Afiqah
Afiqah
2 days ago

sometimes
this almost heart gets a little unfair
they try to speak and only half-hears
what the other senses tell them
yet
these pair of eyes could tell such
familiar longing
when we dreamily waltz through the rain
and
got lost in your sheets
somehow, indeed
you made love happen to me

-a.

Afiqah
Afiqah
7 days ago

if only it was as easy
to turn in each night with your heart
still full
just like how it was simply likely of me
to drowse slowly,
entangled arm in arm with an entirety coat of you
after filling up such a hearty meal
of fine, smoked rich salmon at the Manhattan's
right after the film starts
it's like entering the world's quietest room
only our almost hearts fondly,
wanders

-a.

#poem   #poetry   #words   #heart   #poems   #poets   #spilledink   #full   #writings   #spilledpoetry  
Travis Dixon
Travis Dixon
Sep 19, 2011

poetry is more than me
it's more than words
& more than rhyme
it's vaster than space
& faster than rhythm surfing
the waves of time
amplifying its
frequency with
each &
every
line
pointed by symbols (signs?)
clung to limestone precipices
like vines within concrete crevices
whispering screams of defiance
against ignorance's yokes,
again our arrogance jokes
about the insignificance of other folks
of the other ones
of them, those people, the absentminders
relentlessly fettered in golden
coats profaning their shine thusly true
so that the unnoticed may reflect upon the surface
as the caustics of thought refract through
the waters of spirit & soul
churned out of each & every mind
a field of poetics
lurking behind the edifice of structure
deified as functional perfection manifested
but utterly infested with dirty sheets
& replete with redundant repugnance
filtered by plumbing that dumbs shit down
to the basement level deep underground
where much is mumbled but little is said
aside from the storm a'brewin' overhead.

#poem   #poetry   #word   #poet   #poems   #writing   #writers   #poets   #wordplay  

Called-up to muster on the streets,
Lay siege with pencils and paper shields,
Place couplet sentries on every corner,
March in-step with iambic feet,
Shoulder prosaic figures of speech.
Launch antithesis and irony,
Landmine metaphors and similes.

The poets engage guerilla warfare,
Surrounding the body politic
To water board with words and wit.
Our units are indeterminate,
Smearing ink for camouflage.
Be wary of everyone you meet,
Every tree lining your street;
We're making notes in small black pads,
To explicate the nots and haves.

Pens are shovels digging trenches,
Editing walls and blue pencilling fences,
Giving refuge to the marginalized,
From the onslaught of towering directives.

We're parading in our uniforms,
Raising banners, ragged and torn,
Calling on all to weather the storm,
To brace against cyclonic edicts
That swirl and funnel from posturing egots.

egot: an Irish word for idiot
#politics   #poets  
Afiqah
Afiqah
Feb 5

sometimes
I wonder how often does
this layer of skin needs to be peeled,
to pucker and then grow again
tell me how you got it in you
to ravage these thoughts now that I'm held back
to be thinking about forever
it's always been
the same old doubts and new fears basking in
with all those
bittersweet tides of our yesterday's
against knowing that
even promises has got a shelf life

-a.

Do you remember the questions
you used to ask about dying?
About grief and then pain
that wash over you in freezing pales of regret?
Are you supposed to remember every minuscule detail
before you completely forget?

You choke on your own verses
to convince yourself
and then everyone else
about acceptance--
the magic that should lead to recovery
yet, knowing that
most poems
are just lengthy epitaphs
for all the people
we refuse to bury alive;
that most poets die
as they try to relive
faded images,
wishing they could
turn back time.

There is love in lamentation--
in how the living die with the dead;
how years of November air
become the oxygen
that slowly suffocates them,
how the things they love most
create consuming black holes
they still succumb to
long after
their beloved's faux passing.

#love   #poetry   #dying   #death   #poems   #grief   #poets   #regrets   #lamentation   #epitaphs  
Wejdan
Wejdan
Jan 29

Life this time around has had more than it shapes of loneliness, millions of apologises for feeling soild at depth, with all the pain, subdued under the sixties of whisky for years being suffered, waiting, for memories that never came true.


like you.

Not my poem...bunch of poems I read on here and managed to make them into one poem.
The credit rights goes for each poet.
#poem   #sad   #life   #lonely   #memories   #you   #poets   #suffered   #mix   #shape  

Yes, today I travel to an isle,
I'll linger on here a while,
It's a magical isle for poets,
We're all misfits, and we know it,
Our muse shrouded in mists and fogs,
One  isle for our mystical blogs,
I'll linger here a while,
Our misfit poets' fair isle..........

Feedback welcome.
#for   #poets   #an   #isle  

Emptiness created by persistent fear,
The mellow heart of little emotional sheer,
Listen to me the brain said,
But the heart was mad,
About that one touch,
The magic touch of sacred hands,
It was difficult to decide,
Who will win the war of existence,
The fear or the love of gradience,
But if it still causes mayhem in oneself,
Then it cant be termed as intelligent radiance,
I became graved once again,
All I have lost yet found everything once again,
The mind told the starbirds,
Be back the home is not far nerds

#love   #peace   #lover   #poems   #romantic   #she   #poets   #oneworld   #romantacism  

Whether on stone or wood, slate or leather,
Papyrus, parchment, vellum or paper,
With fingers or stylus, chalk or the quill,
Much later with the pen or the pencil,
Or the typewriter, computers today;
Writers, to write, will always find a way.

#poetry   #life   #thoughts   #you   #writing   #writers   #poets   #creative   #books   #authors  
 
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