by 100 members An untidy home for untidy emotions. Disappointments without self pity, unrealized expectations, failed attempts and missed opportunities. This is where we can expresses it all in jagged cliffs and cathartic sulfur waterfalls. Observation, emotion, and the beauty of all things human. But please leave the self pity, for elsewhere. It isn't always easy to separate the two, but the results will no doubt be gloriously real
You'll have to talk to the poet, He's not around Right now.
I don't write'em
I just edit'em (I'm no good at spelling Don't know much about grammar Sonnets or Iambic pentameter, his moods, his states of mind what it is he's trying to define or find. Not sayin' that ignorance is a good thing )
I just post'em and let'em go.
The poet? You'll have to talk to him and he's not around right now.
I think we all understand this one, the creativity inside writes the poetry.
I cannot keep watering dead flowers. I cannot keep tangling with powers Way beyond my ken. I cannot keep hoping for more. I cannot keep fighting this war And losing all over again.
As much as I miss you, dear, I cannot keep watering dead flowers, Not even an IV can save them now. Why I'm still trying is unclear, But I've been giving CPR for hours, Trying to save this somehow.
I cannot keep watering dead flowers. I cannot keep tangling with powers Way beyond my ken. I cannot keep hoping for more. I cannot keep fighting this war And losing all over again.
I saw the way you smiled at her And in that moment I realized That you and I will never be. Not because you love her so But because I would never allow it. Your happiness is always first. It is all that matters to me. And in that moment it was clear, She made you happier than I am ever capable of. I watched her give you something that I can never give: Joy upon your face. All I have ever given you Is my worry, Paranoid apologies, Desperate tears, And the promise to love you unconditionally Forever and ever. But I can not make you happy So you will never be mine.
The swinging trunks had got our smell And one could tell They weren't pleased
We had just intruded into their dust bath Post the shower at the pool Between us the distance Was one of studied silence Till one's trumpet froze me to the ground
From among the trees Big little mud hills surrounded the space
Our clicking lens Wore out their patience And we were just nuts Before that large herd
Some more were coming up the river We heard someone whisper And I thought of rebellious elephants Fighting for territory once their own Against an invader that spares none
What if this dwindling day hour They crush the watch tower!
Space is curved. The straight line a Euclidian fiction. The very fabric of space, the skin pulled in upon itself, Light follows this curvature. Nor is time the heartbeat of angels, as we once thought, but our own shaky construct.
The galaxies that we imagine to be real prove to be archaic images, things that once were. When we look into the heavens, we look back in time.
When the light of our star has traveled in one vast cosmic arc and returned to its source, we shall know ourselves.
In that dawning light will fail, the stars dim and flicker. Time itself will falter and the voices of angels will be heard.