I do not like you, moon For you give me the bedtime doom For your very presence, makes me go to bed I am not tired in the end
By Sarah Danaherabout a year ago in Poets
somewhere down beneath the surface where the memories wait to be rated and serviced and put securely in place is a wee, tiny creature
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout a year ago in Poets
Hello, Moon. Good evening. I know it’s been odd for over thirty years since I see the moon, even if I couldn’t see it well.
By Meghan LeVaughn about a year ago in Poets
Letters to the Moon Hey, Yeah, you. Moon. I’m talking to you. Have been trying to for a while. What’s it gonna take for a response?
By Poet Dillabout a year ago in Poets
Why are your eyes so wide, Staring at me from across the room? - Why does your head tilt to the side, When I take great strides toward you?
By B. M. Valdezabout a year ago in Poets
I speak in rhymes and mysteries Because that’s how I think My brain shittles riddles because it titillates my neurons It is how I do my best to get along in this world
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
Let me be your Marlboro man, With a cigarette in his hand, Say you'll come to dinner. We can both fit on my horse I’ll have you for dessert
By Calvin Londonabout a year ago in Poets
Before your voice ever reached my name your eyes had already spoken. A spark leapt across the air and everything around us softened.
By The 9x Fawdiabout a year ago in Poets
Who was Will Rogers? W William Penn Adair Rogers (November 4, 1879 – August 15, 1935) I Indian (His mother was 1/4 Cherokee of the Paint Clan in Oklahoma)
By Shirley Belkabout a year ago in Poets
Good evening, Alpha Moon, Tonight you shine so bright. … What the hell rhymes with moon? Ugh, I can't do anything right.
By Liam Stormabout a year ago in Poets
Read quickly reader. for everything hunts, is hunted. The snakes will swear and I don't want to slow us in our pursuit and retreat, as we are eaten and eat.
By John R. Godwinabout a year ago in Poets
The door creaked back, the silence spoke, A candy grin, a memory choked. Footsteps echo, truth will not hide The mask remembers who has died.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Poets
