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Elvira Sep 2018
The ruins between my ribs held us static
We were parallel lines that were never coincidental,
A could-have-been intersection that ceased to draw itself
Just before the point of tangency.
You told me it was I who stopped pursuing you,
That it was I who fashioned these rusts in my own gears.
Apathy was my choice,
Until I saw the concern that lay beyond your hostile mask
That left me wanting for the unknown.
Rune Sep 2018
I want to have you tattooed on me. In True size.
Every point copied; Pierced through my dermis and dotted under my skin. Line by line. Your soft curves imaged. The pretty picture you are.
The artist has to capture your look and feel.
Grasp the splendour of your character; without taking it from you whatsoever. You are far to untamable to be pinned down like that; there is a reason butterflies  are being framed and lionesses not.

Suddenly you stood there, and I was ****.
Nobody could forsee that I were yet to see a godess. They are not made as Beautifull as this anymore.
Seldom before and with greater exception after.
An attempt to translate stumbeled Words I drew in dutch with incomparable results and the question whether it is or isn’t a succes.
Atticus Sep 2018
J.J
it started in your bones
it ended in your heart
I miss your bright smile
I miss your cackling laugh
they told you it was time to say your last goodbyes
what do you do when your loved one dies?
you were a supernova in a world of stars
embracing everything that fell into your arms
the pears in the bathroom
the stuffed tigers on the shelf
its the story of my childhood
you taught me to love myself
an armchair and a gentle man
a woman full of joy
a godmother me
a  bakery near my home
the years grow in length, time passes
you're still gone
I haven't seen you in a while, I can't bring myself to see
the stone anchored in the ground where your head would be
do you still see us?
up in that heavenly place
do you still bless us, with your heavenly grace
I still message your phone
though I know you won't receive it
and
I can't bring myself to believe it
I've got the photos, the videos, and the proof
of a beautiful existence
but it's with a heavy heart that I say you're gone
it's not fair that you left so soon
so I close my eyes
and imagine you're in the room
veritas Aug 2018
red stains, fading, cracked, scented

     if i kissed your prints, would they kiss me back?

sighs, thoughts, spaces between prints

     spaces between words, between parted lips and floating thoughts the world! is so crowded with space but yours is the one i want to fill .

     but where are the lines? lines of loss, lines of lawns, lines of ink and rips and more stains and letters, in the hands and on the pavement

where are the lines?

why won't you go there?

why do you hover in these foul, indomitable spaces? why do you seek that which you should not?

     if the shadow of lines slinks in your quiet expression, then why are you still here?

     if the echo of your soft face lingers in my hands, if the whisper of your breath and the heat of your skin still singes my own, then why do you disappear?

lovely wraith, lovely memory of a thing that once was, why do you sit so alone?

because i am coming to your space, and if you can see me, of shadow and fog, then i will meet you there,

     on a line of our own.

>because it's a death premeditated and i can see it unfolding,

     sharp wounding painful

and the discourse in the sky is telling me so, yet why do i keep walking west?
lots of questions (this isn't a poem of answers. don't look for one).
someone out in cyber-land
might just be
copying a poem which they'll
attribute to their own tee

unscrupulous replicators
have no qualms
on flagrantly stealing the lines
from genuine arms

when they take a fancy
to your brilliance of verse
they'll naff off with all or part of it
and stow it within their purse

piracy is rife around
online writing dales and dells
it's the pilfering of an authentic
author's heart and soul bells

they say that imitation
is the sincerest form of flattery
but an alternate opinion
would say plagiarists are bereft
of an original wordage battery
Karisa Brown Jun 2018
The space
In between
Where we want
To be
And reality

What lies
Beneath
Will never be seen

What lies ahead
Is all in our head

Go for it
Make a dream

See the future
Break free
From what use to be

Hold dear
To the quiet atmosphere

Time here is inevitable
But the illusion
Is the lie

That takes us
From prison and hell
To doors we never
Thought were there
EK Jun 2018
I tiptoe on definitions,
trusting that
eloquence and versed language
might be enough.

Underneath the sky, love is a language.

No one is fluent,
but words become my way.

It takes time,
and I might stumble.
But love,
listen.

Between lines, I am true.

I am full of intricate detail
that makes no sense
unless you
listen.

-E.K.
DP Younginger Jun 2018
Correcting lines,

Painting new stripes with clear coded markings,

Her curiosity is like an allergy to the heart,

Constantly craving to itch, but my reach is coming up short,

Torturing me with her innocent smile; a blushing cheek,

Eyes glowing in the direction of the teacher; an aspiring Jedi,

All I gave her was an answer,

A simple coat of honesty like armor to the Knight,

Abstractly patching together a robe of consistency,

She absorbs my words like a bubble attaching itself to another; becoming the giant,

An ever growing cloud of thought steaming fatter and fatter with the act of knowing,

I gush inside with the discovery of my own blemish to language,

My absent mind on autopilot as I glide into her turbulence,

Eyes completely stuck in this string of moments, one after the other,

I sit on my porch and wait for them to come home.
2018.6.6.
Aa Harvey Jun 2018
You don’t want to read this.


I’m reading this poem and waiting for something to happen,
But so far nothing has been able to seize my attention.
I await to see which word will give rhythm to the rhyme,
But it is an expected disappointment; a lack of perfection.


Still onward I read, hoping for a change in the way it is structured,
But this is simple, not memorable; just words without thought.
Why can’t it be better?  So amateurish; so fractured.
Simply lame and without impact; clearly no talent at all.


I’ll give up on this poem; it is simply more of the same.
No story, no idea, not worth reading, I would say.
But I am here to read, so I shall continue once again
And remain unmoved, uninspired, unimpressed; bored I remain.


Where is the wit and the substance? (The killer without the filler).
Where is the dark side, the good life, the romance of death?
There is no image portrayed here, he certainly cannot deliver.
He is just wasting my time; there are no good lines left.


Someone whisper in his ear and tell him to change his ways.
Write a poem I want to read, you should write just like me.
The real you is boring, so lay back and be fake.
Read more poetry, write more poetry; see what I see!


I see sunshine and blue skies and rabbits bouncing by!
I see rivers flowing gently, people holding hands and love is in the air!
I see happiness and joy and a world where nobody needs to cry!
And all he talks about is depression and a life going nowhere.


Be more positive about love!  We have had enough of the heart break.
Write about lovers and marriage and a family that lasts.
But no, he continues to bore us, with nothing of interest to say.
I’m sorry I ever began to read this poem;
If I bought his book, I would take it back.


I’d like a refund please; he doesn’t write what I like.
He doesn’t talk about the outdoors and the colour of the leaves.
He doesn’t know about love and is no artist, he cannot write.
Why can’t he take a lesson and learn to write poetry?  Do it, please!


Poetry should be written this way, the way he writes is all wrong.
Poetry should sound like my favourite poets; nobody is unique.
Poetry should be written according to my idea of what is strong.
This is weak in its word usage; he bears no resemblance to my clique...


From time to time you need to expand your mind.
What’s yours is yours and what’s mine is fine.
I can never meet your expectations.
Realise I am being real when I disappoint you without explanation.


My poetry will never change the world intentionally if attempted,
But one mind at a time can be influenced if not rejected.
Take my words into your mind, if you have the time
And I will thank you for reaching the end of a poem,
That I know you just didn’t like.


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Bethie Jun 2018
My future life with poetry
Began at a rummage sale
When I was young and innocent
So sweet and kind and frail

I had a dollar from my mom
To "spend it wise" she said
I looked and looked for pretty things
Her words inside my head

I saw some little figurines
My sister went to buy
I began to get a bit desperate
Until something caught my eye

I saw a book, just sitting there
A cover of musty blue
It seemed so sad and lonely
That somehow I felt it, too

I picked it up and bought it
Not knowing what was started
For in my hands were lines of gold
That from me would not be parted

Those poems helped to shape my life
And read them, I still do
But now I make my own to share
For me, and yes, for you
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