How poetry used to be written...

...on this site and...how things have changed...This was once on my favourites on an old account of mine...if you have an 'old' favourite feel free to post it here...

She is a flower
so romantically white, so sincerely
unmolested, so poetically pure
and he is too enamoured to pluck it...
I hate how this is already turning bitter, when really she is
so fine, so white, so pure.
And he, in his ardent longing, never dares to long
too much, never dares to long too long.
She, white and delicate, nodding and lilting in
the bobbing breeze
frosting world comes and goes
and he, overwhelmed simply by the gift
of her absentminded eyes, absenthearted sighs
is content to gaze, to be, to venture two steps inside her frosty world
and there he loves
without heat rubbed on slick bodies
without sighs infused with fusion
without slicing off that stem, and appropriating the bloom
(because, then, it would wither and die).

She, for her part, bobs and weaves and nods and lilts
maintaining herself
saving
for the time
when that cut will not kill, but preserve-
yes, it is a metaphysical belief,
but such is the nature of things sacred.
And I, for my part
am a weed. A dandelion, maybe,
joining the hordes that swarm along sunlit hillsides
and stretches of plain- loathed, exterminated,
but everywhere proliferous.
Garish yellow, harsh and hardy, I'm one of millions, those
sun-eyed flowers, neckleces for lovers
reclining sensuously on frothy fields of green-
entirely expendible.
When I go ghosted
and shield my core
with a sphere of cloudy flower,
you could try to wish on me
as long as you realize
that this, too, is a poor and stupid hope.

GREEN by Sibs

The Lantern, The Muse

Your scent
is like a cigarette smoke film
glazing the walls of my bedroom,
where I hurriedly peel off the paint
strip by strip to avoid facing the
"I miss you"
side of love.

Your
guitar-picking fingers
once played connect the dot
with the constellations of freckles
that clouded the skies of my skin,
when our kisses were shooting stars
that inaudibly whispered
all we wished for.

Inexplicable,
the way your love
manages still to venture and inspire
the movements of my hand as I write,
as if yours were ghostly placed over mine
speaking to me through ink
from a distance,
from afar.

My heart
will always be hung
next to your front porch light
illumniating the path back east
if you ever decide to open that door
and walk with me
once more.

by JaneDoeWrites

Oh what an awesome thread, I have a couple. couple. triple ones, I'd like to share them all :D

These two poems by Jane, are of the poems that have always left the same impact over me whenever I read.

I'll go by oldest to newest:

Growing up
by silvershoes Oct 13, 2010

Time is slipping from
my hands, such that
i can feel the rough grains
roll between my fingers
and pile to the ground.
Walls on all sides seem to
shrink in upon me
and i become ever larger;
larger than life.
My chest presses hard
against my pulsing heart,
tears well in my eyelids,
hope is a dream
and nothing more.

i once felt the footsteps
of a little girl.
i once walked in shoes
smaller than my hands -
i felt the ocean was something that
would seem not so very big
as i got bigger.
i once stood in valleys,
looking up and
wondering,
wishing,
waiting
for my time to grow.

i never knew how sorry i would be
to sit atop a mountain,
looking down upon my youth.
i never knew as time swept
under my feet and on
into the past,
the future would devolve
to a fickler place.
i never knew the ocean was
this big,
nor i this small.

i never knew,
i never knew,
how small and insignificant
i could be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lonely Mountain
by silvershoes

Mar 1, 2012

It snows down lonely mountain.
Somehow the wind has brought me here.

I try to move, but I cannot.

There spins a heavy ball inside me,
below the chest,
above the navel,
constrained by neither heart nor lung.

It grows with every inhaled breath.
It grows with steps I almost take.
It's made of all things bad and lost;
things broken, cold, forgotten.

It keeps my feet from treading up,
to brave the frosted giant.

It keeps my path from turning back,
for nothing back is left.

It keeps me still as Death, itself,
a leafless tree, long standing.

The force that spins inside the ball
that spins inside my weighted soul
will grow and grow
until rocks have melted,
and all that's left is ice.

Somehow the wind has brought me here,
with nowhere else to go.
It snows down lonely mountain,
but why, I do not know.

A poem for mama
by Yakari Gabriel

Aug 31, 2011 category

Once upon a time,
I used to describe you as
the antagonist in the
story of my life.

took the main role
as the protagonist,
and swore to god
that all you ever wanted
was to dim my shine..

(for you were harsh
at times,mama)

I took what belonged
to you,ma.

your blood,your dna..
it has always been a part of me
(though at times I wished it hadn't)

you planted a name
upon my cells,
stopped existing..
and started living for me,

gave up your dreams,
to make mine come true..

and I admire the strength
of your backbone,
and the history behind
those wrinkles maybeline no
longer hides..

I was the one that
stole your shine,mama.

but today I take off
this teenage lipstick ,
from my lips...

I apologize
for believing,
that bread magically
appeared on the table

and overlooking the twelve hours
you spend working
just to put it there...

tonight,
I cry these old shameful
tears..

to thank you,

Mama.

Interesting thread, Hellon

The poem I am going to share is very close to my heart. It's the reason I started writing free verse poems.

Um amor infinito

by Karla May 12, 2015

I am going to pick shadows
before it ends.
you never told me
about this silence sitting
between us.
you never said i would have
to wait a whole reincarnation
to see what is memorable.
yes, i miss something
i can't name and yet
and i know i lost it long ago
not because i chose to lose
but because i had to.
here i am paying for my crimes
as i read another stupid message
on my phone.
here i am ready to watch the night,
feeling less, feeling less.
the day has cursed me.

my shoulder aches,
my breast aches.
but no pain is like the one
i inherited from heavens.
it is a burden, a dead word
written across my eyes.
Ireland is unreachable
for a mortal like me.
everything is unreacheable
and divine.
everything is here and gone.

you never told me
life would be this:
a refined lament
and i wasn't prepared
to listen to Madredeus
singing Um Amor Infinito
again.
but i don't believe my ears.
but i don't believe my heart.

karla bardanza

Aw, the nostalgia! Awesome thread, Hellon. I don't know if anyone else had this same thing, but there was a huge gap of years where I didn't remember to favorite poems. Or perhaps I would go through times I wouldn't read much.

Without a doubt, this is one poem I remember so clearly, even though looking at my favorites list it's not present lol. When I think of when PnQ was booming, I think of the queens/goddesses of Yaki and Mel.

Funny story with Mel's poem. It was Chelsey (from this site) and I's favorite piece and I remember reciting this poem together at the mall when we met for the first or second time (she drove to Indiana once and I to Toledo another time). We were shopping at Claire's or Icing or another cutesy store and looking at the glittery Paris collectibles while reciting this ^_^

Paris
by Melpomene Mar 28, 2012

"I've heard whispers of Paris lately,
the city of love and some place foreign to me
where a man designed beauty with a tower
and called it art. I guess it was something
wonderful but I've studied beauty on your lips
like a surrealist painting. Your tongue
spoke of Greece and tasted of a thousand
nights on Navagio Bay, but I will call you
Paris anyway because you are far
too beautiful to be anything else.

With time I realized Paris was a city of false
prophecies, men can't be made and frogs
aren't princes yet not too long ago I'd chase
them 'round the serenity of a backyard pond -
the pond I haven't seen in months.
I guess I thought I was a princess but
Paris fell more remarkably than the London Bridge.
Towers burnt and I haven't been back there since.

I think I was born to write dreams -
the kind that makes you sleep for hours.

I'm the opposite of a Narcissus, Paris.
My reflection is a reminder that a heart is never
enough in the city of love.
The puddles always mirror you and
I swear I saw you in a window last night
but you faded as quickly as you always do.

I love time but time doesn't love those
who cower behind written words..

.. like I do."

And my most favorite poem award goes to...

In Yonder Meadow (Rondeau) by Hellon
Mar 25, 2018

In yonder meadow flowers bloom
cascading hues and sweet perfume
it's where the hummingbird doth play
amidst the marigolds of May
and swaying yellow spanish broom.

This tiny bird of coloured plume
while gleaning nectar I assume
will stay and while summer away
in yonder meadow.

When summer ends and winter glooms
this hummingbird I now assume
will fly away without delay
to once again return in May
when spring arrives and summer looms
in yonder meadow.

http://www.poems-and-quotes.com/poems/1229463
Death is a Woman at the Height
by sibyllene

Death is a woman
at the height of her beauty. She
is shining and warm, moonlike,
starlike, a rushing blood rose
at the peak
of its bloom

when Death visits she
is perfect. When Death visits
she is saddest
because

she has never been more beautiful
because

this is the one single moment
where from here
until forever there is only a slow
and honeyed decay, a pulse slowly
stopping, a soft
retreating wave pulling grit
into its heart, from here
only dying and dying forever.

Such a wonderful idea, Hellon.

Truce
by nourayasmine Mar 10, 2016

Maybe war is what made you this
heartless.
Maybe it made both of us so,
cling to memories rather than each other,
your ears got used to the shrieks
of bullets that it forgot the love in my voice,
your lips got burnt enough that
every time you kiss me,
my lips are covered with gunpowder.

I understand, but,

I'm homesick, too.
I'm homesick and my heart is in pieces,
and all I want is a hug that shouts
louder than their guns.

Your eyes keep roaming over the repeated news,
the numbers, the pictures of ebola victims
and political compaigns,
over how many hundred syrian pounds
a dollar is worth now.

You tell me "I should fight,
we should fight, this homeland is all we have",

but you cannot touch my soul,
then wear your khaki suit.
You're all I have.
You're all I have and my heart is
in pieces and this land isn't
our home anymore.

One With The Chickens
by abracadabra Apr 21, 2007

I was always one
To colour in between the lines,
To spot the fruit among the vegetables,
To smooth squares into circles and fit triangles into triangles.
In a cage full of chickens, I was taught to speak chicken-
I do know the language well.

I was always one
To dance to the rhythm,
To clap with the audience,
To eat cake because it feels good.
In a cage full of chickens, I learnt to be chicken-
I can only blink at the wolf.

Yet I never was one,
I have always felt more like a thousand,
And if I ever was one...
I wonder if I could fly away.
I wonder if I would fly away.

I'm glad to see some of you enjoying this thread and thank you Naaz for including me...I feel very humbled.

Another favourite of mine...

Old Tree
by Poetess Feb 11, 2016 category : Nature, environment / nature

You were old.
I could tell by scars and
cracks that covered your skin in
tiny, pulsating veins.
And the way your arms outstretched
wearisomely beside your perfectly
poised figure.

You were old.
I could tell by the way
you stood watch; unfaltering-
serene under sun or rain.
And the way you held your ground
even against the strongest winds.

You were old.
I could tell by the way we were
perfectly cradled in your protective arms.
I remember how
you held us.
You held secrets, laughter,
and childhood crushes.
You even held on to the
noose around father's neck because
you knew he wouldn't.

You were old.
No longer beautiful in the eyes of others;
blooms became fastidious and
your shade wasn't needed anymore.

You were old,
but even you deserved to live.

This one has been my very favourite poem for years on this site. I know the grammar needs some work as the poet has english as his second language but...there is just something about it that tugs at my heartstrings every time I go back to it...

Wish You Were Here...
by Wake Apr 1, 2008 category : Love, romance / desired love

Sit alone here , I'm missing you
I tried so hard to smile
I wipe my tears, wishing my wish to be true
Hoping I'll see you after this while

.The moon sparkles, shining in the water so bright
.o'er the dusty, warm green plains.
.The forest trees, and the smokey breeze
.all whispering your name.

Oh, How they wish you were here
to hear what they have too say
As they bless and cradle you into sleep
captivating in their own merry way.
.Oh, How i wish you were here
.Oh, How i wish you could stay
.Oh, How i wish you could hear me
.Oh, How i wish you were near me.

See your face, everytime i close my eyes
The distance hurts me still
I hear the songbird's words of hypnotize
yet, I dream with my will.

.I know I sound insecure
.but I'll be alright in awhile
.Keep your picture close to me
.there's just a thousand more miles.

Oh, How I wish you were here
Oh, How I wish you could say
Oh, How I wish you could hear me
Oh, How I wish you were near me.
.And I'm so afraid of the fear
.try not to let myself stay awake
.Forever lost, in your dreams
.forever lost, in your memories...

and the poem I will freely admit to stalking back in 2013

Cyanide
by Abed Aug 24, 2013 category : Sadness, depression / about death

Mother, are we alive?
I waved at our neighbor this morning,
but he squelched a cigarette
and scowled at me. Perhaps,
he was too busy hushing his rifle
in another child...

What perfume are you wearing tonight?
It's not the Jasmine you got on your birthday.
It's... Cyanide!
I've heard they were bottling it in fancy rockets,
designed exclusively for us...

Your eyes are glowing, mother.
Your skin's much lighter now.
Has anyone ever told you
how beautiful you look in white?

I can no longer feel the ground below.
Isn't it time to let go?
Pat me on the shoulder,
and lull me to sleep.
Perhaps, at dawn break,
you'll be ready to answer me...
We're dead, mother.
Aren't we?

_________________________________________
In memory of the Syrian Chemical Massacre of the 1400 Martyrs..

Of love so true (Rondeau) by Michael

as morning breaks, my heart does too
I hear the blackbirds songs of blue,
the sun still shines in skies so clear
but grief stills rains without you here.
A wilted scene that’s missing you.

Again someday in pastures new
If what they say of death is true,
no more I’ll shed a single tear
...as morning breaks

For now I’ll mourn and dream in lieu;
until my fate, and time is due,
to be with you and hold you near
for that in death I do not fear
as life is dark, while missing you.
...as morning breaks

I love this poem by abby. Actually like three or four of my top favorite poems on this site are written by abby.

Larry, I'm honored. :D

You are right, only Abby not everyone could mold his/her mind like this.

I also am well aware of the love affair between you too. ;) ;)

Abby is quite an intriguing girl. You too.

You two compliment each other ( haha I mean as friends)

The Dreaming Tree
by Sincuna Jan 21, 2014

It is not the pale moon that brought you here
nor the longing for a sober night. There is
a sliding melody between your footsteps,
and your lips whisper a song
full of vowels to the wind.

I can read the sorrow in your eyes, better
than the scintillating symmetry of the stars. And
if you could feel the pulse of my quivering roots
underneath the weary soles of your feet, you may know

how to use my branches for lumber
during those nights when you need warmth.
Use my leaves as shelter, when the falling snow seeks
to numb your skin. When you are angry,
you are free to peel off parts of me. And carve out
little bits of your secret thoughts on my bark
when you are lonely.

All I want, is to be
the shade that protects you
from the scorching eyes
of the world.

13.05.11

The transparencies of white
by Karla Feb 12, 2014

When i love,
i don't love.
do not be deceived
by the appearance of the words:
they are always good make up.

i get entangled in transparancies
of white frozen in space
but i am so fast to undo knots.
"poets are great pretenders"
Fernando said and it's true:
we fake what we actually feel.
we feel what we do fake.

don't blame the stars
for the poems i conceive.
don't strangle my metaphors.
my verses are as free as me,
my stanzas are only passion
when passion ex-ists.

don't believe in everything
i let you know for you know
nothing yet.
i'm a voracious weaver of symbols.
i'm what i will be.
meanwhile keep what i said
in your left pocket.
it will keep you attached
to my idiosyncracies
and madness.

Karla Bardanza
http://karlabardanzapoems.blogspot.com
http://skycladatmidnight.tumblr.com
http://poeticpostcards.blogspot.com

Chesley is a good singer too.

Saffron Metaphors (Villanelle)
by Koan Sep 28, 2015

Oh let this drowning plea strike heaven's azure bay
And into my fervent eyes draw her charming face
For I have become Tyrant Love's languishing prey

In sorrow's whirlpool my merriment days still lay
Yet, with a hope-winged heart, perpetual dreams I chase
Oh let this drowning plea strike heaven's azure bay

Tales of spring, unfolded by passion's vernal ray
Now carved upon the walls of my soul's dwelling place
For I have become Tyrant Love's languishing prey

Trust True Love for it will find its way, lovers say!
Lamenting tears will fade away without a trace...
Oh let this drowning plea strike heaven's azure bay

Upon the verge of Milky Way my heartbeats pray
Longing to be kissed, to be reposed in her brace
For I have become Tyrant Love's languishing prey

In these saffron metaphors passion's jeweled bells sway
With their poetic chime to your heart they shall race...
Oh let this drowning plea strike heaven's azure bay
For I have become Tyrant Love's languishing prey

-One of my absolute favorites, made me completely fall in love with the form.

In the eyes of the beholder
by The Princess Oct 22, 2010

Place me,
a stone nymph,
upon the veins of marble,
shocking, proud and shameless.

A Myriad of scented candles have
a way of making even a sin seem

sacred.

- I am no goddess -

---

yet he painted me
-a mixture of
sunshine, halo
and rosewater-

wingless.

and I wondered
how can he not distinguish
between

a fallen angel
and a fallen

soul.

Reading the poems in this thread gives me fluttering in my stomach. Oh, sweet nostalgia. I’ll post some of my favorites later :)

Equestrian Sport
by Everlasting Apr 7, 2014 category : Life, society / other

Watch the dark horse - the remorse,
gallop mid-cores through a race-course,
like a centrifugal force
dashing off away from collar bones!

Watch the jumps. Hear the chorus of joy:
hoarse chants of a horsey sport,
a chariot-race of some sort;
Mouths clattering benches of teeth;
the clanking of starting stalls.

Watch the dark horse - the remorse,
jump hurdles of pain to be the first
to harness joy while serpent-tongues
gamble not money but their souls!

Written by: Lucero L.

At The Mountain Top - A Drop of Hope
by Everlasting Nov 28, 2013 category : Life, society / inspirational

At the mountain top, I'll wait for you,
Like morning dews in Summer's hue.
I'll be a tear. I'll be a drop,
A perpetual drip of hope -
---------- that every soul pursues anew.

So when your climb may go askew
And you find green grasses turned blue
Don't stop - just know, I'll be a drop,
---------------- At the mountain top.

And if Winter comes past you knew
Like it did before, when birds flew
To southern fields for warmer lops,
Don't stop, just know, I'll be a drop,
Unfrozen [not cold] - to unfreeze your view
---------------- At the mountain top.

One of my All time favorites

Exceeding the Script...

by nourayasmine

If you remember the sycamore
shadow where we swept
the fire that caught love
and our midnight-shaped fates, you'll
know why it was all lit up there
in my chest, darling.
Why I've always named you
a dead comet; a beautiful memory
in my locket
and why it felt never enough for me
to sleep with words so that you
might drop
in.

I think you remember the breeze of
our last November when all
I saw between the lines of that novelette
upon your lips was a shivering missive
speaking of light,
agony
and old photos.
I think you didn't wonder too long to
realise that I left you for you
and left me for you
and left us for the sake of
a beautiful closing stanza.

Our poetry was never epic
and nature couldn't describe its pleats
above us; rain was the widow of the morning
coffee cups and storms
found themselves away from your kiss.
Still, I really needed
a beautiful ending
perpetuating each secret you've printed
once
upon my skin.

I wrote you in oblivion
but never mind, you never succumb
to the flow.

I really do miss this poet from the site...

A tale bigger than a little girl's hands
by Saerelune Oct 28, 2014 category : Life, society / other

I still recognize the little girl
whose hands smelled of pandan cakes
and trespasser's coins -
sweat shimmering
like the brand-new bike you never had,
as you ran through markets
with feet, so tiny,
they could've been wrapped
into lotus leaves
like a Chinese dish,

though they never looked like
the shining shade of rice,

your skin was always rough
with pecks of the chicken
and scratches of the street.
Yet you weren't a villager,

just a little girl amid skyscrapers
which never constructed ladders to the sun.
And somewhere along the same road
there was this rickety house
where you, the gods, and geckos lived.
Ceilings were incense-scratched
like your parent's hands,

and those tiny lizards that stuck
to the walls, or your shoulder,
were the only smooth-skinned ones
beneath the same gap-less roof of sky.

In time, that sky closed
and you learnt that buckets of rainwater
wouldn't be carried anymore;
you learnt that your childhood
was broken, like a gecko's tail:
tired of growing
whenever it's caught
by two good-willing fingertips.

In time, your tale grew old;
your hands grew old,
pages you gathered from the sidewalk
tucking the future far behind.

And now you wonder, why I know
that your mother's little daughter
would always live with a dowry
of hardship in her hands.

Mother, I know
because I'm just a little girl too.

Old poem, need to find the date back.
Think it was 2011 or 2012.

They Who Sleep Need Little Air
by slighte
Nov 8, 2010

Your heart is
beating,
but it is not a symphony.
You are bars of

rest

but you are not sleeping.
i carve crescents into the sky and
your eyelids punish your pupils and
you are in the woods,
lost
in trees, too many trees.
Too many people, too much noise.

There is a melody in
your throat, and you would
sing it if it weren't so
quiet.

You cannot be heard. That is
what happens when you
don't make a
sound.

At night the wind sounds like winter.

------------

Twin
by sibyllene
Dec 11, 2010

Walking together down a path crowded with moss,
white oaks, and thorny bracken we pause,
alerted to a rustle in the blanketing of
brown leaves.

A deer bounds across the gap, and another
in its wake - twin sable things, moving like
quick breaths in the brush.

One leaps, and I swear it hangs
for a moment in the air, legs taut,
neck arched, looking like a crescendo
of music and all the world's
brightest poetry.

I try and fail to express
that I have never seen,
out in the muddy world, such a clear and
perfect image
of what happens in the lovestruck leaping
of my heart.

--------

I Like Skirts That Live
by abracadabra
Nov 1, 2007

I like skirts that float around my knees
Like cobwebs.
I like skirts that chase when I run,
That dance with me,
That rebel in the wind,
And cling to me in the rain.
I like skirts that catch the sun,
Tease my shadow,
Sulk prettily while I sit
And tempt me to rise and move.
I like skirts that are
Smoothed in tension,
Stroked in tenderness,
And clutched in passion.
I like skirts that beckon from the cupboard
Until they live on me again.

Gosh...I searched and searched for this poem because it has always stuck in my mind how someone so young could write something so powerful...

I am...
by Lady Nik Feb 6, 2010 category : Miscellaneous / Misc. poems

I am the dream Martin Luther King Jr. spoke of
the equality, the freedom, the hope.
I see no difference in the people I love.
Color remains a word for separation
and does not define my heart.
His march was my march
and I am free now.

I am the road that Harriet Tubman walked on
the sores on her feet and welts
on her back, are the bad names
and glares I've received. Her determination
made it possible for me to stand
here today and call this place
home. Her war was my win
and I am free now.

I am the words of Malcolm X.
the anger, the strength, the wisdom.
I know that my people are
just that PEOPLE. The color
we wear or the language we speak
makes us no less than any other.
His thoughts are my actions
and I am free now.

I am the stubborness of Rosa Parks.
I will not be moved or swayed
for her heart was right and the
law was wrong. Her persistence
made today possible. The courage
to fight without fists has made
today a brighter day.
Her pain is my joy
and I am free now.

I am the river Langston Hughes wrote of...
the music of Billie Holiday, the inventions of
Eli Whitney, the home runs of Hank Aaron.
I am the past
I am the present
and because of my ancestors
I am the future.

Wow! I looove that poem.

This thread is what inspired me to come back to PnQ. Thank you.

P.s. Edited, one of my favorite poems from this site:

Golden Waves & Summer Memories
by Monsieur Lefevre Feb 13, 2015 category : Love, romance / lost love

I'm back there now,
To that place once before when
Spanish lullabies filled the
Air with guitar strums and hot rays of the summer sun.

Waves of golden wheat
Flooding us up to our waists.
A light wind both being the current
For the bronze ocean waves and being a pleasant breeze

Across our exposed skin.
Our hands barely touching
But it's just enough for us to
Not feel alone.

But it's different now.
There are waves of cold fog cascading across the
Frosted, bare field.
Capturing what remains of the winter sun
Creating the illusion of floating

Golden clouds.
The only sound now is the crunch of dead
Wheat stalks. The only thing filling the air is
The condensed shallow breaths escaping my mouth.
And there is no touch, not even the slightest.

Bleu de France
by Xanthe Aug 29, 2012

"I used to find the ocean cradled safely in your eyes.
Perhaps your calm gaze no longer could contain its life,
ebbing away with the waves upon the shore of my flesh.

The breeze licks the curtains as though trying to
moisten its parched tongue.
The kettle never whistled its ode to the morning.
Perhaps it is waiting still, for the sun has not
yet peeked through my curtain-less window.

I lie back down, allowing the silence to waft
through the air.

And I waited
(for nothing, it seemed)
And I thought
(of nothing, it seemed)
And I tried to dream...

If the breeze through my window and the steam
through my kettle were to have colour, just think

I've always harbored reveries of us breathing skies
of blue air. Not as blue as skies, however,
for France has but grey skies these days.
But blue as Lac du Bourget back home.

...perhaps bluer...

Because ever since the wind took you away,
I've been drowning; trying to re-surface,
yet I find no surface.

But if I do, would I ever really breathe again?

My lungs have not tasted the air for a long time,
and I fear its vastness would only suffocate me.

Lately, I've been drifting with the fishes;
helping them breathe, for the pressure underneath
has been getting stronger.

We all are drowning. They are drowning.

I am drowning.

And I find myself drifting, drifting away from them -
from us.

Until the ocean no longer exists.

I find myself beneath blue skies, and I can breathe.
Everything smelled of home.
Yet...

I am l o s t"

-----------------------------

00:00
by silvershoes Feb 19, 2012

Midnight's in bloom for the first time,
but it's wilting, and I'm
skeptical on the ridge of tomorrow,
hanging like a silkworm's cocoon
on a white mulberry leaf,
gathering promises -
promises that I never told,
(but I kept).

In this unknowing,
a delicate gift of a new day
is begging to be unwrapped,
making it so, so tough to fall
into sleep's beckoning arms
and cries of longing.
She's calling to me, "Here.
Here is all you ever need to be."
But, like me, she's too easy to take for granted.

Because what if I lose this feeling?
What if sleep is the nocturnal beast
with a wolf's grin in a lamb's coat,
come to steal my midnight dreaming
of a better me
in a better tomorrow?

What if all I ever could be
is weighing on this moment?
And when the night ends;
when stars like bejeweled pincushions in the
warm folds of the sky swell into
scorching beads of sweat under a scalding hot, Godless
sun...
What if I'm the same as yesterday,
and nothing changes?

Then I will be as contemptible
as the keyboard I've spent the last hour talking to,
(and I'm damn sure it's not alive).

-----

Casting Charms
by sibyllene Apr 3, 2011

I want to make worlds
in miniature,
tiny and perfect as
forget-me-nots showing their
skycolors
as drops in mossy woods

worlds to fit in whorls of seashells
and the small hollow behind your ear,
where your jaw dips into your neck, where
the woodsmoke smell pools just
for me to kiss

worlds that are lovely
and could be scooped up
by acorn caps and swallowed by
sparrows, that are pristine and
minuscule, that could be slipped into
pockets or lemonades, that could be
worn like talismans around your neck, that
are seed-like and leaf-like and
have not one speck of
ugliness in them