Discombobulated design
will allow the mind to hover;
Dig deep or walk shallow it’s fine,
you are left free to discover;
View, interpret, and uncover
combustible pieces of soul;
Each one different from the other;
Such beauty in out of control.
Categories:
combustible, art, creation, emotions, write,
Form: Other
lightning quick swirls, twirls, dots and dashes flickered and flashed
the gypsy’s frenzied dancing was felt by everyone in the room.
such passion! Such flair, such fire! She seemed combustible.
Categories:
combustible, dance,
Form: Free verse
my, my...
what a sublime feeling this is!
a surging current
of divine electricity
traveling
through our bone marrows.
oh, I feel it deeply,
so strongly,
as do others.
there's no mistaking
the chemistry between us.
together
we create
a reverberating earthquake.
we're but a spark
in a stick of dynamite
about to...
blow!
Date written: 07/24/2022
Categories:
combustible, passion, poetry,
Form: Verse
passion is fire
love is the combustible
so, let's burn our wood....!
Categories:
combustible, allegory, allusion, analogy, fire,
Form: Haiku
He enjoyed his life in every way.
She was actualized, but not loved.
They both thought they were complete.
They had their hobbies, their languages, their religions.
They both thought they were set, happy with their singleness
until they discovered each other.
What she lacked, he had mastered.
Her sense of humor and love of people reeled him in.
Their romance was fast and passionate.
They were complete alone, but their togetherness
was a combustible fire that could not be quenched.
The union of these two resulted in a lifelong commitment
not misunderstood by any who knew and loved them,
for we all saw that she was more herself when she was with him,
And he was even more magnificent that we thought he could ever be
When he was with her.
Separately they were both a wow, but together, they were
the entire play, and a ridiculous number of curtain calls.
Categories:
combustible, 10th grade, 11th grade,
Form: Free verse
it's more than an obsession
with words;
i wouldn't go as far as calling it
poetry,
it's something more.
this writer's fingers
bite down on something,
tightly clenched,
feeding off of thoughts
while the wrists
bend and twist
to the rhythm,
bleeding words
like splatters of blood
on walls
or pages.
this writer's mind
twists,then turns
through memories
of past,
present,
lost at daybreak
and found
on night's doorstep,
only to open the door
towards something more
than bargained for.
this writer's heart
and soul
ignite, then explode,
like july's sky,
a few intense moments
of excitement
that submit
then surrender
to total darkness.
it's the death
of one thought
or more,
depending
on how intense
and colorful
the grand finale became.
it's an autumn mourning
not a morning risen,
this viewing
displayed before opened eyes
as the writer closes their own.
would you call that poetry?
Categories:
combustible, on writing and words,
Form: Free verse