Posts Tagged ‘Lost’

I Fell in Love

Posted: July 26, 2016 in Poetry, Uncategorized
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fake_love_white_by_fakestencils

Is it possible to miss a love that was never real,

So cold she was at times,

It made me feel,

A love, a hatred,

Something,

I can’t explain,

Her fake love grabbed me,

and slapped me in the face,

Every ”I love you” burning in my veins,

 

I’ve been around the bend and back,

Thinking of her,

The others haven’t seemed to fill the void left by your smile,

Only for a while,

Come and kill me with your love.

(c) Alex Turner 2016

Blue Blood

Posted: January 23, 2016 in Poetry, Poetry-Prose
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His once blue-blooded veins now flow with vodka,

He walks down the roadside,

Only seeing lovers entwined,

Fingers, thumbs,

Interwoven with an ivy vine,

Street lamps pulsating revivifying electricity,

Reviving lost memories of brighter times,

Seeds of despair and regret,

Blooming in the cage of his mind.

 

© Alex Turner 2016

Stone Dry Plains

Posted: June 24, 2015 in Poetry
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All we are.

Stone dry plains.

All we could be,

Never to be.

Sitting.

Crouching.

Standing.

Slouching.

Slipping.

Falling away.

© Alex Turner 2015

Walking between the cracks on our streets,

Walking in rhythm to an imaginary symphony.

Concrete trees to accompany my urban jungle.

Amidst fluorescence and fireflies,

in search of a book,

” Antony and Cleopatra, That’ll do fine.”

Through the doors and silhouettes I weave,

in order to receive the book I begrudgingly need.

I speed to the cashier,

© Alex Turner 2015

book in hand.

It looks as if she has lost all hope,

she sees my purchase,

then cracks a quaint subtle smile.

I also smile.

I Leave,

and step out into the concrete jungle once more.

Transition of Youth

Posted: June 22, 2015 in Poetry
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The transition of youth to adulthood,

A complex rugged terrain on which to walk.

We long to be excepted by our peers,

longing for approval from the very ones who seek it,

never wishing to be outcast from the herd of half truths and lost sorrow.

It’s as if things aren’t all that different,

Alas, they are.

Being willingly deceived,

just because they feel like it.

Once in isolation one can see through one like crystal,

only it seems to look back.

Through needles pain we walk.

To people we need not know we talk.

We greet strangers as if they were family.

We walk upon shilly-shally on our streets with angst,

in hope we do not meet a stare or a glare.

we treat the lesser few as messiahs and goddesses.

I sit here reminiscing over an illustrious fountain of youth.

A fountain from which I am never to consume from again.

Transition of youth !

© Alex Turner 2015