Sta.sh
Find me in [link] and we can talk about life and poetry  |
| Deviant Login | Shop |
 | Join deviantART for FREE  |
Take the Tour  |
| Find me in [link] and we can talk about life and poetry |
Dancers We locked love into a music boxDancers by ~IOwnSarcasm
and fed its sour tune
with smiles and bits of lightning bugs
from the nighttime streets of June.
(And do you remember
the dark days of December
when the city lights we cherished
all went black?
And we'll tumble so slowly,
we're so tired and so lonely,
but we still won't have time
to look back.
So then we lit the embers
with the dead ends of November,
and the outcry of the sparks
gave us hope.
But if you take a walk
through the moonlit gallows block,
you'll find that there is no room
for loose rope.)
We stuffed pain into a silver box
in the bitter twists of May,
but there's no space for sum
The Ministry of Peace The Ministry of PeaceThe Ministry of Peace by ~Penessence
has spoken today.
Nations posture
and headlines say:
SWALLOWS GATHER
to storm the sky.
Stay inside, be terrorized-
we cannot trust steel
birds to fly.
When Iraqis are abused,
(by that despot, dark Saddam)
I salute the man
who flung his shoes,
and would sooner
dwell with him than fear.
But bugles drag whole
cities in;
and children are told,
The War is here.
Education Draft I Replete is my soulEducation Draft I by ~ladybugxlove
With overzealous aspirations
And incomplete contributions
To my mind's supply
Radiant are the whims
Of my imagination
In elliptical rotation
Around my inner eye
But blazing is the light
Of external obligation
Of factual extrication
On which the orbit relies
Education Draft I Replete is my soulEducation Draft I by ~ladybugxlove
With overzealous aspirations
And incomplete contributions
To my mind's supply
Radiant are the whims
Of my imagination
In elliptical rotation
Around my inner eye
But blazing is the light
Of external obligation
Of factual extrication
On which the orbit relies
Hypomania I proliferate across a grid,Hypomania by ~ladybugxlove
One inch by one-and-a-half inches,
Intubated with nostalgia
And solitude;
A vivacious soul,
Immune to reality,
Uninfected by Earth;
It feels filthy, allowing myself
This avaricious pleasure.
The wound is superficial.
I have gills,
A perforated belly,
Naked gums,
But I want to feel
In emotive expression.
The blinds alone
Bear witness to my honesty
Without fear
Of appearing banal.
My hands are graphite
And wax pencil,
The walls, unimpressionable.
It's not joy,
But I'm not complacent.
It's power
Without control,
Which might be prescribed and written away
For years of psychology.
I was once
Reconciliation His brief passingReconciliation by ~ladybugxlove
Left a residue,
Adhesive as water droplets
Whose surface tensions release,
Allowing them to trickle
Over a solid, smooth surface.
But I am overwhelmed
By its emotive trigger,
Absorbed by my very constitution.
Out pours its consequence:
Sweat I can't blot,
Stinging my eyes,
Salting my lips,
No matter how often
My hands smear it across my face.
Plans for change
To clot his effect
Seem so futile
When my breath stinks of beer
And cigarettes.
How easily I fathomed Lady Rebirth
Only one day before.
She stares me down the following morning—
A whispered rebuke—
Though it summons blood to my cheeks
Donate| #Masters-of-Poetry desperately longs to become a SuperGroup. It's too expensive for me alone! If you'd like to donate to the cause, any amount would be greatly appreciated! You'll have my interminable gratitude! |
is hosting a project for all deviantART members. Basically, we're accepting the old poems you haven't looked at in a while and helping you rework them in order to discover your progress as a poet. 
