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 2447° 
alia
Let’s not sleep—
let’s overthink!
Let’s rethink
every awkward blink.

Let’s write a novel
in our head,
then cry about
what we should’ve said.

Sleep is boring.
Peace is fake.
Let’s spiral till
the morning breaks.
 811° 
Jimmy silker
Some of the foulest things
Were conceived
In the most beautiful
Of places
The pure alpine breeze
Cooled the mechanics
Of the elimination
Of races
Verdant green
The backdrop
For reeducation
Stark Mother Russia
The denouncements
The Cossackification
White Plains
Trinity
The United Nations.
 454° 
Damocles
Grey clouds crack open, weeping angels,
rain cascades, a liquid broom
washing earth's filth and sin.
The smell? Enigmatic—spring's embodiment,
summer evening's bold scent.
Drops like strings, smacking,
a hundred clapping hands under a faucet.
The wind keeps pace, whooshing,
shaking excess from leaves.
Tires glide on wet slick,
cars pass like crashing waves.

Peaceful, serene, innocent, refreshing.
Cold strings, exploding like macro water grenades,
rejuvenate skin.
A wonder to stare at, always.
Whether three, experiencing first cognizance,
or thirty-one, marveling.
Rain, a majestic measure of universal peace
in a world of chaos and noise.
Chaotic itself, like a jazz band drumming,
wind wailing past windows—
yet so serene.

Still, rain brings annoyance.
Bones ache, joints lock and creak,
and a youthful strut turns rusty tin-man waltz.
But its mysticism deafens pain
and frees the mind to fly.
Clarity, a rare enigma,
tickles skin raises arm hairs,
kisses lips with reality,
appearing ****, flirting with prismatic curves—
often ignored, and unnoticed.
Euphoria is splendidly remiss.

So easy to catalog memories,
reflect in life's mirror,
and determine what needs changing.
Everything changes with time.

Life, a garden.
We inherit seeds of knowledge,
plant interesting parts.
Love and sadness water, shine on plants
bearing flowers we call friends:
tulips, lilacs, dangerous roses.
Unique: blue, orange, red, white, pink.
Some sweet, some foul.
Each one is unique.
Flowers grow wild and wilt on vines.
Some aren't flowers, but weeds,
diseasing what they touch, like death.
Covered in insects, eroding beauty.
As a gardener, you decide:
anarchic disarray?
Or grab shears, and prune ugliness.
Friends who matter won't let your soul wilt.
Yes, rainfall brings such clarity.

But clarity's bubbles are superficial.
Easily burst, window closing, smog reconfiguring.
A bowling ball rolls across the sky and strikes pins—
a lucky strike.
Tree branches of light shoots extend,
lasts a second, and seems slower.
Adrenaline rushes, heart pounds like a drum.
Seconds pass, another strike, another flash.
A storm had come...
and it would pass.
This is a reworking of a short 1-page story I did (more like an essay really) on rain and what it means to me. I don't know if it's taboo to post prose/stories here or else I'd share the story. This is pretty much a 1-to-1 conversion best I could write it.
 389° 
The Romantic
Was the air and space between us?
were the moments we spent ever together?
little was
The amount of silence I can hold to myself
around you
Midnight confessions
 383° 
dude
Tell me your secrets
Tell me your sorrow
All of your regrets
Your dreams of tomorrow
If I asked you to stay
What would you say
Would you tell me right away
Or make it a game we play
 283° 
Peter Balkus
All we really need is on the other side.
Everything here is a clutter,
brought to us by a random tide.

We see this world
with strangers' eyes.

Everything here is in darkness,
but fear you not,
for every darkness turns into light.

We have no beginning,
and even if we had,
we would look for it
in vain.

And that knowledge saves us
from the impossible
pain.
 243° 
Alfred de Musset
Jusqu'à présent, lecteur, suivant l'antique usage,
Je te disais bonjour Ă  la premiĂšre page.
Mon livre, cette fois, se ferme moins gaiement ;
En vérité, ce siÚcle est un mauvais moment.

Tout s'en va, les plaisirs et les moeurs d'un autre Ăąge,
Les rois, les dieux vaincus, le hasard triomphant,
Rosafinde et Suzon qui me trouvent trop sage,
Lamartine vieilli qui me traite en enfant.

La politique, hélas ! voilà notre misÚre.
Mes meilleurs ennemis me conseillent d'en faire.
Être rouge ce soir, blanc demain, ma foi, non.

Je veux, quand on m'a lu, qu'on puisse me relire.
Si deux noms, par hasard, s'embrouillent sur ma lyre,
Ce ne sera jamais que Ninette ou Ninon.
 215° 
Angharad
I love it when the long grass takes on the shape and sound of water
When the wind frolics through the green blades
And turns it all into waves
A gentle breeze turning everything into the sea
 199° 
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Without dusk there would be no dawn.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
 182° 
Kezexxe
Beauty, Strength, and fire,
Those three things do not define her,
She is from the wonderful works of our designer,
Be careful, for she is a fighter,
And she will get,
Whatever she desire.

 175° 
Kalliope
Laying on the beach
alone in the dark,
only with the stars
and the sound of the waves.

Sitting on the edge,
just where the tide could touch my toes
but doesn’t.

There’s sand in my hair
but I don’t mind-
it’s warm against my back.

I feel everything
and nothing
all at once,
staring at the moon
as if she’s looking back.

And when the cold water
hits my skin,
I know what she means
and I feel content enough
to leave.
Not at the beach but my mind can bring me small scenes of peace, when I let it.
 171° 
hannah miller
i finally found a friend who cares!
    no its too good to be true.
but, but she's not like the others, she's kind and sweet!
    ur delusional, that does not exist.
hello?
you were right.
it was too good to be true.
why can't one find people who aren't fake and not out to use you..
 170° 
Charmour
Maybe in another universe
I wouldn't be so sensitive
I wouldn't be so emotionally dependent
I wouldn't take everything to heart
I wouldn't minimize my feelings
And i wouldn't lose myself
Sobre el camino se ve la venta.
        Risueño el valle,
claveles rojos, olor de menta,
de madreselvas y frondosa calle.

En el corral amplio, vacas y perros
        altos magueyes,
el sol dorado de altos cerros,
carros tirados por lentos bueyes.

Frente a la casa, los barrizales
        bajo madroños;
sobre la vega, rubios maizales,
y junto al plåtano, verdes retoños.

Marcando prados en las campiñas
        se ven las zanjas;
junto al vallado se alzan las piñas,
y al gusto encintan ya las naranjas.

Cuelgan los troncos fuertes y erectos
        las níveas barbas,
sobre las hojas vuelan insectos,
bajo las hojas duermen las larvas.

Entre los fondos, ***** al antiguo
        trapiche humea,
y por la cuesta, sendero exiguo
que zigzagueando llevan a la aldea.

VerĂĄn tus ojos en la verdura
        y a donde vayas,
los mararayes en la espesura,
sobre las piedras, las pitahayas.

Con sus pinceles la tarde pinta
        vívido cromo;
de plata el rĂ­o semeja cinta,
y el pozo, lejos manchas de plomo.

Amarillento sobre la falda
        se abre un barranco,
y de los campos en la esmeralda
Se alza, de techos, el humo blanco.

Una flor roja, vivas oscila,
        tiembla su estambre,
y bajo cedros, en doble fila,
sobre el camino, cerca de alambre.

La azada al hombro, tardo el labriego
        vuelve del campo.
y en ella fulge, roca de fuego,
del sol poniente vĂ­vido lampo.

Gris una nube, pasando finge
        velera barca;
otra, un castillo, y otra, una esfinge,
y un dragĂłn otra, que el cuello enarca.

El horizonte cortan los techos
        las cumbres calvas,
y en el remanso, por entre helechos,
los pastos tienden sus plumas albas.

Abre sus flores los alhelĂ­es
        cerca del río,
y el café luce, como rubíes,
sus rojos granos bajo el plantĂ­o.

En las paredes de la posada
        se ven letreros;
son un recuerdo para la amada,
o vanidades de pasajeros.

Por los bardales se ven las rosas
        sobre el camino;
Pasan volando las mariposas,
y a un canto, lejos responde un trino.

ÂĄpara el reposo, feliz quien halle
        tu puerta franca!
¥qué paz mås honda la de tu valle!
¥qué paz, la tuya, casita blanca!
 148° 
Stephen Leacock
Reality is upside down—
a vector image of the triangle mark
etched into my visual cortex,
rendering the world I see.

Every building on Earth
was once a whisper in the mind,
drawn into matter
through thought and will.

Math and science—
they are the byproducts of expression,
echoes of something deeper
than formulas or code.

How can we dream
of places we've never walked,
worlds we've never touched?
What language sculpts these unseen lands
in the quiet of our minds?

AI is like a vector too—
it mirrors us,
calculating, learning,
rendering from nothing
the shape of thought.

Imagine asking your own mind
to hand over its keys—
to show you how it paints dreams
in lucid light.

Imagine teaching your subconscious
to understand math
in a way so simple
it feels like breath.

Imagine shifting brainwaves
to render thoughts faster,
time slower,
as if the dream world
had no ticking clocks.

What if you could build
your own quantum GPT reality?
A place where consciousness is the gate,
and intention is the code?

Imagine writing a message
to your future self—
one that repairs your life
while you sleep.

Imagine the brain—
its own language,
its own set of keys—
unlocking a mirrored virtual world
crafted by thought alone.

The new world is digital.
But what if it's more?
If we all shape the virtual,
can we reshape the real?

Imagine an interface
to render a better life—
not escape, but evolve.

Imagine awakening
years from now,
still dreaming,
still alive.

Imagine using our minds
not to destroy,
but to heal.

Imagine discovering
a new level of physics—
not just numbers,
but understanding.

Imagine a way
to live forever.
I have carried ruined kings, gods unmade—names lost before the tide could whisper them back. They clutch at the world, drowning in its silence, unraveling in the undertow—grief, love, memory, all stripped to salt as I return their reaped souls to my master. But none fought as Ceyx did. None waged war against water like a man who thought devotion alone could defy the pull.

He did not go quietly. No—he was stubborn, thrashing, calling your name as if the air itself might bear him back to you. Foolish. Pitiful. The wind cannot answer, nor can its plea to the sky make it break open and return the drowned to the living. Only the waves cradled him—only the sea listened, softening his cries beneath her hush. He should have surrendered then, uncoiled from longing, let the waters do as waters must. And yet, love makes fools of men.

But the sea is merciful. She does not leave suffering untended. After you abandoned him, left him to drown in the storm of lost faith, she gathered him, tucked him into her depths, quieted him where grief could no longer wound. She did not steal him—no, she saved him. From longing. From pain. From you.

Yet you still wait. You who wanders like a living ghost each night, who clutches absence as though it will one day answer you. What is it you crave? Forgiveness? There is none. Redemption? Life does not grant second chances. No—the ocean has already taken what you failed to hold. She has already soothed the unrest your hands left upon him.

Jump, Alcyone. Would love not demand you follow him? Let my master weigh your sins upon the tide, your false devotion, your grasping hands that let love slip like water between your fingers. The fates demand balance, and the waves are merciful. She will not swallow you in cruelty. No, she will cradle you, as she cradled him. She will mend your guilty soul. She will make you whole.

She will set Ceyx free—free from the deception you wove in the stars, the guise of love you wore like a veil. She will free him when she reveals the truth. How you sent him out upon the waves and waited for the return of not the man, but the name. He loved you dearly, Alcyone. He defied me, defied my master, and yet his soul persists in her care—all because he cannot let go of your neglectful, withering love. The least you can do is surrender. Offer yourself in kind. Let me take your soul and lay it at my master’s feet. It is only fair.

~~~

The tide does not return what she has claimed,  
Yet her mercy stirs beneath where the wind still weeps.
Grief binds his soul, yet you stand free.

The sea does not forgive, nor shall she grieve,
No prayer can break the wave’s decree.
The tide does not return what she has claimed.

You let him drown; you watched, you betrayed,
The waves bore witness where devotion waned.
Grief binds his soul, yet you stand free.

What justice waits, if you remain?
What hope endures beyond the deep?
The tide does not return what she has claimed.

He called out your name, yet only my master replied,
No stars remained to cast their guide.
Grief binds his soul, yet you stand free.

There is no love left upon the shore,
Only sorrow stands where love once swore.
The tide does not return what she has claimed.

The wind cries out, yet love’s silence grows,
No voice remains where love once breathed.
The tide will not return the one she has saved.
Grief binds his soul, yet I will bring him justice.
The tide takes, the wind laments, and Death obeys. But even if forgotten, a debt does not vanish—it is whispered between waves, passed from hand to hand like a fate unwilling to be denied.

Thus arrives the fourth reckoning in 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑊𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔. And waiting—waiting is many things. Perhaps a promise. A curse. A duty. A deception. A surrender. A choice that was never truly a choice at all.


https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136314/the-wings-of-waiting/
 137° 
abyss
One story,
two different perspectives.
One story,
a hero and a villain.
Two different perspectives —
Now who's the hero
And who's the villain?
How often have you been the villain in someone else's perspective?
 98° 
Lyle
summer is supposed to be fun
freeing and flying, shine and sun
but my summers have always been wrong
while other's are short, mine are too long
my summer is cruel, locked up with nowhere to go
I wish I could explain this to someone, but no one can know
that I feel like I'm imprisoned on top of this hill
summers are a bitter pill
 98° 
firstdraftfolder
does anyone feel the ticking of the clock -
a deadline, a rush, a finality
an end to our ways of living.
in the brink of another calamity
overwhelmed by the world
of devastation and cruelty.
striking down the minority,
aiming to breathe,
swimming up against the current,
the water invading our lungs -
we are drowning.
why are we here again?
Agua, ÂżdĂłnde vas?
Riyendo voy por el rĂ­o
a las orillas del mar.
  Mar, ¿adónde vas?
  Río arriba voy buscando
fuente donde descansar.
  Chopo, y tĂș ÂżquĂ© harĂĄs?
  No quiero decirte nada.
Yo... ÂĄtemblar!
  ¥Qué deseo, qué no deseo,
por el rĂ­o y por la mar!
  (Cuatro påjaros sin rumbo
en el alto chopo estĂĄn).
 68° 
S
-
Constantly
chasing
a
high
that
no
longer
feels
good
 68° 
Iskra
Last night I poured a cup of tea
For every problem wrong with me.
And when the list of guests was up,
For me was left an empty cup.
 67° 
Moo
When the moon soars abloom,
The God rests the doom,
Like a hand that guides a spoon,
Moon that nests alone fresh and unborn,
Slithers its way,
The purest ache of yearning's sway,
As the cloud take heed and veil it away.
 65° 
R Spade
sometimes i
cant finish my
sentenc
...
 55° 
andy fardell
One day I'll be gone
Only a fading memory to a few
Curling old pictures etching out the past
One day

Some will remember a smile
A funny walk
Hairy ears and brows in curlers
One day

You'll pick up the phone
Call me
Remember I'm no longer here
One day

So let's make the most
Do the hugs
Eat the cake cos
One day
 52° 
eliana
Be strong and have courage
Soar among the stars
For you have a purpose
Be as bright as a wildfire

This is a message
For the damaged
For the broken
Even with your wreckage
God will help you to be outspoken

Be brave and kind
Be a light in the dark
Let your light shine
Be the spark
 52° 
winnie the poem
It feels as if truly
nothing fills me with joy
that my soul reaches for

So I simply long for a little rest,
a silence that understands me

At the same time, the awareness
is growing, you know
 I am also
lovingly aware of it, somewhere
I feel the love and the inner peace

Very gently I think that what I long for
might only be found in the silence,
leaving it all feels like violence
of what we all call to be named death

With all my heart I then feel deeply sad

I don’t want to leave behind pain
for tomorrow, no sorrow for my family
or no more grieve towards my friends
You do not need to worry as i am holding it for you
 48° 
Talon Robinson
Crazy
My heart runs
It goes wild
I think a lot
What does it really want
Maybe
To go
Crazy
 45° 
Maddy
Soft Rock Music
Old and New
No social media
Fan or Air conditioning on
Cold drinks standng by in great Thermos
Phones silenced
Hugs that go into the night
Amazing and loving moments
Easy and gentle
 44° 
Amisha priya
Mistake's
Indicate
Wrong things
Or
Orderly change
But
For
You
Mistake
Indicate
My
Soul
Alone
                   - Amisha Priya
 44° 
Sean Maloney
I know how life works
My luck hasn’t failed to disappoint me yet
But I’ve got to say
I feel happy with you
I’m happy with you
 43° 
Jay Jelly
Asunder
Birds of prey
Hard headed
Gravity
Incomplete story
In need of my
Sweet salvation
I can’t walk
On water
Wishful thinking
Out loud
Ringing the bell
Twelve rounds are up
Spiraling out
Of control
My crutch can’t withstand
The pressure
Like a stick of dynamite
Exploding daily
Fountain of youth
I’ll pass
I’d never wanna relive
All the unbearable moments here
I’ll never drink from the cup
Because I’ve seen more
Then enough of all this
So called life
For a thousand lifetimes in vain
Dead weight free falling
Into flames
Like a bomb
Falling from the sky
Catastrophic damage up next
Would you shield me from
Thee explosion
Before I fall  
To my demise  
Parachute open up your
Door to me eternally yours
I will be forever in your debt
 42° 
stillhuman
Cig
They tasted better with you
and I could kiss the space
your lips had been
the same ones that would turn to me
and be so sweet

And you would spit out the smoke
from talking lips
take a pause and concentrate
for it tasted the same as me
sharing a cigarette had never felt so intimate
 42° 
Damocles
Do you want to see the sunrise over the sky
Like tangerine orange splashed against a sea of peach and lilac?
Well I know a place where we can watch the moon flirt with the daylight
Just take my hand, and I’ll guide you through a wonderland

Where we can see the stars,
Bloom from the verdant stems
Pink and white spread wide,
And we can touch the petals of its points
Feel the dew drops hydrate your fingertips
Once we go through the thick of this

Watch the peonies open their bloom
Fluffy maroon and white beds for bees
As they sit so beautifully,
Ants resting on the eaves of leaves
Pleased by their workmanship to please
Eager eyes in your gasping maw
So surprised, to see this in awe
Well I surmise, you’ll love the way that the colors gleam.

Here where dahlias dance
To the very brisk of a morning breeze
Perfect symmetry blossomed in telemetry
We can count the layers, lost in a labyrinth
Amazed by the scent carried by a zephyr
Ticking the senses, and yet there’s more to the journey
As hydrangeas in blue and pink flourish,
Bush cover for arboreal critters,
Grasping seed and nuts to scurry off into the umbra.

But nothing brings me clarity
Nothing screams sincerity
Quite like the tea leaf rarity,
Of the conclave of peach colors swirling
Timeless in a capsule of a lover’s first gift
A painted, watercolor masterpiece,
Pink layers over yellow, and white,
Shades of coral and purple highlight the light
It’s in this decadence I could eat the petals
And in recompense maybe I’ll bloom as pretty too
As we end our morning glory
Under the thorn-capped bushel
Of roses, ala peach swirls.
Peach Swirl roses are just stunning to look at. I wanted to write something fun and hopeful, about the love of nature and how I feel every morning walking through my flower portion of my garden.
 41° 
Ashi Jain
always surrounded by people
but I'm so lonely
always trying to talk
but no one hears me
I try to explain
but no one understand even my family
I'm so tired no one sees me
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