Collection of poems in English

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My cheeks
Flush red
And my knees
Go weak

A school-girl
On the new kid

Except this
Isn't school,
This is work

And my mind
Goes places it shouldn't
And before I know it
Us in the back room
Lip ringsentangled

I shake away the thought
When you walk past
I try toplay it
But the only thing
That comes out of
My mouth
Are quiet stutters

Cheeks growingredder

Oh, the thingsyou
Do to me

Of course
That's when
Goes through your line
And greets
you with
A kiss
Of course
Of course

How could someone
Like you
Be alone
Like me...?

: Kayla Lynn
: 22/04/2018


The buses rattle and they don't notice

How remarkable a thing it is, to be struck by lightenings of words, torrents of ideas, chokes of emotions and then stop. and think how is it that i got here, how is it that i do this and say? how is it that i say? and to be overcome with a two year old sense of imagination that does not die until the wee hours of the morning when the birds peck on your window and say hello. you are here, i am here.

and how wonderful it is, when there are leaves on the ground to be kicked aside and cursed at as an excuse for the children, or the dog, or the spouse who left because things are too complicated. and these leaves hold every human emotion, set there by words spoken to them and no one else, set there by a small child who holds the beautiful colors up to a mother that is too distracted to realize that this is the defining moment in a life and you must grasp it and hold it up to the light and wonder through the stained glass effect.

and how it is that we choose to let the world wash over us and over and over and slowly rub away all the pretty age spots that told us we were human, how it is that we do not give all our change to the men sitting on the street, how it is that umbrellas are used every day because some people do not like the rain. when you could open your eyes and pretend you are three and every glimpse of light is a rainbow and there are monsters under your bed and someday you will be a grown-up and do whatever you want to. how it is that people do not become children and stare at the world.

how is it, that when the wind rushes through the trees and rattle, that we shudder? how is it, that when the storms desecrate houses people cry? we could live off moonlight and sunshine and we could go back fifty years, start the movement over and this time do it right. and it wouldn't matter. people would still ignore the warm colors on the ground and focus on the cold, people will still put up brightly colored umbrellas that do not save anything but their wool coats that cost more than a years worth of food for an orphanage in asia, people will still be blind and there will be others who try to open their eyes.

: beth winters
: 22/04/2018



Bears have claws
birds that chirp
hawks fly in the sky
fish swim in the deep waters and streams
fox hunts for food
rabbits hide
eggs hatch from ther nest
mice or mouse's hunt for cheese
people eat fish,fox,bears,hawks,eggs,rabbits and plants
plants r animals to?

: Ahmad Cox
: 22/04/2018



Ithink it is strange when people change

in ways you are unable to explain

Was there always a ticking in their head

wanting to excape all the hum drum they've created

: Rai
: 22/04/2018



I sat at the table
with a bottle of liquor
and a poetry book

outside were the wolves
dancing around a fire
I went to join them

bottle in one hand
book in the other

reading these poems amongst the fire

the wolves are speaking
strange tongues
I cannot understand them
tried to speak
nothing comes out

I read on

the poems twisted
spun hugh circles in my arms
they spoke to me
I understood them

it started to rain

when the wolves left
they leave behind the bloody bones of mice
scattered like a message

I was still there
legs burning
back cold

bottle in one hand
book in the other
eyes closed

the hunter carried me back home
set me on my couch

drunk and confused
through my book
dropped my liquor

took a knife from the drawer
cut the words from out of my belly
you drowned in the slurs
so did I

swallowed the knife
spoke of god
and went to bed

awoke at dawn
and naked
and amnesic

: Tyler J Perrin
: 22/04/2018


Imagining love.

You have me smiling at the blowing wind
My moods are completely capricious; they depend on you
I'm starting to fall...
And keeping my feet planted is becoming more and more impossible
I'm in love with the idea of you.
I want every part of it
But I keep forgetting to account for reality
Your presence has kept me hazy, and spinning
Disoriented, confused,
But blissfully
I don't think I'm ready to face the truth yet
I think I'll stay up in these dreams for awhile
I consciously choose to avoid sensibility
I want nothing of logic, or rational
I am content with my simple idea of what you are.

: Danielle Ferrante
: 22/04/2018


I Think I am Crazy

Ippidy zappidy tiddily do.
I think I am crazy... how about you?
My head is in the clouds
I see rainbows all around
My mind has been lost
and still hasn't been found
I am surrounded by giants
that are all tall and green
The sky is pissing on me
and it seems rather obscene
My voice has no meaning
and my tongue is always tied
They give me more drugs
I'm just along for the ride
So here I am in a daze
or in lolla land so to speak
When everyone looks at me
they think I'm a freak
But I love this world
as well as these drugs
it would be a perfect place
if not for the bugs
And so I leave you
in the worlds that you be
I wish you were here
so the insanity you could see.

: 22/04/2018


Such beauty

He pumps away,
only his heavy breathing and dripping sweat
confirming that I'm not doing all this
to myself.
I try my best to enjoy it all and
let him know
and feel proud in the fact.

he is a sweet boy
i don't want to hurt his feelings
but deep down i know
he isn't here with me.
i am the tool easily accessible to fit the job.
and to a certain extent,
he is too.

although the part of me that linked sex and love died out long ago...
it echos sometimes.
like a phantom limb that itches.
or a tumor that makes you smell burnt toast.
sometimes i imagine deep, romantic passions
filmed in rose colored light.
those sweaty
tightly filmed scenes
of two people doing something
vastly different
from fucking or
screwing or
getting one off.

something that jane austin would write about.
something ingrid bergman would star in.
something waterhouse would paint.

but this place where i am,
these things i do,
are far from such beauty.

i remember being a young girl in love,
barely a teen taking her first steps out
of being a little girl.
ribbons and dolls discarded
and replaced by
secret diaries and lipstick stolen from my big sister.

it all seems so foolish now.
such a waste. and even though
such thoughts have
lingering pains attached to them,
i know they are true.
i know what the chemical con job called love really is.
i know the true face of man and woman
face to face
in these days.
i know what such ideas have become,
in the world i live in.

: JR Weiss
: 22/04/2018

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