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JS CARIE Mar 2019
For a relic of honor
my onward progression and patience has to once again,
gear up for its most lengthy and wearisome, waking battle

Out beyond the center light of diving snow
And spiraling wind
Where shade sustains itself with duplicated shadows around the lake of envy

Under the hood of the forest
that stretches under serene pinholes of sprinkled radiance
Is a rehab for hollow reaches of emptying brittle skin and perpetual bubbling
Inviting fruits along with blackening kindling and timber reduce to ashes returning the cycle
A cure of open arms that create parallel warmth
the genesis of what makes fruit so inviting

If tomorrow opened path for that first step to be taken
Winds would blow so hard:
the hood of shade would push right passed the forest
splitting cracks multi directional into the pinhole for sunbeams
Allowing all collected snow to flood over the lake
Soaking all the wood
Causing any potential burning to be blackened
derailed by a dense heap of soggy innards
Consequentially taking away any chance of warmth
The initial make of comfort that raise up her open arms
Navigating through darkness
Anna Grace Mar 2019
I  used to put the feelings in jars,
wrapping them with corresponding ribbons depending on the day
and lining them oh so neatly onto the shelves that line my cortex and home.
Never to say I wasn’t organized in one way,
while others cracked and flew apart in every which direction
hubris was a cheerful  hand to hold as I glided in and swept up the mess,
loaning out jars and advice like cookies.
The back of the head always tells the truth,
I had always known that the shelves were uneven and cheap,
the jars themselves feeble in constitution just like their buyer
and the ribbons were only for display and the whole system functionally flawed.
She is gone;
when the earth became somehow heavier in the loss,
the shelves cracked and crumbled,
the shelves loosened and lay askew,
the shelves were never mine to assume.
The jars came down in a fury,
the force sending shards in every direction and into every part of my brain,
shrieking from the direct hit yet continuing to plead ignorance to the whole **** system.
She is gone;
feelings used to make sense but now nothing does,
nothing is how is feels
nothing is what I wanted to happen
and something is Here,
Something was always waiting,
Something has toppled my jars and shelves
and left me alone on this earth to clean it all up
while She has joined the Universe and now can only be reached
in pictures we took on better days
and the dreams that keep me awake.
Something has come,
Something may have gone,
but Something has also changed me.
Without the jars I feel more free,
without the jars I am open
maybe it was the jars all along
that have always made me feel broken.
i miss her deeply
Alek Mielnikow Feb 2019
I remember you playing your
guitar the day he died, by
the fire in your backyard.

Everyone was through with
crying. Neither of us cried
because that’s just not who
we are. But if he could have
heard you playing your tunes,
I’m sure he would have shed a
tear for you.

Temptation
lured us in with its embrace.

Perhaps the passion we had,
our act of small departs,
was not worth all this
pain. Worth the guilt and
shame we brought on to our
broken hearts. But you will
never love me the way you
loved him. I know you will
never stop loving him.

Everything about you entices
me. Your *******, and your
thighs, your bright eyes in
the moonlight. And in your
voice there’s a sullenness.

We both have that. We both
lost souls on those dark
nights. But we looked past
it all and sat in your
backyard by the fire
as you played your guitar.
A poem on love, loss, and complications. Oh, and here's my book, Up Until Now: http://a.co/8Ed9JyF
CLARYT Feb 2019
Time,
Where does it go?,
Does it join the back of the queue,
Like some never ending carousel?,
Coming back around again and again,

It's been a year now since you left us,
You left us, to join the back of the queue,
But not to come around again,
Never to come back around again,

Your queue took you somewhere else,
To some other time and place,
More like a train than a carousel,
This train never comes back around......

Time,
Where does it go?.......
The death of a loved one is hard, and never really gets easier, people say time heals all wounds......time is all I have now
(c) [email protected] 2019
anonymous Feb 2019
these winter days;

are no longer lilac

no longer tragically, beautiful

now just wrong

the sky, presently grey

mimicking our souls

will never shine again

not like it did before
This is a followup poem to lilac sky. I hope you enjoy it!
Kelsey Feb 2019
A needle pushed through skin
Extracting life from veins
Another one is gone too soon
No longer fun and games

The word gets out, the posts are made
"I saw you just last week"
A family mourns a broken soul
A person so unique

What happened to their little girl?
Her eyes sparkled in the sun
Replaced by an empty, lifeless gaze
In the end, the darkness won

They clothed her in a long sleeve dress
To hide the markings on her arms
Around her bony, pale white wrist
Her favorite bracelet, dangling charms

They lower her into the ground
The grieving is far from done
And in the time it takes to blink
Somewhere, evil steals another one
Jo Barber Feb 2019
The injustice of death brought all other
injustices to the forefront of consciousness.
For a short time, right and wrong were very
clear and the world was very simple, albeit
false and irreconcilably wrong.
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