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 May 2018 Midnight
abbey
the words spilled from her mouth

here i sit,
as my best friend,
tells me
you have another.

i shouldn’t care.
but i do.

no matter how hard i try,
the poetry for you in which i write,
never ceases.
it just keeps pouring out of my soul.
it sometimes seems as if,
the poetry i write for you is what keeps my heart beating.
what keeps me breathing.

but now, what am i supposed to do?
her?
seriously?
do you think she will love you?
do you really think she will love you?
please tell me.

it’s hard to think of you with another
because we used to be so in love with each other.

it’s been a long time since we last spoke,
but it feels as if all the memories of us i have were just made yesterday.

you have another.
who will never,
ever,
love you in the way i could.

but my question for you is,
will you love her in the way you could towards me?
 May 2018 Midnight
Mark Tilford
shhh..
quite

Things were just not right

Last night

In plan sight

The eyes do not lie

How can you act surprised

This we can never survive

Our demise

How many other guys

Our love

Why would you jeopardize

It has been brutalized

How dare you agonize

It's to late too analyze

Do not promise

And

Ask for another try

When you know it's all lies

Last night my love died

I can not try

I will not cry

I thought our love was tight

For it
I can not fight
 May 2018 Midnight
Barker
Clay
 May 2018 Midnight
Barker
People are like clay.
We can mold to adapt.
We can change how we look,
But not what we are made of;
And if we are left uncared for
We become as hard as rocks,
And that's the tragedy of living.
(c)ibarker
 May 2018 Midnight
mischa
you looked at me from across the room
i never knew falling in love could happen so soon
but looking at you,
and bathing in the brown of your eyes
is like looking at the perfect night sky,
and i still fall for you, every time.

the first time i saw you
you took my breath away
and i never expected you to be the one
to remind me how to breathe again
to remind me how to love again
to teach me how to feel alive again

you have no idea how thrilled i am
just to know i will get to see you again
and hold you like you never left
even though i know that you are going to leave
even though i know that that is going to hurt
even though i know that there will be tears
even though i know that i will still love you

and even though i hope that you will always remember that.
 May 2018 Midnight
emnabee
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.
A little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
Problems only We True Artists face.
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