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bones Feb 2016
Hoards of leaves hurry to gather
at one worn headstone after another
like a funeral party uncertain whether
these are the dead who they grieve;

Time and wind tug at the memory
left in this absent minded cemetery
visited only by them and I
and those lying under the trees

with stories that no-one can read.
Zombie Aug 2018
She had a beautiful smile,
hiding many stories beneath.
R Dec 2018
This pain ages old
Which follows me everywhere i go
This life full of secrets
Stories untold
The bag full of screams
And memories that I can’t let go
What a journey life is
But now all i wanna do is let it go
To commit a sin
So sinful
That will truely set me free
Free from this bag
Which i am not able to throw away
And be free
There are few memories that no matter what you can never let go, they might have occurred when you were a child but they don’t let you go no matter how hard you try
Gideon Aug 2015
There are stories in the mirror
I read them everyday
Each day a new story
Different from yesterday's

Each day I read something new
But some stories turn out blue
Each mirror tells a story
To a stranger or friend
The stories they tell
Are different but never end

Each mirror tells a story
When it's in the light
But grows quiet and cold
If the moon is in sight

There are stories in the mirror
I hear them all the time
Just look in the closet
They are waiting to be told
there is always a something new about us each day and you'll find out if you look in the mirror everyday
On my 15th story balcony
the view constantly captures my eye
the city lights reflected
like factories
in the sky

Can you see me now, mom
like a beacon in the night?
or does it pain you to see
I lost my way
and made it right?

On my 15th story balcony
if I lean out to the left
I see a home thats home no more
on the south shore
that I left

Mother, I can see you
on the couch where you
bear your load
of children who outgrow you
and a husband on the road

But its hailing mommy,
Can you see?
Things have gotten rough and you can call my bluff..
i still need you
so set me free

I guess what I'm saying
is I have no plan of straying
from what I've chosen for myself...
but that ache that you feel
i can tell you its real;
you can see it displayed on my shelf

It plucks at my heart strings
every day
a bittersweet lullaby
of what my youth knew
only yesterday
Copyright Krystelle Bissonnette
Sitting in my car, steeping in misery.
At the end of another lonely lunch.
Playing on my phone, I saw you.

I’m not sure what happened precisely then,
that made me hold out my hand so boldly.
Only, a feeling washing over me.
That I was losing you.
Your interest, maybe.

Even though I was still trying to deny,
the pull and the see from the get-go,
I knew. Under the push and doubt,
I liked you. And your interest in me.
Skirting along the lines of PC.

I knew when you posted that video.
Some girl shimmy-shaking. Not very well.
Oh, the curves...

I wanted you to verb mine.

Walked past her on the stage in my mind.
Decked-out in dakini tribal,
making it rain.

In your lap.

Every part of my life was hell then.
And anytime you said anything,
chills up the spine.

I was immune that day.
High as a kite, yet without a clue,
how much higher we would be,
in just a few hours.

And when I left to drive home,
the exact second I turned my car on,
began the lyrics of an acoustic song I love.
And had never heard on the radio before.

I found a line and then it grew
I found myself still thinking of you
I felt so empty and now I'm fine
but still it's burning when will you be mine

Sometimes I wonder,
if I hadn’t left exactly then,
if I hadn’t heard that specific song,
keyed up at just the right time…

Maybe I wouldn’t have been even bolder.
Maybe we wouldn’t have ascended,
hand-in-hand into the stratosphere,
shotgunning pineal heartstrum.

I deleted our conversation history,
when he found my poetry page.
Not to deny it, but to save it from him.
Keep him from tainting it.
Not one sacred character.

But I remember most of it.

That’s the thing:
I remember you, as if,
part of you continues to exist,
inside of me.

*do you remember all the songs that I have wrote for you?
all the songs that I have wrote for you...
Still Crazy Apr 2017
he, hardly fit,
sleeps fitfully

he, like a baby,
up and down at 2am

the cerebrum racked,
like a street *** so needy,
for a low caloric,
non-alcoholic snack

pickles - the almost zero solution,
dill in particular,
or even the slightly bad boy cousins,
the buttered variety

so in his customized original
100% sleeping skin gear,
standing in front of the shiniest fridge
his unfortunate reflection somewhat
indecisive, which, his pickle, to to choose,
which to eat, completely complete,
to celebrate his dietetic restraint

so she, the yoga ballerina lioness,
finds him upright but not uptight,
leaving him in an awkward
so to speak, poem, pickling,
naked and speechless,
as the mouth is fully engorged

and on point
she summarizes
most eloquently,
the ****** and the crudités and the et. al.,
with a succinctly pithy observation:

"ah, I see (me wincing),
still crazy after all these years

...and other stories
8:02pm 4/21/17
Did you know that
if you pour fat on a stone
God will eat it and
chip his teeth
becoming, ...angry?

Did you know that?

Is that, ...literal?
in meaning...
did God once bite a man's flesh
consuming his shoulder;
like a pork shoulder?

Did God do that?

Maybe God just shouldered,
...the burden of...
silly men and teacher's tales?
Maybe he didn't chip his teeth at all?
Perhaps he swallowed something ridiculous?

I don't know,
Believe what you like...

From space the Peloponnese,
appear like a chewed-up shoulder.

Don't they?

the adoration of the daddy,
as his red haired babes
leaned into
either side of him,
courtiers to a king
on the way to school this AM,
transfusing his magical super~fatherly,
by inhaling his special powers through
their nostrils, direct from his
broad and powerful brave-heart chest,
for use later in the wild jungle
of second grade
an elderly gent whose walker rattled
with every lift and kerplunk on
the street~steppes of a dangerous city
for the brittle of bone and the easily dentable,
and the crowd that gathered round walking
at precisely the same pace he required
to make it across the widest boulevard
which was thirty seconds more than the
Dept. of Transportation's asinine calculations
and a miracle from Lourdes occurred -
not one horn honked in ire as the court
escorted their Long Live the King
safely across the street, as if
idiocy was like rain, against the law,
until after sunset as in Camelot

an elegant germanic man,
in homburg and velvet collared overcoat,
taking care of sales and distribution of
newspapers and candy at the corner paper "stand"
while the elderly owner, whose partner~wife of
fifty years had recently passed, now had no one
but someone's pop whose was out
walking our cocker spaniel,
to tend the place while said candyman
obeyed nature's callings

and all his fans and friends who passed
on their way to the adjacent subway station,
exclaimed Erwin, Erwin what are you doing?
his twinkled crinkled eyes replied,
enjoying their puzzlement, laughingly saying
"making spare change"
where I lived these little miracles occurred so frequently,
was told a story that the ministering angels
could not keep up with their duties,
complaining to the On High, who resoundingly loudly
commanded their silence! by reminding them that
all these, his creatures, were his own precious,
the reason for creation and why they were needed,
and the sum of all these small acts gave them their own
existential purpose, now angry at himself for loss of temper,
soft spoke as a parent and told them better,
hush my children, we have much to do!
so now you impatiently need to know
why this scripture
came to be known as
for I was witness to all of this,
all on that day,
that was twenty fours hours long
across many hard hearted Hiroshima decades,
that made me

*the richest man in the world
a proud member of the collective of the false.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
For Emma Ottinger “I put out (my stories) just because”

“just because”
that’s the best excuse you got girl?

cause be-ing
is a **** good one

way back in March
wrote a declaration^ to all those just
beginning with an iota of courage and
a good story telling
way of seeing and the
secret sauce-way
to spin my imagination in
my eye sockets
with their well words,
for I am a drinker of
the beaujolais firsts of the new grapes
of young poets

words welling springing from between
the oohs and ahs and the damns -
I wish I had wrote that...

so here’s a hero push - so many kinds of bread to
fill our baskets, please girl may I have some more?
so here’s to you - and the Great Plains that birthed you,
and the breadbasket of four poem/stories you poured out
that were so far from plain, how could you know of seas and sea foam and cobalt and mahogany human body parts?

and the speech patterns of waves that took me decades to learn?

use those “Jacob’s ladders between your fingers,”
“whistle me like a stray dog following,”
for that’s what “the kingpin of my flighty wits”
requires, for this old scribbler is now:

“firmly rooted for a girl who's bold enough
to crack the whip over her head if
ever went to war with myself.
A confidant that won't run,
won't offer half truth when
the whole of it
is all that actually matters.”

so write with that window light on and
wheat fields that can be reenvisioned as the gray-blue sea
from which I crawled out of croaking...
to read you rightly

Roses Are Bed Dec 2017
Looking down from the 7th floor of this 6-story apartment

In my head I calculated if it would work

And if I should even leave anything behind

"Don't waste your time on me anymore"
That's what I've wanted to say

But there would be no point in trying to get through

No more anything anymore

If I just make myself go through with it

I just want to go back

To another me

Back to the first story

A story I have never told anyone

Long forgotten and buried under

This pile of misdirection and lies

One day I will find it, so until then

I will keep digging out my insides

And I won't stop

Because god has an apartment complex

To renovate
july hearne Jun 2017
west london fire stories
burning up the day,
london fires burning down and out
before they burn away

daily all day robes
and a story i can't finish
i won't make it out, there's too much
i don't want to say

so late in the day
wasting life away
unheard singing
should probably count for something
maybe today, maybe today, maybe today
so late in the day

instant coffee,
INFP, unfinished story
cheap chinese burning debris
blazing away on the bbc
so late in the day, so late in the day, so late in the day
& the day becomes another day

must be so nice to be you
always voting for justin trudeau
all your better things to do,
all the better looking women you were born to pursue

london fires burn down and out
before they burn away
& the day becomes another day
maybe today, maybe today, maybe today
the cheap chinese cladding was rain proof,
even as it fell from as far up as the 24th floor

If only the cladding hadn’t been so flammable
or if the alarms would have worked
or if they hadn’t been told to stay put and die

then some other people donated their old clothes
that they didn’t want anymore
a lot of old used clothes that people had been meaning to get rid of
were donated

i read somewhere that it was supposedly environmentally friendly
eco-friendly, but toxic and flammable

but the fire was renewable energy
or unrenewable energy
depending on how you look at it

either way, the eco-friendly plastic cladding was rainproof.

& all the reasons i hate you
are sadly the reasons i still think thoughts of you
now these thoughts have turned into
thoughts of you
still too cool for Sixto Rodriguez
still editing "The Elements of Style"
still thinking thoughts of me
so past my prime
so past the time
of our short while
Isaac Aug 2018
A choose your own adventure book
Mimics life so well.
If only I could have a look
At other stories life could tell.
I would peak into the different plots
Where reality would diverge.
I’d probably begin to notice lots
Of new problems which emerge.
Though curious, I’ll remain content
With this narrative I am in.
May the future me not want it
To be contrary to how it has been!
Written 8 August 2018

When you wake up in the morning, there are many paths before you.
When you go to sleep at night, there is one path behind you.

The question is: what is it you can do to make sure you live out that one path that is best?

Proverbs 3:5-6
I crave paper
I long for its smooth space
Open fields of hidden words
Carriers of life
Forever anticipating the touch of a hand
The caress of a pen
Judging not content
nor the needy desire to speak
through silence
B Jan 2015
Scared of the wolf,
and the world,
oh so  dark.
Keep it together,
come on don’t fall apart.

Outside my window,
he creeps through the night,
why does it scare me?
This cowardice art.

Hiding in fear,
no light in sight,
twilights gone and so is the fright.
Footsteps nor shadows,
it’s silent for now,
but he’ll be back soon
when the light has sufficed.

                                 - BRTN
I'm not  professional writer and this is probably not an amazing poem.
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