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Browse Poetry

+~+ Beary +~+ by MroczniaK +~+ Beary +~+ :iconmroczniak:MroczniaK 95 1
Literature
caged
there is no joy in raising a baby bird—
regurgitating worms:
wriggling, chewed up dreams, hopes, and desires
down its throat because you can still recall what "maybe someday" tasted like from back when you were
twenty and spry and alive
you say you push your children because you want them to be better than you
because "back in your day" you walked and trudged and struggled and yet—are they not?
you keep them in the nest and when they want to leave you say no because you're scared
and so were your parents
and so were their parents
but what are you scared of?
are you scared of the fact that the only time you can see if a bird can really fly is when you let it learn?
baby it and pretend it can. see how that goes when you realize
you might be the reason why in the near future,
under an endless, pink-blue sky
pregnant and teeming with love and life and beauty
all your little bird can do is settle, grow old, learn to love, and regurgitate its 
pitiful little life
back i
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Literature
Cherry
Petals fall softly, Lanterns in the wind, joy, zen; I'm at peace again.
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Erin Nightshade by BrandyRosa Erin Nightshade :iconbrandyrosa:BrandyRosa 704 22
Literature
Home
My real home
can only be found
on a map of places
that don't exist.
:iconAppliedPhilosopher:AppliedPhilosopher
:iconappliedphilosopher:AppliedPhilosopher 12 6
The Black Abyss: Poem by Malena Ortiz by immamusicvampire The Black Abyss: Poem by Malena Ortiz :iconimmamusicvampire:immamusicvampire 12 1
Literature
Pretty
to you i am only me
beneath sun shadows &
"pretty" little stereotypes.
you hang my insecurities
from my neck like a sex thief -
stealing me from myself.
were you that hungry - starved out
from the frostbitten world
between your own thighs?
aroused & f r u s t r a t e d -
you are a bruise - purple
& ugly - there is nothing "pretty"
about you.
no inch of the cosmos
rests like a fever
beneath your skin.
You: a dead wasteland of
- cold.
i am uncategorized
space, a body of seared rose petals
& thorns.
like a burning kiln -
phoenix feathers,
i am the eye of Jupiter's hurricane,
raging for centuries.  
-DP
:iconDearPoetry:DearPoetry
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Literature
We March On
It is incredible is it not?
To know that even after I have lost my kingdom,
my army still survives.
And despite the years that may pass us by,
despite the time that rots our ways;
We will be the ones to grab the future,
hoping we might have our day.
:iconWordOfChen:WordOfChen
:iconwordofchen:WordOfChen 20 4
Literature
creator of ghosts
holding shield and spear
as we ride into battle
creating new ghosts
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:iconprettyflour:prettyflour 17 1
Literature
Past, Present, Future
Don't hold on to the past too tightly.
It tried to drag you back,
back into memories and childhood moments.
The present weighs you down,
an ever-changing weight,
holding you captive so you can't move.
The future will propel you foward,
into decisions you will not like,
making you miss the past and present.
Don't hold on too tightly,
because you want to keep them in moderation,
so they don't push and pull you every which way.
:iconchaseawaythedark:chaseawaythedark
:iconchaseawaythedark:chaseawaythedark 12 6
Literature
tear in my heart
i am folding every inch of my
origami heart over the other until it is
compact and
can fit in a spot that only i will ever know about.
i will iron out every wrinkle and seam until
it is pristine and
you'd think it was brand new and that's
exactly the look i'm going for
(put together,
like a puzzle with no jagged gaps inside but
i'm so sparse i look like all
the missing pieces). 
i am pumping liquid mercury through my veins hoping it will just 
shut down everything
(subtly, on the off-chance they'd predict my demise and
say something before i'd get the chance to interrupt them).
but nothing ever dies it just
stops
moving.
and how could paper die? it couldn't but
god i wish i(t) could
(instead i just mindlessly fumble with it.
crumble it around the edges and
fold and unfold until the creases are permanent on my fingertips and
i make small tears that turn to rips until there's a splice through the heart of it that
will never have enough glue or tape or safety pins to resecure it
:iconxfuture-boundx:xfuture-boundx
:iconxfuture-boundx:xfuture-boundx 17 3
Literature
gray and gold seas
for charlie—
hello, flower boy
and feline conspirator.
thank you for the chords & keys.
you ask for a letter to the moon,
but she's gone dark since last night.
i traded red letters with my friends
and offered my jacket so she
could rest her head, and
she asked for a knife instead.
here are some new facets
to my unpolished paradoxes
in shades of crystal iridescence:
black like obsidian,
the flipside of my voice is
a pitch-perfect piano, triplet strings
tuned to lyrics in echo chambers.
white like opal,
my life is sailing a stolen ship on a sine wave,
up-down-up-down days
full of sun and then suddenly none.
but maybe those stars farther out,
they are stronger. maybe there is no hope
in one-upping the sun;
there is no glory in being too bright to look at,
burning yourself out from the core.
this is how you confess to the moon:
i stay up too late for you.
i watch the sun pull the cloud covers to his chin,
craving the moment you tip my head back
and i mouth a hello to the stars.
t
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Literature
spirit animals
there, beast-brassed ruin, wide roaming
from north on a train, from sunset wild
deep summer reds
eyes large lakes, tinted with steel
rising like steam into night-high neon
body in glow
day of roses,
so much good leaving
left to go; good children
in cobblestone
street full of swallowed souls,
good children disappeared, good leaving
left to go; in cobblestones
another day without roses
left to go.
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman
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Ariel by Precia-T Ariel :iconprecia-t:Precia-T 1,476 36
Literature
May I Ask You Something?
Do we guard our own happiness, and allow it only if earned,
Even if the ends are yet those for which we have long yearned.
Would we keep it away from those who just might create it,
Out of some fear that the happiness is always double edged.
Or perhaps knowing the effects we bestow on the purveyors,  
We believe that to test them, proving they are not  the betrayer.
Is our happiness akin to an unlocked door, now standing ajar,
Allowing stealthy entrance to another pain, or another scar.
Have we seen so much of the endless and cyclical pattern,
Hiding the light, afraid of what is exposed by our lantern.
Is it better to know it is out there in that cavernous dark,
That gloom so impending, so looming, so visceral and stark.
Than to penetrate with the light, to remove any apprehension,
Is it the happiness, fear, even the pain our own little invention?
Or perhaps in obscurity, it is something much finer and clean,
Than we could ever logically or even practically hope to glean.
Sho
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Literature
Comfort

A sprinkle of rain falls,
upon my bubble windowpane.
It is a perfect nook, to read my book,
sitting upon the extended frame.
Wrapped in a lovely winter shawl,
I allow my tea to cool.
I pull my knees, towards my chest,
and breathe in, the scent of cinnamon.
The candle burns low, the flame dances,
as the sound of, 'Piano Sonata Moonlight', 
spills out from an antique wooden music box.
As lightning flashes through the sky. 
the sound of distant thunder,
bleeds through the music. 
Snowball, my white cat with little grey boots,
jumps down from the little seat and runs away.
This is what it is, to be in my skin.
This is how my comfort begins.
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:iconamarantheans:Amarantheans 5 4
Literature
hephaestus incarnate
thank the lord that
i am not a god
for, if i was,
the world would end
in fire. 
my rage would
swallow you up
whole, rendering you
weak to my 
tyrannical feast. 
the land would be
scorched beneath me. 
how beautiful the
blaze would be. 
i'd make sure to
leave you with
nothing,
sweet nothing to
allow even the
hope of survival.
i'd want to see you dancing,
helpless in the embers,
praying to me for
the ultimate salvation. 
i'd let the flames consume you.
they'd make a snack out of
my measly seconds,
my washed up lover,
my half-baked romance.
i wouldn't cry. 
i'd warm myself in
their glow, 
whisper you a eulogy of
'good riddance.' 
be thankful that you
fell in love with a
mere mortal, one who's
anger barely makes the
dust beneath her stir. 
my tongue may burn, but
at least my words aren't lethal. 
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Reylo by SamuelBlomquist10 Reylo :iconsamuelblomquist10:SamuelBlomquist10 14 2
Literature
Thorns Tribute
I, as if in a waking dream
Notice her
Couched amid the roses
Her serenity an unending sigh
Quiet, her body wreathed in thorns
A familiar sting of ominous quietude
Will you not reply?
Is your heart guarded
Eyes, closed
The resignation of a flower
To be laid atop a headstone
The somber and terrifyingly silent
Voiceless cry of a beleaguered soul
Have you surrendered?
Are you untouchable
Scarcely breathing
A shivery porcelain petal
A fragile melancholy seraph  
Defended by a halo of brambles
Imprisoned within ancient amber memories
Are you trapped?
Do you even sense me here
Hushed, watching
You seem afraid to bloom
Your eyes like rosebuds, unopened
Entrapped in barbed uncertainty
Immobilized by the anguish that binds you
Are you paralyzed?
Can I not reach you
Sharp, prickly
Your throat clutched by vines
That shroud the battlements of speech
Lost, discarded and forgotten
Hesitant lest the spines pierce your soul
Will you ever be free?
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:iconbarosus:Barosus 11 9
Literature
Louie
All’s altered at any assumption, and anger
assumes aforementioned appraisal’s area.
Everyone elects ejecting excellence, each
erroneously exemplifying exclusivity.
Instantly, imbecile’s impulsive indecision
inspires inquirers’ ill-advised incision.
Outrage overshadows old outpour of
omnipotent, outstanding observation.
Unconditional upkeep’s undergone undercut,
unfortunately; unkind umbrellas unfurl.
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