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Green ChairA young man sat there,
in a chair that conformed to his body,
green and uncomfortable.
He was looking out the 2nd floor window
watching people coming in and going out.
His laptop warmed his thighs,
beads of sweat formed on his back and neck
A single tear stained his cheek.
He was writing a poem of pain.
He wanted nothing more
than for the poem to come true
He was writing a poem of pain.
He was writing...
It's YouIt's the light rain on my face.
It's the smell of morning dew.
It's the sun's warm embrace.
That reminds me of you.
It's all the memories of us.
It's how we never part.
It's our deep, limitless, trust,
That keeps you in my heart.
It's not about the mistakes we made
It's that in each other we see our best
It's about how our love will never fade,
That you make me forget the rest.
It's your little quirks.
It's how you made my heart anew.
It's how we forget our little irks.
It's how I knew... it's you.
What am I to write about?What am I to write about when everything I think of has been written about before
Every line and every rhyme in my head has been thought of already
Every situation that has affected me, others have already explored
Forcing rhymes, distorting the flow, my thoughts refuse to be steady
Yet I try and try to do my best but my best isn't better than the rest.
Love poems are chilling and killing my precious thoughts
Poems about nature have been beaten like the path that has been traveled by
I'm too happy to write about hatred for it makes me so distraught
Inspirational poems decimate my "what 'If'" scenarios, but I will continue to try
For if I try and try to do my best someday my best might compare to the rest.
I can't compare to famous poets like Poe and Shakespeare, Frost or Walt.
And what about Dickenson? Shel? Byron? Whitman? or Hughes?
So many great writers that my thought process might as well come to a halt.
No matter how I word it, my poems will never make the big news!
So why try an
Sonnet 2I saw your face today,
so I smiled and waved.
You looked down in dismay.
I can't believe how we both behaved.
My smile faded as I walked away,
you didn't give me a second glance.
I had nothing to say.
Should I have given you another chance?
I shouldn't be acting like this,
I am with someone new,
yet my thoughts still persist.
Do I still miss you?
As awful as we were to each other,
you will always be my first true lover.
Today has been a beautiful dayToday has been a beautiful day.
The skies thick with graying clouds
while fierce breezes blow dirt around
The dead grass shimmers a lovely shade of brown
not a single ray of light to be found.
The mood is brooding and everyone is sad
they're shut up inside but I couldn't be more glad.
For the grass, to me, looks to be greening
and the clouds don't look so bad.
The winds seem to be dying,
and I ain't even mad.
Some people hate these dark days,
I would have to say that I usually do too,
But it flew by in a blurry haze,
Cause time flies when I'm with you.
The Elementals: Rise of the Shinobi Chapter 1 pt 4Dawn sat down with her girlfriends while Gabriel found his friend, Terra, sitting all by himself, not moving and focusing on the whiteboard, which was completely blank.
“Woah, control your excitement, Terra! I know it’s the first day of school and all but that doesn’t mean you have to act like wild-child!”
Gabriel said with a smirk as he patted Terra on the back. Terra rolled his eyes, shook his head, and let out a short laugh. Terra and Gabriel had been best friends for as long as Gabriel could remember and, for as long as Gabriel could remember, Terra had always been a quiet type of person. His black hair was only a few shades darker than his skin; he almost never smiled or talked, and he towered over everybody in the entire school. Maybe it was because of his height that it looked like he had no muscle but Terra could pack a punch. Gabriel was thankful of this; one night during their freshman year Gabriel and Terra were walking home from a foot ball game and
Sonnet 3This smile has not been real for quite some time,
But this shroud of sadness has been lifted.
The breaking of one's heart should be a crime.
The reason behind my smile has shifted.
The pain a person can cause is shocking,
I used to think mine was unbearable.
Others' happiness seemed to be mocking
no previous pain was comparable
Time seemed to be my only remedy
Days, weeks, months, and years have all passed me by.
I met a friend, you, that all do envy.
That day I was healed, the day you said "hi"
I am feeling better, it must be true,
the happiness I have is thanks to you.
Sonnet 1In the morning light
when I see your beautiful face,
your eyes shine bright,
my heart starts to race.
In the afternoon hue
when your hair starts to gleam,
and it's just me and you,
you make my love teem.
In the evening glow
when you're in full splendor,
you're all that I know,
I will love you so tender.
My love for you will never fetter.
Than you? There are none better.
Let's Kill TonightThat blonde, she's a bomb, she's an atom bomb.
I knew I wouldn't forget you, and so I went and let you blow my mind.
This place about to blow.
Lace up your shoes, eyo, eyo, here's how we do,
We're the kids in America woah-oh,
Take my hand and come with me cause you look so fine and I really want to make you mine.
Tonight you're falling in love, this feeling's tearing me up.
If I had to choose her or the sun, I'd be one nocturnal son of a gun.
She's got all the right moves in all the right places,
And the moments when my good times start to fade, you make me smile.
The room's hush hush and now's our moment,
I wanna make you feel like you're the only girl in the world.
Four a.m. we ran a miracle mile, we're flat broke but hey we do it with style.
All the crazy shit we did tonight; those will be the best memories.
I still can't keep the day from ending,
Baby please don't go.
The the morning comes.
When can I see you again?
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
diaryi thinned recall,
strangled memory until she screamed black
or blue, strung her source of voice along
the willowed incline of vein to wrist and down
let the curl thirstily imply
just how cut it is to pain in numbers:
one scar for extravagant wine dates, three
for the number of times we fucked crying,
eight for forgotten promises of ever after
i heard a sordid song in your tallied matchstick
bones, victorian in beauty & proper repression
of the bloody details like a bruise we push beneath
our hollow skin with dirty fingernails
see, the past is not a headless infant with knives for
playful fingers, though it is not to say
that cribs or birdcages hold anything more than
what we leave them to engulf
i swallowed you whole, ocean— basked by the enchantments
of soft-spoken life, bathed by neurotic erosion.
they taught me that the cleansing of your body now
fades the transient you of yesteryear, speak in familiar tongue:
bathroom stall mirages of rounds, clocks, convey
Song of First SnowfallI fell in love
with the boy at the bus stop this morning
who dropped his gloves
on the sidewalk
to freeze his fists into side-of-the-road snow
and throw snowballs into the wind
just to watch them float away
as if he wants to contribute to the storm.
To be a part of it all.
I fell in love with him,
and I don’t know why.
All I know
is that the air is filled with music
and that this boy is the bassline.
And then he’s saying hello.
I think it must be to me;
no one else is around
but for the street and the snow and the sky.
But he’s yelling at the top of his lungs,
at the street the snow the sky
and I know that to him,
I’m not even there.
It’s to be a part of it all:
the whispering of wind,
the crunching of footsteps
and grumbling of cars.
It’s to be standing in the eye of the storm
to be clinging to its teeth and to say,
I am here.
He looks at me,
and this time I know it’s to me that he says,
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
Makers Of The Cage. Holders Of The Key.Our eyes are the closest thing we have to freedom.
We see endless blue sky, and the stars beyond.
We see the beauty of the world.
We see our reflection in the mirror;
the reality, and the fantasy.
Our eyes see far and great.
But the rest of us cannot follow.
Our hands probe the steel bars around us.
Fumbling in the dark.
Cut by the sharp edges.
The bleeding never stops.
Our feet shuffle around.
Trying to go places.
But we walk in circles.
Our emotions go from red to blue;
orange to green;
yellow to purple,
mixing in a haze.
Our mind goes to dark places,
and only wanders deeper.
Oblivious to the place right next door.
It knows the freedom,
it knows the pit.
There are endless paths to take.
There's a cage we need to break.
There is a key ourselves create.
In our hands, it's never too late.
a cherry pit dog heart.she holds a cherry pit dog heart in her hand, arrhythmic
beats like children playing pots and pans in kitchens
mother builds from scratch, black bean soup prepared
for dinner by a creased artist; wisps of white
upon a grandfather's head remind his daughter's child
of winter as he talks of horses in cuba who scratch
their backs on wooden posts; the first time she eats
ox tail is at an uncle's funeral, sitting in the basement,
surrounded by her surname, wondering why everyone
seems so happy; her grandmother keeps having
that dream where she's cooking and pours hot oil
on the animal in the kitchen, singeing his skin—
she cries out at midnight, sobbing for her daughter;
black eyes watch as her child keeps growing,
inspecting her process for future improvements,
while she takes pride in getting her sleeve caught
on twigs as she runs through the forest; motherhood
enters her every so often, at times uninvited, but
never for her prince in white, the bundle curled up
on her bed, floating
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
IronyI asked for it.
I wanted it so desperately.
Oh, how I thought I needed it.
I pathetically yearned for it,
making stupid reasons as to why it should be mine.
It would be everything I needed and more.
It would calm me in times of anxiety.
It would raise my spirits in times of sorrow.
It would accompany me in times of loneliness.
I had given everything for it.
Then I realized
it only brought upon me more stress
it only brought upon me more sorrow
it only brought upon me more loneliness.
I asked for it,
I received it.
I never wanted it.
Little Miss It“Do you enjoy her company?”
That, Avadaci concluded, had been the extent of his grandfather’s kindness. Thank the stars he had broken his neck after a failed attempt to ascend the castle staircase. Not that many were privy to this information. The official listing on the cause of death involved something along the lines of falling in battle after slaying at least a dozen demons, although this was treated with quite a bit of skepticism by the general populace. Yet, interestingly enough, a decent portion of the locals believed a tale about the cannibals of Unkhtom devouring him whole.
Not that Avadaci really cared how his grandfather had died. He was just glad he was dead. And if he was glad his grandfather had died, Avadaci wondered, why did he have to attend his funeral? In fact, the whole kingdom was glad his grandfather had died. Why did they have to attend the funeral?
“Oh Avad,” proclaimed his mother, “obv
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More