heart
so why dream did you come when you are leaving?
why do you bring a torrent of pain to my heart?
ooh if I was the moon to see you every night
ooh if I was the sun to light your day
only if I can go back in time
then I will stand there for hours looking in to your eyes
but why?why did I come to you?
and why do my heart fall when ever I see you or hear your voice?
will the tears and pain will ever stop
will the solicitude will stop to
but still the spirit  is still a spirit
hard as a rock  beautiful as the smell of jasmine
and the poem will always be the only thing
to stop me from bleeding
and to heal my wounds.
Justin G Nov 2015
I know we all are bleeding, but only a few of us can feel the hurt.*

I welcome you hatred
My sweet remedy
Keep me company
Protect me from envy
Change this jail cell
Back into a bedroom
Allow me to feed you
The absence in my kitchen
Enjoy the neglect
And come bathe with me
Cleanse me of this solicitude
If you wait in my living room
You will find no such living
In the name of peace
Help me **** the loom
Compel me to clutch
Lethal artillery
Aid me in this internal combat
Loan me retribution
Please stay for desert
I need you to meet
the friends who left
Teach me distrust
Teach me disgust
Numb me of the pain
Make me undead
Just before you
make my bed
Not to the staring Day,
For all the importunate questionings he pursues
In his big, violent voice,
Shall those mild things of bulk and multitude,
The Trees--God's sentinels
Over His gift of live, life-giving air,
Yield of their huge, unutterable selves.
Midsummer-manifold, each one
Voluminous, a labyrinth of life,
They keep their greenest musings, and the dim dreams
That haunt their leafier privacies,
Dissembled, baffling the random gapeseed still
With blank full-faces, or the innocent guile
Of laughter flickering back from shine to shade,
And disappearances of homing birds,
And frolicsome freaks
Of little boughs that frisk with little boughs.

But at the word
Of the ancient, sacerdotal Night,
Night of the many secrets, whose effect--
Transfiguring, hierophantic, dread--
Themselves alone may fully apprehend,
They tremble and are changed.
In each, the uncouth individual soul
Looms forth and glooms
Essential, and, their ****** presences
Touched with inordinate significance,
Wearing the darkness like the livery
Of some mysterious and tremendous guild,
They brood--they menace--they appal;
Or the anguish of prophecy tears them, and they wring
Wild hands of warning in the face
Of some inevitable advance of the doom;
Or, each to the other bending, beckoning, signing
As in some monstrous market-place,
They pass the news, these Gossips of the Prime,
In that old speech their forefathers
Learned on the lawns of Eden, ere they heard
The troubled voice of Eve
Naming the wondering folk of Paradise.

Your sense is sealed, or you should hear them tell
The tale of their dim life, with all
Its compost of experience:  how the Sun
Spreads them their daily feast,
Sumptuous, of light, firing them as with wine;
Of the old Moon's fitful solicitude
And those mild messages the Stars
Descend in silver silences and dews;
Or what the sweet-breathing West,
Wanton with wading in the swirl of the wheat,
Said, and their leafage laughed;
And how the wet-winged Angel of the Rain
Came whispering . . . whispering; and the gifts of the Year--
The sting of the stirring sap
Under the wizardry of the young-eyed Spring,
Their summer amplitudes of pomp,
Their rich autumnal melancholy, and the shrill,
Embittered housewifery
Of the lean Winter:  all such things,
And with them all the goodness of the Master,
Whose right hand blesses with increase and life,
Whose left hand honours with decay and death.

Thus under the constraint of Night
These gross and simple creatures,
Each in his scores of rings, which rings are years,
A servant of the Will!
And God, the Craftsman, as He walks
The floor of His workshop, hearkens, full of cheer
In thus accomplishing
The aims of His miraculous artistry.
cresun Jul 2013
drown in the ocean
everything seem to be
in an alacritous motion

he hollers for help
the holler echoed through the big ocean
and he wonders why still
nobody could hear his yelp

nobody came to aid
nobody came to save

he swims and swims
as he weeps and weeps

for nobody solicitude
for nobody understood

every time he moves
the waves nestled him
convincing him to let go

to throw away the hopes
of being alive and loved

gradually he let go
and let the waves pull him down
asphyxiating him with their abilities
Her hair was a rose of
wonder that I fancied
touching, envisioning
sweet caress of tender-
mossy skin on softened
shore of wet peat-bog,
sinewy, wispy essence
true, intoxication oceanic
Ogyges-blue, observe a
mechanized Sol-to-solace
too, what I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I in
my solicitude and appre-
-hensive about her truth,
Oh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh, ah-
know, I know and I-I-
I know oh, oh, if
I lose her, if she go-oh-oes, I-I-I,
I-I-I, I-I-I,
will, will die-eye-I-I-I,
I will die-eye-I oh, oh, oh, oh,

my love I will die-eye-I-I-I, oh my
my love will die-eye-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I…
My love will die-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I…
* My Love Will Die!
erin haggerty Nov 2010
you made a mold of me
kept it in your idle hands
blamed me for the past
i know its fair
in hopes of
keeping peace
i succumb to every
speaking truth
forget solicitude
i owe my thirst to
now peaceful and pleasant
we are nothing but
we feared an empty home
now we live there
falsely atoned
i am too young
i am too young
Valsa George Jun 2017
A nest of intricate design
A piece of art unmatched in decor
Amid the dark verdure
Of needle like leaves
The gay habitat of a swallow and her brood.

How suddenly it erupts into a clatter of sounds,
As the mother bird comes diving in
With a wee bit of a wriggling worm
Discreetly borne in her tiny beak.

Thrusting it into the gaping mouths
She departs and comes again
And again comes with something
A whirring insect or a twisting thing.
Nothing can appease her ravenous horde
And on she goes ferreting about.

At night fall she alights abrupt
From what infinite heights, God alone knows
Darting into her nest as she hovers,
The din subsides............
First into a fizzle, then into sharp silence

Bundled in her warmth, the little ones
Sleep till the first flutter of dawn
From my window, I enjoy this diurnal scene
Repeating itself in methodical precision
Until someday, into heaven’s insurmountable heights
The young ones take off on tiny wings!

A sight so accustomed, cheery and gleeful
My eyes would soon be deprived of
And the thought makes me ill at ease
A wonder it is, the young ones
Inexperienced though, thrives so well
On catapulted suddenly into an eerie world!

What husbandry in nature!
What Godly solicitude!

The next morn, my heart missed a beat
At what I espied through my open window.
On the ground lay the swallow’s nest
Ripped, broken and blown to pieces
Like a heap of rubble after a tremor.
By its side lay a few downy feathers
The sad reminder of a stark felony!

In an instant flashed past
The grim image of the black Tom cat
That prowls my courtyard in the dark
With glowing eyes and bristly whiskers

Damning that accursed thing
I picked up that wreckage
My mind violently mutinying over
The ‘insolent might’!!
This was written sometime back when a bird had built a nest on a bushy tree in my garden… I waited counting down days to see the eggs hatched . But what happened in the end was heart breaking….. !
Alyse M King Mar 2012
Her solitude creeps
Along the early morning glow.

She sighs,
Solicitude leaking from the sky.

Her wisped hands
seek out companionship.

She whispers;
Words carry a shiver up your spine.

Her voice
Writes invisible sounds.

She is still searching,
Loveless and alone.

Her heart
Stifles hateful tears.

Her trepidation
Takes over.

She retreats,
away from the glow.
Rhet Toombs Sep 2016
And of love never known



This neon midnight speaks of more

Pounding silence or a hand held too close

Fearing the fast swords from God

And a dim solicitude that falls to ashes
thymos May 2016
the body of the name lying naked on the tongue

the touch of rust

the sunset at the change of the season

the sea coming home to a lonely shore

the lips asking for more, the ears the amorous organs

emptied of echoes, the cities built on bones

from scrambled noise emerges syntax

that conjugates attraction in parallax

and someone or not-one spoke a metonymy of solicitude

in the beginning in the end, in the garden in the ruins

events ever fragile, encounters that were almost nothing

the hounding difference between a thing and a word

between us and us

between the data, the predictions thereof

and the unexpected

that we have not yet learned to trust

the body unspoken, the touch untranslatable
Gabriel K Jan 2016
thy career success smug solicitude I find it patronising thy salary I hate the way thou pay for me it's economic colonialism I need thee to but I don’t like what it makes me feel poor inferior. Thou art to blame. Thy generosity compassion thou art really sincere compassionate thou art generous thou aren’t fake the realdeal I dislike that. What good reason is there to hate thy handsome chiselled manlily stubbled all those things that women like apparently to hate thy smug boat race? Yet I want to smash thee in thine. Thy Hollywood teeth full hair thy unhalitosic breath medium height thy non-belly adequate stature large feet and probably large ***** how many ways is that? A lot isn’t it. I resent thy Prius why can’t thou show off like a **** instead of being all carbon neutral about it? Thy reasonably nice house and knowledge of Japanese restaurants in London and how to score many of the more popular drugs. I am jealous of thy ****** track-record I would tell thy partner if I could maybe sabotage thy relationship that way. I dislike thy pretty wife yea who hast borne thee two delightfuckingful childer nay I do not dislike her I hate thee. Because I am jealous and hope that thou die. But art disfigured first. Lose thy fortune and that I am enriched maybe I won a gameshow or designed a successful app so that I may patronise you. I hope that soon. I love thee thou knowest this thou does not know how much I hate thee too but now thou do. -est. Doest.
How Do I Love Thee? A paean.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Pocket knives, tape measures.
An extensive collection of coins.

Nails, screws, numerous sizes, and sets
of nail clippers, files, polishes and brushes.

Shoes, always shoes. And dresses.
Shirts and ties. Loud and quiet.

The sick and the dead are forever quiet,
never quite quiet. Our solicitude's unnecessary.

Playing cards, backgammon games,
chess. Every move's a variation on the next.

And so it is with words, numbers,
shapes and sizes. Feet and hands,

knees and eyes. Why and where and how won't matter
once we've divided the bags of clothes

among the poor and destitute. It's not too hard
to laugh too hard. The son and daughter deliver them

and then go home. Letters, wallets, clocks and watches.
Photographs in which the name and face don't match.
Robyn Johnson Aug 2011
The definition of LOVE
1. A deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude toward a person, such as that arising from kinship, recognition of attractive qualities, or a sense of underlying oneness.
2. A feeling of intense desire and attraction toward a person with whom one is disposed to make a pair; the emotion of *** and romance.
a. ****** passion.
b. ****** *******.
c. A love affair.
4. An intense emotional attachment, as for a pet or treasured object.
5. A person who is the object of deep or intense affection or attraction; beloved. Often used as a term of endearment.

it is
"More than words"
"Your Guardian Angel"
"It's oh so quiet"
"A broken Hallelujah"

completely insane,
lacking all rational and reasonable thought
violently happy,

held by the world,
seen by all.

how you make me smile when no one's looking,
how you make me cry when everyone's eyes are on us,
how you make me feel like the only woman in the world,
how you make me feel like every woman on earth,
how you spin me so hard I get dizzy
when I'm standing very still

my yearning,
my craving,
my salvation,
my ultimate poison.

But most importantly
It is
tears of sorrow
the depths of her soul
a radiant angel
her fathoms
with fingers of solicitude
their light
her from the depths
of aching despondency
Hbt Jul 2014
As tears form in my eyes;
the fairy lights on the walls glisten and dance.
I look at myself in the mirror,
only to look away, because I hate the look of despair.
The whole house stands still.. with just the mere sound of the clock ticking.
My lips are burning, my body is shaking,
my palms are cold, and my neck is sweating.
Love isn't distant.
Love isn't this pain.
Love is solicitude and respect.
So why am I hurting in this way?
so hurt right now :( poems make me feel so much better even if they're not good
Connor Reid Feb 2018
a deep seated treasure
staggering throughout certainty
among flowered gardens
and wheat withered

it blossoms
germinating limbs afore
yet always in touch
never lost in fall

muddy waters, cleansed
wanderlust and all
it all makes sense
but towering with trust

all else fades away
dwindling into focus
only truth
only what is natural

seeded as it sees
just glittering amongst
the horizon and its seam
it settles quiet...calm

old affirmation
fleeting and unimportant
twinkling for centuries
like it never mattered

walls built and broken
charred bones
snapped, gliding apart
revealing deeper meaning

its marrow sapphire
precious in sustenance
feeding arbitrary emotion
with endless hopefulness
and elation
Dontre poet254 Oct 2020
Some solicitude can not be penned,too much for words to clench,an affliction heavier than poetry,i can't carry so I store it away,shield it in asafe space deep down.
maybe that's why am so whirlwind to drop to my knees,lung filled with pleads for the sky because it hurts to stand with weights I can't I have learned to remember everthing with my words,pen and paper the only connection I have with life.....
Arnauld Jarvis Jul 2017
-I've got bored of words.
-You tergiversate... Small world.What this bouquet of flowers is doing in the intermediate?It's a date?
-Ah... such prolixity... More champagne?
-What's the point?
-My aim? Mmm... to try to oscullate you.
-... What?... Such profane elixir do you desire?
-It'll be more than tasty.It's alleged...
-But, don't you distinguish the mayhem's reflection below?
-Your solicitude.. Ah!... What a nice champagne.Hmm... Cake? By the other way or not there's nothing at the ceiling.
-You've perused my protocol... A small slice, please.
-A kiss a skirmish.Palatable as this recipe... Well... apart from an armageddon...
-Stop pushing on boy.
-I already vanquished the inception, you know...
-Catastrophe is your trophy, but I disavow your apocalypse.
-I was expecting something more digestible.How's the alcohol?
-Hm!... As everything surrounding us.
-Ahhh... No... They just don't move.. don't have gravity...
-Funny waiter... Hovering waiter.Did you emend your canon?
-Champagne and desserts will not litigate your anticipation.You know.How strange is...
-The room? No... Is normal for it to circle upside down.
-A hug?
-In this desert? With all those people?
-They are frozen, and... before I veto, quivering in a hurt heart.
-Blown sand... popped champagne... Oh, I didn't notice the light fixture's embroidery.
-The sun's in the bottom.Look up... Its obumbration is into the typhoon.
-Standstill, nothing's synchronized...
-Is your tranquility dissipated? gone?...
-No.If isn't yours.
-I just still want that hug.
-Hmmm... I forgot you're a cold person...
-And you a hot girl... Irony...
-You'll melt...
-I'm apt to it...

Then an aurora flash
And splashing glass
Accompanied by springing sparks
Shattered bass walls
Begetting noctilucent dark and dusk
A hurricane, breathing the sun
Just dust to dust
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Accepting aloneness, incomplete solitude, imperfect rest. The garden
wasted, pumpkin patch planted late, potatoes untasted left in ground.

A thousand email addresses, each unique represents a flame of
passion, compassion, desperation or depression. To understand, to

impossible. It is therefore only reasonable to observe the shadows
on the mountain, the actions of the dreamer which tell us something,

little, nothing of his dream. It's a simple secret shared,
longevity. The half breed John Russell says it right, the

date and place don't matter, dry desert or cold mountainside,
lush bottomland, soulless or hospitable, contagious hospital.

The best laugh's death's, a perfect escape, perfect error, perfect
rest. Their solicitude's unnecessary, grief is temporary, life goes on,

you go under, underemployed, the undertaker's never unemployed.
Forensics prove an ***** with two chambers, ovule adnate to the
Christian Reid Oct 2014
The weather's changed
Now and again
Windsocks escaped on
Blustery winter afternoons
Dormant grass and
Sleepy-eyed foliage
Chasing off the cloudless sky
For one last stolen
Dreamy afternoon, when
Unseen ice puddles lurking
Below shortening shadows
Made us quick-of-foot,
But despite the bright and
Biting wind, to no
Sweet destination did
Travels take us
But to find meaningful
Solicitude in all the
Morning's glory--
The world still half asleep
Turning round and
Pulling up the covers,
Drifted lazily back into the
Stoic state of Winter,
Dreams freshly on the
Tastebuds of nectar-giving petals
Bringing warmth to the afternoon
Rose Mar 2014
Birds in heaven chirping lovely music
Silly flying heart's cupid struck
Embraced by sweet bed of cloud nine
Taste of vanilla kisses at sunshine
Blooms gushed warm love by sunset
Breathe same minty air through night
Romantic luminous moon in twilight
Diamond joy and solicitude stars seen
Winded romance from lightning's friction

Can't you feel the love above?
I miss him
brandon nagley Jun 2015
That bloodied unpasteurized murmer
In mine solicitude heart
Trepidates in beasting screams
I cryeth out for more
The amour' to be more than just dreams...

As many dont like putting labels on a title

I guess I'm just one who likes labels I guess
Just who I am
M Harris Jul 2017
A Fairy Tale Lost In Demise,
His Visions Of Lies Still Painting Her Paradise,
She Lived With Incisions Of His Force Fed Lies & Sacrifice,

With Eternal Incarnation & Immortal Intoxication,
Ethereal In Translation, Lies Her Irrational Infatuation,

Mimicked Sanguineness & Emancipated Promiscuousnesses,
Her Mesmerized Senses Enticed By His Pretenses,

Digital Fears & Artificial Screams,
Her Carnal Tears Inside Her Abysmal Dreams,

A Ray Of Her Solicitude & Her Sublime Prelude,
Shes Gleams With Platitude & Visions Of Prime Servitude,

Crystalline Waters Of Her ****** Fountains,
Like A Valentine's Songster With An Ecstatic Bloodstain,

An Emissary's Vignettes & Infatuated Ex,
Lies Imaginary Silhouettes & Intoxicated ***,

A Twirling Luminaria With Metaphysical Symmetry,
Waltzing With Euphoria & Her Lyrical Tapestries,

Transcendental Memory & Reminisces Of Her Scars,
A Sacramental Story With Kisses From The Stars....

- 05:07 AM

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