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anastasiad Dec 2015
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mark john junor Mar 2013
outside its full-on night
and in its depths toil closer
the mad rough beast
its thin pale fingers
play  on your forearm
leaving a trail of blood

a single tear escapes the cage  of her eye
like a shadow of consience
like a memory of the girl she once was
the caked mask of ruined makeup
frames her wicked smile
as her eyes intently
watch you sweat the moments passing

with yesterdays spoon in hand
she will come pleading for tomorrows riches
and borrow todays scraps with a theifs hand
asked she will tale of the deeds she has done
by the kindness of her heart
which shows blackened and burnt
from her secret hates

my woman lets it enter our safe place
and leaves me to watch it hover
over our table with its greedy seeking eyes

its my woman's sister
and i really dont like the *****.
mark john junor Dec 2013
thief of my calm
this ******* liar loneliness
crawls around this cluttered room
casting pieces of desperation at my heart
and fragments of memory's at my head
thief of my night
it steals away under the bed
waiting for me to try vainly to sleep
while i toss and turn the thief
will come out and haunt me
with thoughts of long lost lovers
with memory's of happier days
the theifs hunger is insatiable
his appetite for the creating of dark souls knows no mercy
i fling my eyes wide and clean the room
trying to leave him no safe place to set shadows
but as i fall exhausted to the chair
the thief's hand slips from underneath and
spills the scent of her perfume to my senses
and i can almost feel her soft skin against my cheek
i cannot bear it
she is gone
and i am left here with
this monster loneliness
this hated vile creature sadness
leave me be
i beg of you
katewinslet Nov 2015
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curling up under someone elses covers
over my head to hear my breath
and to bloom forth a cloud
of an alcoholics perfume

listening to a train toot over
a gentle sob
digits clasped tight to my brow
tears running over the joints never cut

thank god im whole
****
i said god again

the things that i love are alive
including myself
for now anyway
and feeling this deeply counts
in fact
the emotion itself counts as life
it breathes with me
well
with you mostly
but me too
we can share right?

the things i love
they wriggle
gossip
bloom
become buoyant
or adrift
they are literate
and simultaneously silent
they are theifs
and simultaneously altruistic

all the things that i love
these things that i love
they are within you
and i only borrowing them
not renting
though i did buy you that....
****
i never bought you anything

so yeah
borrowing.
another poem with a ****** punchline
ryyan Jun 2010
I'm taking my time, looking out the window,
waiting for the first snow.
I'm tired of these dreams, with their same old colored leaves, waiting for the new to turn to old.
Fall down pretty leaf, be the change between two theifs,
let them learn to let go.
Birds migrate in the air, christmas time is near,
as the lamp lets light glow low.

A wise man and a fool, which one will rule?
I know that I could learn a thing or two.
Stop clock now retreat. fill every minute with a great feat,
I sure wish I could but thats my cue,
I go half way then stop, I reap half my crop,
You think you got it easy then walk a day in my shoes.
A lamb now lay slain. Broken and in pain.
his bruse brought blessing for me and you.

And as the same story gets told,
its words lose their touch as it gets old.
But i can't change one word, or dot one i
for these memories have been written down in time.

As the fire burns the forest down.
To grow new leaves that will fall to the ground,
just like a story told with fire,
will bring back its passion and desire.
As a fire burns the forest down,
animals run and scurry the ground.
But just as the fire destorys
a new story it will tell,
Kaley Apr 2017
You got ambushed in a decoy,
besieged in a bottle,

Captured by some theifs 
Cast for century's days on end.
If You were ever stuck,
If ever surly real..
They would know.
Tonie Wasco Dec 2015
when i was younger books were a part of me
literally i couldn’t get them off of me
all the words flowing through my hands that i use to
S-P-E-L-L out with my hands
as if i am the writer and the words are my advantage
to create with imagination in grace
taking a big pace with the words in my hands
they are my best friend
my lover
my light
books are apart of me
they swim in my veins
twisting my brains
my thoughts are my in a poetic movement
reciting quotes that made me insane
only because of the meanings behind their sayings
becoming carved into my back and arms
shaking my core
for words mean much more to me
then what other people believe
while the cloud of overthinking and emotions flood my brain
books keep me tamped
like a lion locked in a cage
yet the lion will one day unlock that cage
of fear and doubt
and get out with wonder and cheer
like book theifs who steal and conceal
their hidden books
for the pure golden that is in their hands
for books stand as more then a book with just words
while i am  skin and bones
books are my heart
because i L-O-V-E them
don’t you?
mark john junor Feb 2014
theifs of the polished face
hoist its metal lies over the far fence
neatly escaping into the failing light of day
while the watchman fondles his superhero comic
and daydreams of saving the day
they load its shiny fair haired face
into the truck at the edge of some tangled wood
embark the dusty fate for the sun flees and we shall follow
see it fly to the worlds edge we shall fly too
for we must
we cast off the dead weight till
all but our very bones lay littered behind us
like a trail of turmoil's
and still the road leads on
still the sun flees
one by one we fall to the dust
one by one with hand upraised push the surviving onward
fall to silent dust
one by one fail
till there is naught but the two of us walking side by side
in the narrow stretch of dry bitter sunlight
bearing between us the copper face
its bright eyes fixated on the fleeing sun
its hour passing with hard thoughts
till there is only i
and this heavy weight
this polished face
this unbearable freedom
O ineffable love that is now all mine
far beyond knossos wings that span the mystery’s of time ,
I have found .
A temple of stone and of  purest gold,
an Ethereal of love ,
at her beauty behold ,
and at her  temple prostrate ,
only to charm the ghosts of loves greatest fate .
bound  in chains never  to lose thy  love ,
.at thy temple gate .
Where  roses and peonies flower and bloom
and the ghost of Afroditi. can be found
unmercifully and forever bound .

And then to enter in as her gates are flung open wide ,
and with  her defences lay adorned  and broken by my side .
Only to awaken her golden crown ,
where her unlocked treasures are to be found .

For theifs have tried and all have failed ,
to capture the love of Ethereal .                                                              Fo­r they have all left ,
and bowed at the knee ,
to the beautiful charms of Ethereal ,

Only to leave chronicles of words unspoken .

But you my tempest of sweetest joy ,
surrendered to me thy gates employ
Where once lions and wild beasts all  
have roamed ,
for even they shall lay  at my feet ,
forever now,
her eternal throne .
From worn out sheets and pillow dreams sleep can never hold the dreamer. For
even now the Sun has yet to rise at four in the morning .
the town halls. Clock still shrouded by the absence of light ,
and the rain like pellets brought only a soreness to my eyes ,

yet brought a youthful. exuberance to my legs not felt in months .
For what was once dawn at five in the morn has still to rise in August.
And Wicked. Schemes of medieval dreams of a tyrant King for a loaf of bread a monk and a toad and a goblet of gold could ever keep this ball of fire from rising .
No more than '. Twenty shillings for a loaf of bread for what was once half a penny .
a monk drank to his death of the **** drained from the skin of a toad for many.
andKing would die , but not from its poison .
How Tudor halls when evening falls bolt their doors from it .
It hides the light which once shone bright ,
and pray the sun will rise .
As evil waits outside its gates only theifs and drunkards Persue .
A preachers bench where a dead weight is clenched ,
Gods word from man has no where to hide
as preachers. On Sunday mornings tell ,
Food for the lost at what great cost every soul that listens well .
So as evening shadows draw near .
and cold winds ,
and darker skies. can only beckon .
And evening shadows fall ,
and TV takeaway awaits ,
a light from church's may yet be ready
To. Welcome the weary traveller home .

— The End —