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Poetry I wrote you some flowers

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One Thousand Club
I wish your eyes weren't the color
of the flowers on my wife's grave
I wish your smile didn't remind me
of the flowers on my wife's grave
I wish your touch wasn't softer
than the flowers on my wife's grave
I wish your voice wasn't sweeter
than the flowers on my wife's grave
I wish my heart was too full up
like the coffin in my wife's grave.

I'm not upset that you went away
I'm upset you didn't take me with you.
 
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One Thousand Club
I think I love you
But I'm not supposed to love anything
I wrote you some flowers
But they aren't supposed to be for you
You brighten my darkest hours
But the minutes disagree
 

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One Thousand Club
Ich weiß, dass du Poesie hasst.
Ich kenne die Farbe deiner Augen.
Ich weiß, dass du das süßeste Lächeln hast.
Dein Lächeln macht mich für morgen träumen.
 

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One Thousand Club
She stares with flowers in her eyes
Which withered with her heart
She walks with tired calves and thighs
Which long for rest, and find none.
 

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One Thousand Club
I wish I could say that I could never love you again because the pain would be too great. But that isn't true. I could never love you again because I have never stopped loving you. Every minute of every hour reminds me of nothing more than my love for you. Every breath I draw I pray will be the last one I draw without you by my side. It's all sappy bullshit. The poems, the essays, the cries of a man who's tired of living, pained and decrepit. You know I'm not one for bullshit. But it's all I have. I'd move Heaven and Earth to be at your side again, if only my arms were long enough. I'd search the universe for you if only my legs were strong enough. But all I have are the same words and chords and empty threats. That's all you left me with. You were the closest thing I ever had to a heart. What am I supposed to do without you?
 

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One Thousand Club
There's a poem
(with your name on it)
that your eyes (will never read)
that your lips (will never speak)
it's long and boring,
it's rambling and raving,
it's angry and mournful,
and it's about sad things.

When I see you
(in another life)
i'll read you the poem
and I'll write you one better:
three words:
i love you.
 
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One Thousand Club
Flirty February Submission:
----

Sara.

i've often imagined
a lifetime with you
toes in the sand
of the beach
i fell in love with
fingers in the hand
of the woman
i fell in love with

i've often imagined
a ring around your finger
shining like the stars
in the sky
i lose my way in
shining like the stars
in the eyes
i lose my way in

i've often imagined
the sound of waves
flowing over me
in the Gulf
ebbing warmly
flowing over me
like that voice
ebbing warmly

i've often imagined
those nights in that place
that cannot exist
and never will
i've often imagined
the rhythm of your heart
which cannot beat
and never will.
 

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One Thousand Club
sometimes (when I close my eyes)
i smell the sea
sometimes [when i listen to the wind]
i feel the warmth of the texas sun

sometimes (when I feel nothing)
i hear the tender voice
i feel the flowing river
i bask beneath the sycamores
and i remember

i remember the blankets
of indiana snow
tucking me in to bed
their icy warmth telling me
there's "something" for me

but something came
and then she went
i wonder if
the sycamores are weeping with me
 

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One Thousand Club
You know what? I will-I WILL go to Hell! I will go to hell before I sit here and watch this country and the world turned over to these savages! I'm done, I'm pissed, and I'm not putting up with it anymore! Let me tell you something, you filthy traitors in the government, you pieces of crap.

You are the most degenerate, twisted, mentally ill people I've ever seen, wanting to gang-rape this Republic and this country and the West that has been the literal cornerstone, the absolute jewel in the crown of free Western Renaissance societies and the very best literature, music, technology, science, medicine, culture the world's ever seen!

You Satanists wanna to sacrifice the West! You wanna to kill the beautiful goddess that is the West! You people are enemies, and we're going to get your asses, and we know what you're up to, and we're coming for you!

You know, I'm never a lesser of two evils person, but this Richardson guy is a literal, abject, psychopathic, demon from Hell that as soon as he gets into power is going to try to destroy the planet. I'm sure of that, and people around her say he's so dark now, and so evil, and so possessed that they are having nightmares, they're freaking out.

Folks let me just tell you something, and if media wants to go with this, that's fine. I mean, I was told by people around her that they think he's demon-possessed, okay? I'm just going to go ahead and say it, okay? They said that they're scared. That's why when I see her when kids are by him, I actually get scared myself, with a child -- with that big rubber face and that -- I mean this man is dangerous, ladies and gentleman. I'm telling you, he is a demon. This is Biblical. He's going to launch a nuclear war.

"Aaaeeh aaah MURDER THE CHRISTIANS reeeeuhhhh DESTROY EVERYTHING just rughhh..." I mean you know this drunk is "bleeeugh" but still stumbling forwards, "MORE BLOOD loeooaoohh" as he falls down, they go "our God must be lifted back up guuagh aeeeeeghehhah MORE BLOOD OF THE INNOCENT hahahaha sell the baby parts, arrest the reporters that expose we're keeping babies alive, heat the hospitals with their bodies, have the Pepsi taste testing systems be based on fetal tissue ALL DEMONIC SYSTEMS, GENETICALLY ENGINEER ALL THE CROPS, OVERTHROW CREATION, MORE BLOOD, oaohhgahgh loeooogh." That's Alex Richardson for you.
 

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One Thousand Club
Nice poem, i would write poems if all mine werent so sad or edgy
Did you read the poems? What about them seemed unsad or unedgy? Write. Negative emotions are a part of you. They are essential to you, and who you are as an artist. If you deny your art negative emotions, you're denying yourself the full ability of your art. You don't have to share everything you write, and not everything you write needs to fit your own standards. It's okay if you write something and you think "huh this is shit" because it's still your writing, and all that matters is if your art is you.
 

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One Thousand Club
[btw, another poem incoming]

I heard a man's life being ruined
over the telephone
as he walked beside me.

I hear his cries
of I want my family back
over the chirping of the mourning doves.
He's desperately stumbling
his feet, fumbling
over the concrete as he walked beside me.

He promises money and I wonder
can he get it
as I pass under evergreen fronds.

He passes on and I linger
on the front porch of my house
as he screams and he cries.

I heard a man's life being ruined
over the telephone
as he walked beside me.

I heard a man's life being ruined
and the doves still chirped
from the branches of green
under a cerulean sky.
 

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One Thousand Club
[this boy is a short story I had to write for a class, it's supposed to be representative of themes of the Victorian era]

"Quite simply put," quoth the Archbishop, "the only difference between a lawyer and a demon is that a demon has a soul." This sent the clergy into uproarious laughter, much to his disappointment. Men of the cloth would laugh at any jest from his lips, no matter how droll. Bread and wine would be passed, laughs and slurs would exchange places, as the holiest of God's children devoured their supper. The Bishop was unamused by the feast, his last attempt at raising his own spirits dashed away as he realized the futility of attempting social failure. Even the worst joke he could muster would gain him admiration and applause. He was, by the standards of the church, the perfect man. Benign and generous, penitent and celibate. How he hated celibacy. How his body and mind raged against it. He had been offered consorts and brides, and refused every one. Murmurs persisted as to how he had always remained untempted. Rumors that could destroy his family name.

Most were false. The most evil and degenerate were true. Yet his career persisted to blossom, his power continue to grow.

Long ago, he was but a hermit, a preacher of the wilds of Wallachia, he first tasted defeat, that wonderful intoxicant he craved. The son of a petty king, free to roam the countryside, to grow closer to the God he feared so fully, to know what it means to be cold, to be lonely, to be terrified. He could finally breathe with every inch of his pampered lungs, feel with every bit of his restricted heart, wandering in the fields of daisies and the dark forests of willow and oak. He felt no love before then, and his heart was overwhelmed with it. He wandered upon another man, a lone monk tending the ancient farms, a powerful and quiet man, who knew the love racing through his heart, and mirrored it in his own. The two became as brothers under the watchful eye of the sun, and as something more under the moon.

Their love could not be expressed through my musings, an observer speaking through mortal words, bound by language and cognition. That is the wonder of love, impossible to show, yet does not exist without sharing. Their love can never be felt or known again, as it was the bond between their hearts, not yours or mine. They shared passions which no other can share. They shared the heartbreak of losses no other can lose. It is true that the Monk died. It does not matter when. It does not matter why, not to you or me. In truth, the monk does not matter at all. He's nothing more than a pawn in this story, a backstory. To the Archbishop, he matters not. All that matters is the love they shared.

Still, now, at this feast, the Archbishop dreams of his love. He dreams of returning to that farm, to that place he had called his home. A home of pain, and anguish, and defeat. But he will never return. Never again will he know the cold steel of failure. Never again would he know the darkness of the cold night, for the Abbey was lit with the most ornate and wonderful candles, the pride of the clergy.

Pity not this man. Pity not the path he walks. For in accepting his salvation, the place which the world has dictated he has stayed, he has achieved the highest of failures. He has learned the ultimate defeat: the defeat of the soul, the defeat of love. Powers which our dreams tell us go on forever are easily destroyed by hate and anger. He opened his heart to destruction, reveled in it like a child revels in sweets. So must we all, if we be human. So must we all, if we want to know what it is to feel. So must we all learn heartbreak and woe, so we may know the comfort of joy. 'Tis better to have loved and lost, than to never have lost at all.
 

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