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Timothy Apr 2017
To–day is waning now here comes the end,
     Of all those dearest hours that shone so bright,
     Now darkness reigns stars appear on my sight
Cold winds blow long and shiv’ring trees do bend.
No moon to glow, soon black-night shall descend,
     Erasing faded pastel sunset light
     Inevitable sleep tucks us in tight
Until dawn breaks and new day light ascend.

But memories shall hold this day in mind
   A pleasant thought to dwell upon indeed,
      Such golden hours that sped on angel wings
Shall be retrieved at moment’s notice kind,
   And relived fresh—a germinating seed—
      A soothing lullabye which gently sings.
( Petrarchan Sonnet )
17 March 2017 6:28am EDT
Grace Apr 2017
Perhaps you'll find me
Poking out from her pores
Peek a boo
Through skin

You'll be searching for me
Tucked behind her ear
Lose strands of hair
Drawing you
To trace with eager fingertips

A "perfect match"
Will never shed light
To new dark
It will keep you stagnant
For growth is not synonymous
With comfort

But I pray she meets the mark
Tucks tightly into suitcases
To shove into damp closests
To be packed away
Until the time comes
A trophy to be shown off only when you see fit
Sofia Von Dec 2011
the laughing ***** shrieks on
a masculine bellow till dawn

the young girl fades
into the paint
to find a way out, before she faints

the almighty angel
is shot from the sky

she has alined with satin
the unbreakable tie

the blanket sits
crumpled up in a lap

shared with the many
and yet no claps

they all sit staring
at one another

the tension’s high
yet they all are brothers

they pretend to not care
it's what they know

but beneath all that
you feel it show

a tattoo of sarcasm
ripping them open,
from the inside out
so they can't keep quiet
they always shout

no one knows the scars it makes
no one wants to, they'd cry lakes

so the young girl sits
repeated back by the mirrors

she knows a secret,
and yet she fears

that if they knew,
she'd be gone

and still she whispers it
to herself
and tucks it away,
or puts it on the shelf

the single truth in the bag of lies

unnoticeably simple,
the surrounding eyes

it's just the cast away

the rotten apple

she's aflame with the pupils of loathing.
My name is Taylor and I have a tooth that tucks behind one of my front teeth.

I say this as my first sentence because when I look at myself in the mirror and smile, that is the first thing I notice.

But a compliment I've heard more times than once, "You have a beautiful smile."

I  wonder how many things in life are like that...

Qualities or characteristics that people agonize over are the very things that others appreciate and admire.
Natalie Apr 2018
I am dutiful, a docile child.
Mother tucks me in, again and again.
She need not keep me under lock and key,
So long as she knows that all is well.

I swallow my eternity,
Once in the morning,
Twice at night.
It is a bitter thing that drains
Ebullient, frightening laughter from the maw
And eats at all solemnity.
I am pleasant on the mind and secure,
A safe with nothing to hold.

Inside, the oven is out.
There is a storm turning,
Two cities over. Nothing to fear.
Someone has closed the shutters,
Venetian blinds blinking.
The tenants are sleeping, the house is cold.
ava Nov 2018
my mother always said her worst fear was growing old
she tucks the years into her waistband without looking in the mirror
the wrinkles grow on her face like roots from a tree
i ask how she can stay with a man that makes her bleed
"in ten years he'll die"
her voice is subdued, expression removed
but the words still tremble on her lips
i know it's a wish
she made ten years ago
mila Feb 11
"Shhh..." and just like that all of my anxieties are swept away at the same time she tucks my hair behind my ear.
"We'll figure this out," she says, without even saying a word. Her eyes bring me all the comfort I'll ever need.
"Trust me" say her hands as she holds mine and brushes the back of my palms with her thumbs. Soft, and full of light, I find calmness.
Her eyes tell me so much more than words could even convey and I guess that's where the magic is. That's where the stillness lies. That's where my peace is.
11.18
Michael John Dec 2018
i


a walk about towns
lily be crowned
great godess
to bed airwares on..parenthesis
perchance to dream in
splendour and innocence..
shared the family of man
when more is less..
when we live free of fear
and intimidation
when violence against
women
be uncommon..
we safe in our home
where human rights
exist..
for everyone
where we own
ourselves
body and soul..

ii

a little bird sings
outside her window
through the pale
dawn´ s light..

she says in oblivion
where she does not
know
where there´ s a
way..

iii

where we on a wing
where love the day
where night bring
hope so..

where the moment
the pauses
truth our meditations
and free lost cause

where equalities
where dreams
like sheep count
she smiles..

iv

where concord is
obvious and profound
like the blue bus
lily laughs..exclamation

like a little bird..
tucks her head
turns and goes
on in search

of the right word
the juste mot
where we like ourselves
o she says
the music stopped..
Scarlet Aug 19
I've had kings and god's and poets in my bed,
Felt them reluctant and raw, dazed and ****** and delighting.
Darling Peter brings me breakfast every morning after,
Always get my coffee wrong. He's got his smile
That seem more of an apology than anything else.
Hamlet paces endlessly, ten long-legged strides
From one side of the room to the other. I've got through
Three cups of the right kind of coffee before
While he's just crossing the sitting room again and again,
'to be's fluttering through my hair

Richard makes love like he's never done it before,
Like every little noise is a sign for concern. I think
It truly panics him to be faced with the responsibility.
Coriolanus ***** like a wild animal,
Fidgety and agitating. He *****
Like he's trying to win.

I wait for the real him and I say, won't you be a dragon this time.
Be a monster. Be whatever it is I am afraid of
When I put my feet up under the covers to keep them safe.
He laughs and tucks his face into my neck,
Squeezes his ankle around my toes.
No, he tells me firmly. Monsters tempt you enough
Without giving one my face to wear
This poem is not my own work all right is reserved and belongs to  the original poet/author Elisabeth hewer I am only sharing because of how alluring and elegant it is.
s Sep 2018
if i don’t chase after depression,
then depression chases after me
it apprehends my happiness-
smothers it with apathy

it harasses my mind and thought
drowns my conscience in regret
renders me inconsequential
like everyone else you will forget

anxiety takes a razor and
carves craters in our cadent hearts
we were once so harmonious together
now i guess we’re best apart

mental illness plagues my soul
it dissolves my brain and bone
and it’s very much contagious
so i deserve to be alone

at times i envision the future
and think about how i could mend ****
but depression explains how much easier
it would be for me to just end it

now apathy drains the strength from my body
and tucks me
into a grave.

if i can not fight my sadness, there’s
no ******* way
i can be saved.
alternative title: emo poem
leila Jan 20
she tucks her hair behind the ear
he draws her face
he draws her smile
she slowly walks
he continues to draw
she runs across the road
he paints
she stops a moment and calls her dog
he completes the work
she stares at him
he falls for her..
Jewel Jan 5
Jenny





Jenny, oh dear Jenny,
Gone forever
Still I wonder what could've been your life given over
and how times will your disease take another.
Posing with a smile full of cheeks last I saw her.

Eight days before, you ate so poor
Picture requests came in more and more
Watching every meal gram
Had to look right for Instagram
Had to get the comments yelling, Jenny ****!
Gotta to have the likes and the views
No harm but fun in making them drool
Loving the way they cyber worship you


She's only a baby but that's not how they saw her
Ever showing off the many contours of her body
So the many names they had for our Jenny.
The many predators adoring her daily
Always in the chat list
Begging for more than a kiss.
All they had to do was ask and she happily gave
You would call her fast but I saw an Image slave.

Picture after picture never fully pleased
Illegal nip and tucks were the only means
To get the look she desperately wanted to achieve.
Make me to die for
She went and said at death's door
That was her last smile
Didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye

Under twenty and gone already,
She's only a baby, yet heaven is ready.


Jenny if I told you would you actually believe
You're apart us all, even me
All slanders made on you really hide that truth
We go around and around in deja vu
Obsession for perfection is no longer fiction
Though we don’t treat it as the worst form of temptation
Just be quiet, wait, be patient for a next self destruction
Now fingers pointing at Jenny’s pretty picture
Forget the doctor
That’s who we'll blame.
Ladies and gentlemen,
Welcome to society's wicked game.
I welcome feedback guys!
Tori Aug 14
The sun hides his face behind gray morning clouds,
Like a tot playing hide and seek.
And at times from around those silver-lined borders,
His beaming face will peek.
He spies me there as I wander below him,
Lilting along my way,
And at once tucks his face out from sight again,
It’s a little game we play.
The westward wind is at once cheerful and lithe,
He tosses my hair to the sky,
Strumming the treetops like a God-made kazoo,
With notes that are cool and light.
The trees all awake to the sound of his tune,
Tossing gracefully to and fro.
Maiden dyads and naiads waltz gracefully on,
Swinging in time with their boughs.
The gravel laughs heartily beneath my worn feet,
In a voice that is deep and merry,
He tells the sweet tails of his long-forgotten trails,
And the travelers they have carried.
He can outline the best and the worst of mankind,
All the forks which have marked their paths,
Of the men who showed courage ‘gainst nature and foe,
And of the burdens on their backs.
frol·ic
/ˈfrälik/
verb
1.
(of an animal or person) play and move about cheerfully, excitedly, or energetically.
"Edward frolicked on the sand"
synonyms: frisk, gambol, cavort, caper, cut capers, sport, scamper, skip, dance, romp, trip, prance
:
:
So sayeth the dictionary. Might I propose that to frolic is less of a movement and more of a mindset? It is the first word which comes to mind when I experience an appreciation for nature that is at once powerful, potent, and painful. I wish to melt into the earth and become part of it somehow....
It's amazing how much a catalyst anyone of us can play,
and how simple it is to be fodder,
fuel for the flame.
Echoing off the corneas of an
older generation, the imprint
upon the retina of those we're
unknowingly strangling.

Their whimpers fill our oxygen tanks,
their stomach acid resurfaces the earth we burn and purge.
Their saliva cleans the barrels,
their imagination makes the bullets,
their incentive the gun powder,
their action our selfish itchy trigger
finger.

Written apologies through scripted
eulogies; we simply cared little
for your insistance we listen,
easier to brush it under the bed  
we tell you harbors no monsters.
Simplified for us, our course is set
our destination known, yet this
monster tucks you in at night.

I can't with dry eyes ask your forgiveness, for like an addict
we'll be at it again. Burning intellectual freedom, that well bleached parchment we've already scribbled your names upon.
Oh you didn't know?
Yeah we were ready for you,
we knew you were coming.
In our much praised cunning we've
already turned them all against you.

So why don't you swallow your angst,
go ahead and eat that anger. I don't care how much peace matters, go ahead drink that too.
Do it again, and again until your stomach swells and bursts.
See the best part about lack of nourishment it mimics your stomach as if you've gorged yourselves.
And you better believe that's what we're going to tell them, that's exactly what we're going to show them.

Now seriously, there's no monsters
under your bed, in your closet, or outside your window.
Please little one just sleep tight;
don't worry I'll get the light -
click - blam!
Shannon Oct 2018
My baby.
You’re wondering about the type of women you want to be. It’s a sad and soggy Sunday and you sit by the railing while it’s raining and the wind sighs at your presence.
You long for love, and peace, and mystery and excitement and you long to be wanted for who you are not who you could be if you were small.

My baby.
Everything you want isn’t everything you see.
Damaged isn’t pretty, my baby and maybe it looks it but the pain, oh baby the pain is like nothing you’ve ever felt.
And maybe you crave the mystery, maybe you crave the smudges mascara and the hunger pains.
But honest to truth my baby
Being this ****** up ain’t cute
Being this ****** up isn’t safe.
Being this ****** up makes you wonder what in the world is.

My baby there is nothing like the ache of being empty,
The sad and solemn nothing, the pitiless void that seldom empties but when it does you put stars in his eyes for he is the only other person with the key.
And a lot of the time the key doesn’t fit your locks,
The walls you’ve put up are brick.
Solid.
And for every brick you stack he takes one away, eager to pull them down he tries and baby one day you might stop building.
Maybe it’ll be on a soft and sunny Saturday when both of you are laughing and you see it within him.
You’ll stop building and he’ll smile knowing that
Yes.
Finally.
Free.

My baby your walls are thick and strong,
Most of the time,
Sometimes they fall but you pick them up and rebuild don’t let anyone see the truth.
He knows.

My baby the boy you love will never quiet fill your cup and it’ll break you but it’s not his job to.
You have to try too.
Because baby I know you hurt and I know you just want out of the cruel ******* world but now no.
Now you have someone to love you.
To love you for who you are and not who you would be if you were small.
Someone who loves you so that to go would be to take a piece of him with you.
Maybe that piece is the spark you fell in love with.
Baby no now you have someone to live for.

My baby I know you think smudged mascara and running away is desirable and makes them want more but baby.
On the good days you feel like a well oiled machine, task after task focus, seem well act well everybody laughs, smooth machine yet still lack the basic humanity that should consume you.

My baby on the bad days, broken down, some days you manage to trudge your way out of bed and into the daytime, empty but there,
Worse, the days where you can’t get up. Where you open the window and stare out into the garden you’ve always seen and you let the sadness and elusive sleepiness win until you’re exhausted with sleep.
Days where blades help you feel and help the anger inside you escape when the blood bubbles through your torn skin.

My baby the overthinking will drive you crazy, where the concept of an ear is weird even when he whispers sweet nothings into them and tucks that little stray piece of hair behind them.
Where *** is a mechanism by which sounds so wrong but feels so right but baby do not use it to cure the sadness.
It will always win.  

My baby home is haunting.
The ghosts of who you used to be haunt you, taunt you, and the love you used to feel is gone. Home isn’t home. Home is a house in the hillside.
Home is the space between his arms where your head rests against his chest and he breathes in to smell the coconut in your hair, home is the way he stares at you and smiles, home is the way he plays video games with you in his lap, home is his dilated pupils, home is the weird way you hold hands on the train, home is short jokes and home is when he looks at you as if you
You
You my baby
Are just absolutely spectacular
Even when you feel like a fleck of dust on this pointless world.

My baby though he is home, mental illness and distress isn’t pretty.
Panic attacks and **** crying in public isn’t pretty. The disability of breathing isn’t pretty. Being perched over a toilet bowl isn’t pretty. Not eating for days isn’t pretty. Pulling out clumps of hair isn’t pretty. Being clumsy because you are so anaemic isn’t pretty. Passing out isn’t pretty. Wrist scars and bloodstained sheets aren’t pretty.
Being sick isn’t pretty.

Baby I wish we’d stopped when we knew.

Baby I wish help meant something because though you’ve tried,
Nothing gets through.

Baby when it rains it pours, and through every storm I have you, my hand is there to hold.
So we’ll call Noah’s arc and we’ll start a new world.
I know you’re hurting.
But my baby I promise one day we’ll be safe.
No longer shipwrecked.
My baby one day
One day
We’ll be free.
“Peaceful piano” - Spotify
“For stormboy.”
Nyx Jul 2018
White dresses of purity
Gently gracing the floor
The couples sway gracefully
As the crowds adore

The families and friends
Filling the whole room with glee
Their stare with amazement
With pride and esprit

The lights shining down
So softly and bright
We all knew then
This would be a splendid night

As the final dance commenced
And they stared into each others eyes
Smiles and grins filled their faces
These smiles of happiness told no lies

The song came to an end
And the dancers parted, reluctantly
The audience running wild
Cheering and laughing, exultantly

Rushing to my friends
Giving each a warm embrace
Showering them with praises
You could see the enthusiasm on their faces

All of us were dressed up
Everybody has cleaned up real nice
Dresses and tucks adored us
A sweet slice of paradise

Taking a million photos
To remember this very night
We took the dance floor by storm
As we were all filled with such delight

If only this night would never end
And we could all remain this happy
Reality seemed to melt away
It was just us

The friends, the music
The connection we all had
For a moment our hearts all beat as one
Not a moment did we feel sad

But things like this can't last forever
Like a firework upon the night
Beautiful and filled with color
But then the spark fades out of sight

But not without burning a memory
So vividly into our minds
We enjoyed ourselves within the moment
In that instant we could all unwind

Thank you to the people I love
For inviting me to such a night
As I had such a wonderful time
It was one of the best nights of my life
One of the best nights I've ever had
CGW Oct 2018
Tires gripping in the wet.
I am slipping.
Somewhere not here I am waiting for myself.
Tear drops the size of entire oceans rain down.
Can not see past my glass windshield.
Stop.
Break down infrastructure of existence.
The premonition of my future.
The orchestra in me.
There is a dust in the air.
I am slipping.
What ever happened to me.
Resume.
Immediate **** forward.
Off the cliff into the sea a thousand feet below.
I am weightlessly suspended in my golden light memories.
Way up here in the silence, the people down below carrying the weight of their problems.
All my life I have gripped the earth,
felt the power of the tree of life.
Life.
Is powerful and it breathes.
Stop.
A flood of blood pours out of me.
Glass and blood tucks me in forever.
Matt Shaw Nov 2018
Shuffles awkwardly, buffeted by headlights
The highway won't slow down
It's break time and he is getting coffee
The leather jacket tucks in his body heat from the cold
The stony pit of his stomach wrapped in doubled skin

She is an unknown
Professes her love to him
And he is just uneasy
He wears it in his eyes
The mind running through scenes and places it shouldn't
He is like a ***** cell unsure of *******
Shaking too much for love's vacation

Instead it makes him tremble,

Maybe I'm better off alone.
Ken Pepiton Sep 28
Old notes, from before

what they did was imagine a future
the future using a memory (meme) locken in their DNA to cognize

sameness

Defragmenting your mind
disassociate certain ideas from mis conceptions

cost of living, reap what you sow

Lost and know it, is there a way

What if the show (the trial) is a series of phone calls--
listener hears both sides

--- but never speaks--
When is the reward for not doing ever as great as
the reward for done?

A riddle for the robber jailed for doing?
A query for the poet who never wrote?
The singer who never sang, an audition in silence?

Eaking, painful words that say see, soundlessly

and fifteen years passed by
I must say
I know the answer there
I must say
I see farther now than then

Suffer it to be so now. See the music
sing
Sufficient unto the day (no more)

Sop with me, come and dine.

-- Ask the guest to say grace

gracefully, the guest rises to full height,

tears the heel from the loaf,
slowly sops it in the cup of Mogen David,
provisioned by the host,
slowly lifts the soppy bread to lips open
for a bite,

taken, then chewed gently, and swallowed,

Amen. The guest sits and tucks
and gracefully scoops his portion of
a side of beef and three old hens who ceased to lay.

Grace for grace, he mutters, in his own gluttonous way.
as all the tucker's tucked into him.

Smallest child asks, who invited that?

Oh, that.
That's a metaphor. A parable. You see as if that hapt,

you remember it oh so well,
then the story ended and you woke here with memories of never beens.

Not every efforting word makes ineffable sense, some must be heard
to be spoken, other wise they lie

idle, idling like dragons spewing ashes in micro bits of death,
in their slumber atop the horded
answer to all things,

money. the real thing. the idea from which it formed.

A time trading scheme.
Back in the day, we were paid for our attention to reality, then

something changed at the DNA level, down in the core of where we come from,
effortlessly, until

air, whoosh squeeze that back outa me
breathe, old man,

old notes, like we should
honest-account the smell of Dehli
diesel idling in clogs of mopeds and vespas and honda fifties
like Saigon outside Than Son Nhut when the Americans were there

such idle words as these, left lying asif believed
now as when they flowed from a steel nib pen in some era of errors past
parsing sensibly

like old photos in a family album, with no recognizable faces or places

longer lasting than our carbon foot print,
longer than the thread to Silicon Beach sewing stiches before the skein
ripped with the receding tide of couldabeens,

before there was a fast lane, a 56 K modem was a rocket ship, too slow

here come ol' Flattop, Junior, **** Tracey's cutting edge hacker,
Flatop Jones, Junior,
cruisin' Route 66, in 1956, while the Hungarian Freedom Fighter was
grasping at
a dream,

The Yanks are coming, but
they didn't.
Seeya.
I found my personal task spiral binder from the expansion of the silicon bubble into the internet through to the MyTechPeople rollout after the IPO that never hapt. A historical note.
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