Think It Over Poems - Poems about Think It Over

The Last Night in July (I think) by Evelyn Aimarie It is the last night in July (I think) And this pink Moscato tastes like you. Memories dance to the sound of crickets chirping, Their legs rubbing bottle brush bristles against my brain, Scratching an itch I didn’t know I had. I think I will call it— Childhood, Memory? Lightning bugs rave in succession, Primordial neighbor to the procession. Release. The...

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The past blinks The future winks The present links ~ Historians ink Entry in > 7 Contest Sponsor: Rob Carmack ...

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When I think about you my heart flutters, A hush like wind through evening shutters— Soft and sudden, tender-sweet, The pulse beneath my thoughts and feet. Beauty and books, how close they lie, Like stars that lean in to kiss the sky. Wisdom and knowledge, gently sewn From seeds the same wild tree has grown. I’ve seen your gaze in candlelight, Like dawn that...

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I think I shall - oh yes, I shall put you to words in books, et al and share my scoundrel’s rationale with those of impish-like morale but pray you beg me love - your coquette kiss, thereof … (oh yes, I think I shall) I think I will - oh yes, I will make sure,...

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There once was a brain too lazy to think As into obscurity destined to sink. While we dance to metre And conjure up theatre That some love though into history slink. ...

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The night arrives unexpectedly, Shrinking the meadow, Gradually, we become shadows, Our youth, enthusiasm, and vitality eroded by time. An evening spent with my father, Time has transformed him into a sage, A craftsman slowed by age, He makes me reflect on the futility of vanity. Each...

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You can't hold it both ways, In meaning.' You Are either direct.' Or directionless..And thus In a mess.' No less-en-ing, yet less kenning will ensue.' Though You deny..Its more obvious..Showing through' True.' Reality denying.? I find it at best tedious' Not to mention trying.! And now cov-idiocy is Really dying.' Symtoms seen, idio-tantric bouts And much de-crying..Tantrum-atic antic's its Virtuless incandesacnt-cy...

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"Mummy says now that my heart is broken, nothing will ever hurt me as much again" The Poet. ______________________________________________________________ Fir trees along the road, showing the way. There's a log cabin, for us to stay. Daddy built our house by a big fir tree. A loving place for he, mummy and me. Mountain country, cozy fires to keep warm, Wild flowers,...

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From time to time, I think I'm right about mistakes, And I dismiss any other speculation, a scattering of thoughts in the wind. I don't know what anything is, but it's precisely this unknown that frees me, For freedom comes not from seeking answers, but from living in the question. On the other hand, there's nothing wrong with me,...

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I think I’m sinking not in waves just slowly fading through my days. No cries for help, no open wounds just silence sitting in my head. I smile enough to not alarm I laugh enough to hide the harm. But underneath, it’s getting hard to carry pieces cracked and scarred. I wake, I go to work, I wear my face the one that fits...

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I chanced upon a rushing mirror who danced along with all the urgency of an early summer's wind, a serene creature whose silver surface seemed to only focus on reaching the sea. In its tail I saw a human, whose hair was the same colour as mine, whose nose and mouth breathed the same air I did, whose eyes captured my every...

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We are the nouns, the mighty tidy nouns house cat, mouse, bat, zebras, elephants and gowns you’re nothing without us, the verbs smirk, laugh and say twirling, whirling, dancing, singing, along the way the adjectives and adverbs laugh at these arrogant two You might be the wood and concrete, but we are the glue without us you cannot be mammoth, tiny,...

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Gotta go to school it's the same old story teach me a lesson would be good for me learning all the rules five days of the week don't fall behind don't think don't speak gotta go to work it's the same sad story get me a job that's sure to bore me working for a wage five days of the week don't...

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Can you imagine that kind of love? It sounds magical, like something that fell from the sky off the back of a dove. Can you imagine that love wasted? I’d tell you I didn’t know either, but I can still remember exactly how bad it tasted. ...

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When you steal, it’s more than an object you take— You sever a thread in the soul you forsake. That bracelet? A gift from a mother now gone. That wallet? A dream that someone leaned on. Behind every item lies a story untold, A piece of a life that was cherished and...

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