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Kalliope Jun 9
What if I never get better? I can't beat the fear, I never get Noah's letters
What if I'm not the exception? I'm just the rule, ever gullible to affectionate deception
What if the damage is forever? We can't re-fall in love, our connection eternally severed
What if I'm only worth 49 first dates? You wake up on the 50th and decide this life you hate
What if I'm a Heather?  Exploding with you without knowing any better
What if I don't make it out of the car? Just wasted potential, never getting very far
What if I'm a bet you made with your friends? 10 days- I'm in love and your joke's end
And if I'm the bridesmaid, never the bride? I catch the bouquet- staring at you swallowing my pride
Hulu has all my comfort movies
Kalliope Jun 5
I don't know how to end a story, don't see when the plot has died
Especially when it's a good scene, and the mood is always just right
The sun is setting- there's lovers on the beach, the future stands before them with nothing out of reach
Maybe that's not in the cards they pulled, I should let the story line fade out, but that makes me physically ill,
"They belong together" I shout-
And I'll stall the scene with every breathe, hoping hope can out-write loves death
Maybe that's why I write poems, not novels
Kalliope May 28
It’s like the water my chapped lips crave,
Like the yard wishing for sun after a rainy day,
How grateful the dark is for fireflies—
How the stars settle into the pitch-black sky.

It’s reaching for your favorite pen to write a note,
Warm honey tea to soothe an aching throat,
The hush of 5 a.m. broken by birdsong and soft light,
Sipping warm coffee prepared just right.
What is a want, what is a need?
What of these feelings are my selfish greed?
I can be fine, suppress it way down
Then I see you- my heart shifts around.
Hope Apr 20
Tie me up in
red silk rope.
Bind my breast,
shoulders,
arms,
and belly.

Take the threads
to lasso
these
thick
thighs.

Tilt
my head
back
and slide your fingers
into my mouth.

Force
them
open.
While you
pat my soft
pink cheek.

Gag me
with your poetry.
Force
it
in
through
my lips

Let me whimper
and tear up.
As you feed me
word
after
word.
Metaphors
of panting painting
and other wives
who don't get fed
as well as me.

Make me beg
for your
pen stroke,
pleading
for your ink.

**** I love your poetry
Manx Apr 18
It's actually a pretty simple formula.
You inquire about
All the folk & mythology
Of any given area.
Investigate the philosophy
Inherent or lacking of each.
As a whole
And by each parable.
Reduce the content
To a "digestible" format.
Substitute words or phrases
Which do not conform
To the rest of the tapestry.

And the first to sew
Did so to sow¹,
Not to make sows².

A condensed collection of the known world's beliefs!

That is,
They wanted things to grow.
To fruit rather than in snout style.

Silk, amber, jade, spice, salt,
Tea, tin, & royal.

Those routes we did the walk
And therein had good talks!

It's been completely butchered beyond recognition!
Or you can believe in some ignorant, creationist nonsense structured around different sects yet ultimately following the same core scriptures.
They think the deviations between them all are large or significant! Only to those who choose to follow that.
But I'm sure I'm just being absurd & unrealistical! ****
Lizzy Hamato Apr 12
I want to die
not in the way that I’m supposed to,
Cause I never do what i’m supposed to.

I want to rot in the corner of someone’s conscience,
Like the lost friend from your childhood
Loved, forgotten and ignored
But undeniably present.
I want to be forgotten
like the scream muffled under a party song,
like a suicide note
burned before it was read,
Or never found,

Not a name forgotten,
but a name mispronounced
Or just on the tip of your tongue
By someone who pretends to care
By someone's mind that is painted red,
With my blood, but no guilt,
As I must always forgive
I don’t want a eulogy,
I want to be the glitch in a childhood memory,
the static between the channels,
the reason you pause mid-laugh
and feel sick for no reason.

When I disappear,
let it be like ink bleeding through your skin,
beautiful and wrong,
disgusting but permanent.

Let me go like a sin you almost confessed.
Damocles Apr 7
Golden glow glistening off dewdrops,
Drenching the window with warm illuminance,
Arabica aromas arousing my nostrils,
Perfuming the hall with the carafe swirling full.
Black liquid and the sound of your tantalizing sizzle
Entices my temptation to taste you early.

News anchors singing in their monotonous cadence,
The weather's good, and the guards are playing better defense.
The sweet kiss of your ruby red filling dancing off my lips,
**** just a little, savored in the warm pastry,
Crumbling just a little, mouth-watering rivers
Lusting for your gooey center-
Completing my rousing,
Enjoying a strawberry pop-****.
i had one for breakfast for the first time ina. long time...
Wind carries whispers arrayed,
But never is it screaming.
The wisp that calls, lives betrayed,
Unheard is its true meaning.

Bound to its fateful flowing forever.
Its flowing has never failed.
A sacred truth is buried within.
Within what? It never can tell.

Mountainous structures stand strong,
These relics are deemed eternal,
As time passes, the layers form masses.
They keep record of nature’s journal.

The bitter truth is etched in stone.
Carved deep in their being,
Yet tethered to fate, to constantly wait.
Cursed with never leaving.

Like the ocean’s mighty sway,
That never truly moves.
Seemingly more boundless than me,
It's built to traverse in set grooves.

Violent waves displaying a mask,
For It rises only to recoil.
An infinite realm of life contained,
To never feel the soil.

The sun will rise, set, then rise.
A fate with no fate at all.
It treads a path to live and last,
It will not and can never fall.

It soars above, an ode freedom,
Yet a slave to this deception,
For in its path, it’s truly shackled,
To this common misconception.

The grand clock's, a steady unwinding,
That's never completely unwound.
Delaying or pausing is not an option,
Losing every minute it passes.

The hands of time that hold the scroll,
Unallowed to write its own plot,
Emotions within its constant tick tock,
Expressing a purpose that's wrought.

As metaphysical body's walk.
They think, they feel, the react.
Emotions lay open, demand to be spoken,
As our minds expand to retract.

My conscious holds a truth, untrue.
For a lie is so deeply instilled.
We breathe to consume, from cradle to tomb,
In this cage that we've named "Free Will."
Pavel Rup Mar 28
Hormones in youth are ticking bombs—
and Freud’s just chuckling in his grave.
Love’s eyes still gleam like polished guns,
but necks? Oh necks won’t misbehave.

Eyes lock—a beauty storms the scene!
Neck, don’t you dare! (It dares. Of course.)
She floats like anarchist’s dream—
same then. Same now. Same deadly force.

Women’s sly smiles? Just primers set.
Men’s chests? Just trenches, soft and weak.
Love is a blaze! (Doubt? Just regret.)
Youth—dear friend—pray, don’t speak.

But age? A ceasefire, calm, profound.
Hormones now sleep—no more unrest.
Eyes see the truth (it’s bleak, I’ve found):
that beauty walks… still bombshell-dressed.

Ah! Pavlov’s mutts just drool and stare.
Neck—why still twist? The threat’s long gone!
Terror? Exes? Just hot air.
You look. They look. The script reads on.

Women—eternal partisan,
from Mars? From hell? Who even knows?
They’re strange. They’re sharp. They’ve got a plan.
Hormones? Asleep. War’s on freeze.

Ivan Pavlov, a Nobel Prize laureate, was a renowned Russian physiologist best known for his work on classical conditioning, famously demonstrated in his experiments with dogs.
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