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 1585° 
Twisted Poet
I used to think blue eyes were pretty,
his were not.
his were not cornflower, sapphire, baby, indigo, azure,
or cloudy sky blue.
His were midnight where the light pollution from the city blocks the stars.
Iceberg, squall, hypothermia, eventual death
 716° 
Ash
im looking for a fighter...
im looking for someone to say
love you too
because ive been alone too long now..
and my pain only grows stronger
and my love grows longer
this is what it feels like to be single and looking
 699° 
Raven Kuhn
For the first time,
I hold
and
I see you.
Originally a blackout poem.
 615° 
Juliana
How do I tell him
That he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me
And that I love him
Cause I really do love him
And have never met anyone like him ever before
When he won’t even talk to me
 585° 
Barbara R Maxwell
In the end
Light wins over dark
Love over hate
Goodness over evil
Freedom over oppression
Truth over lies
Integrity over corruption
Right over wrong
Kindness over cruelty
Healing over pain
Love is powerful energy
It can change the world
In an instant
Light up the world
With one small act
It can make a difference
 517° 
alex
I’m bored now.
I don’t want the calm before the storm
I want the storm,
right now.

break me,
burn me,
do whatever,
I’m ready.
I crave the storm that makes me feel alive again
 465° 
Barton D Smock
Before you were born you listened to your own unrecorded grief

Diagnosed gods
test weapons

Today a tenderness and so on
 379° 
Cadmus Elissa
🚪

If your past knocks,
don’t answer.

It’s not here to talk

it’s here to wreck
what took you years
to rebuild.

Let it knock.
Let it wait.
Let it rot.

Just don’t forget:
some doors
are better sealed
forever.
This piece is a reminder that not every return deserves a welcome. The past, especially the parts you’ve outgrown, often carries the power to unravel healing. Strength lies not in revisiting, but in refusing to regress.
 363° 
Bard
Wish I'd see dead people
Instead of all this evil
 344° 
Mrs Timetable
I want to write
A little poetry book
Fitting in my pocket
To carry with me
With five little poems
One for each finger of your hand
Your hand that led me here
My muse
My blues
My cues
My heart tattoos
My infuse
So I will call it YOUs
I'm gonna do it. Watch me.
 344° 
Kyla
no revenge
only a copy of the poems i wrote of my side of our story
and a bag of the food i’d bought for you
and your hoodie that i was wearing when i ended it
and a lingering sense of loss
because you never asked to read anything i wrote /the hoodie she wore first /and the last, i hope?
 239° 
unnamed
he did some magic
pulled a quarter from my ear
told me I was cheap!
 197° 
Dency
I'm no longer fighting to be enough.
No longer shrinking to fit small spaces,
Twisting my truth to earn a place.
Iam walking
Towards what already knows Iam light
Toward love that doesn't demand my silence,
Toward peace that doesn't ask me to bleed.
A tender reflection of healing after emotional manipulation.
 183° 
Frances Raeburn
I am not sure
I ever smiled
at you
I think
I just grimaced
and you caught
the pain
 158° 
Lawrence Hall
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                   “I am Going to Call for a Major Investigation…”

                             -Our Red Queen on Truth [sic] Social


In Wonderland a new oppressive conjuration -  
His name is Major Investigation
Sent at our screaming queen’s instigation
To drag us all down to her police station

Beginning with Kamala, Oprah, and Bono
For somewhat disapproving of him – oh, no!
The Major will punish their laissez-majesto -
In the name of freedom their heads must go!

(But of course the irony in all this biz
Is that their heads are even larger than his)
 145° 
lizie
it’s selfish,
but i love
that every word i give you
turns into poetry.
 132° 
josef
my love for you, my friend
becomes incarnate like our lord
where he, doing miracles,
opens our hearts and quakes the foundation

my love for you, like his love
for us, opens my heart to your ethereal beauty
and quakes the very foundation of my self

i take thee, my friend, to be my will
quaker undertones
W
 131° 
Jimmy silker
It's that heavy happiness
When you're listening to Leonard
So simply expressed
Though you know he knows the big words
He'd rather talk to many
Than the cognoscenti
See there I just did it
Shame on me
Get salted through with Cohen
the beauty elementary.
 112° 
ManInBlack
Her lips often leave a mark
       on my cheeks, or in the shoulders
       of my white-clean-shirt,
       and I like it, dearly much..

       but could I have it
       in my lips instead?...



       -ManInBlack
 110° 
Rose
if roots can wait,
beneath the earth,
for a rain they cannot live without.

and if the stars wait,
lingering in dusk,
just to see the moon once more.

then i,
full of burning ache,
can wait too.

I will wait for you.
I'd wait for him in every lifetime
 106° 
CyberInk
Weariness infects my soul
Randomness deflects my struggle
Years of sacrifice and compromise
Yet met by a cosmic probability
Where time and place have the final say
Whereas I was yielding in the air
The train for the lucky has departed
 100° 
Joel
We laid in the soft grass for a while.
The wind blew steadily.
With the moon illuminating us from afar.

You chuckled, thinking about the silly idea of
counting all the pretty lights above us.
All the stars, adding them up by hand.

I laughed too,
of course I did.

I loved the stars and nightsky too,
of course I did.

But while you busied yourself with the absurd prospect of
counting all the stars,

I'd rather admire you, and busy myself with
counting all the freckles on your face.
maybe i just love the idea of "us"
 96° 
Viktoriia
you know you're touch starved
when you start having dreams
of hugging someone
and of being hugged.

i have one at least once a week.
 92° 
souletry
I suffer from the chronic consequences of elongating my own obstinacy.
Every single coordinated action rises from fear
So my heart can drive in the name of patience.
something short
I dragged all of you with me
Welcome to my sick ride
You will feel guilty
When I will die
The tides of destination
have invaded my beloved estuary
Rising fast in deliberation
Washing away the righteousness that I once held dearly deep within

Seeking to bend the reeds of  resistance
the muddy waters of disdain comes rushing in

They are lunatically overpowering
Driven to dominate the spirit that I
once held sacred free of sin
 90° 
Sunamin Tamang
Fair, fair maiden
apart from the herd you keep
Tho’ I’ve not heard your voice
Your love sings deep.
~~

Fair, fair maiden
I stand upon the edge of beauty
But tremble on the steep
a long, long
Cursed road winds upward
lord forgive me!
I dare not leap.
~~~

Fair, fair maiden
I know not if you know my name
But I do know yours
What a beautiful name !
Your precious love is all I aim.
~~

Fair, fair maiden
~
if you stop writing

about me , will i

disappear?

will we be so quiet

no one will notice us,

any more?

the bear considered, thought

it may be nice.
 89° 
Rubén Darío
¡Es con voz de la Biblia, o verso de Walt Whitman,
que habría que llegar hasta ti, Cazador!
Primitivo y moderno, sencillo y complicado,
con un algo de Washington y cuatro de Nemrod.
Eres los Estados Unidos,
eres el futuro invasor
de la América ingenua que tiene sangre indígena,
que aún reza a Jesucristo y aún habla en español.Eres soberbio y fuerte ejemplar de tu raza;
eres culto, eres hábil; te opones a Tolstoy.
Y domando caballos, o asesinando tigres,
eres un Alejandro-Nabucodonosor.
(Eres un profesor de energía,
como dicen los locos de hoy.)
Crees que la vida es incendio,
que el progreso es erupción;
en donde pones la bala
el porvenir pones.
                                      No.Los Estados Unidos son potentes y grandes.
Cuando ellos se estremecen hay un hondo temblor
que pasa por las vértebras enormes de los Andes.
Si clamáis, se oye como el rugir del león.
Ya Hugo a Grant le dijo: «Las estrellas son vuestras».
(Apenas brilla, alzándose, el argentino sol
y la estrella chilena se levanta...) Sois ricos.
Juntáis al culto de Hércules el culto de Mammón;
y alumbrando el camino de la fácil conquista,
la Libertad levanta su antorcha en Nueva York.Mas la América nuestra, que tenía poetas
desde los viejos tiempos de Netzahualcoyotl,
que ha guardado las huellas de los pies del gran Baco,
que el alfabeto pánico en un tiempo aprendió;
que consultó los astros, que conoció la Atlántida,
cuyo nombre nos llega resonando en Platón,
que desde los remotos momentos de su vida
vive de luz, de fuego, de perfume, de amor,
la América del gran Moctezuma, del Inca,
la América fragante de Cristóbal Colón,
la América católica, la América española,
la América en que dijo el noble Guatemoc:
«Yo no estoy en un lecho de rosas»; esa América
que tiembla de huracanes y que vive de Amor,
hombres de ojos sajones y alma bárbara, vive.
Y sueña. Y ama, y vibra; y es la hija del Sol.
Tened cuidado. ¡Vive la América española!
Hay mil cachorros sueltos del León Español.
Se necesitaría, Roosevelt, ser Dios mismo,
el Riflero terrible y el fuerte Cazador,
para poder tenernos en vuestras férreas garras.Y, pues contáis con todo, falta una cosa: ¡Dios!
 82° 
Cheyenne Chenoa
Your wealth is held,
In this mysterious thing.

Where your riches
Are bountiful,
And your heart
Feels shallow.

Spinning you go-

Is this carousel
Worth a touch
Of her soul?

Or are you just callow-

On a mountain
Where green grass
Is yellow?
 81° 
Pavel Rup
Утром сонный дождь стучит в окошко.
Распустились зонтики-цветы.
Об ногу, мурлыча, трётся кошка.
В воздухе нет летней духоты.

Я люблю, когда тепло и сыро.
Я люблю под зонтиком шагать.
Тихо подпевает мне стихира.
И стихи ты начал вдруг слагать.

Тихо подсказало вдохновение
Первые заветные слова.
И пошёл поток — дрожит сомнение.
Завязалась тайна колдовства.

Дождик шепчет тихие подсказки.
А о чём — ты даже не поймёшь.
У стихов загадочные краски —
Молча под дождём с зонтом бредёшь.

Красотой пропитан тёплый воздух.
Не люблю я летнюю жару.
Я люблю весенний дух черёмух,
С лозунгом живу: "Да быть добру!"

За окном мурлычет тихий дождик.
Машка у ноги решила спать.
Тянется рука её взъерошить...
Разлилась такая благодать.

Ничего от жизни мне не надо.
Просто наслаждайся красотой!
Жизнь — загадка. И она — отрада.
Расплатись за это добротой.
 81° 
Puppy Dog Pisces
It’s like swimming through a rainstorm
No thoughts left behind
No wrong turns to guide us
A patient tide unwinds

Your sun is happy magic
Confused and asinine
Puffing through the viscous
It’ll all be fine

But reality eludes you
Always looking in
You blind yourself to comfort
Life does not begin

If only you could see yourself through baby-caring eyes
Maybe then they’d tease and mock you
Maybe then you’d be just fine
 81° 
Dr Peter Lim
A hero
can also be
a villain -
this is harsh reality
 80° 
Salmabanu Hatim
My grandson will be eighteen this July,
He shares a birthday with Mr.Nelson Mandela on the 18th,
He asked me,"Dadi(granny) what is the difference between you and me
My Love, you are the sunrise,
You have to shine  brightly a long  way,
Giving your best to life,
Whilst I am the sunset
Retired,
Both beautiful and unique  in our own ways.
21/5/2025
 75° 
Meghan
Blistering, boiling, blazing anxiety
Utterly paralyzed
Run out of steam
Nothing helps
Ominous thoughts
Useless struggles
Tired.
 67° 
morallygray
It's as simple
as splinters in a finger
or ripples in water
feeling her fingerprints
etching her
on the back of my eyelids
the suffering of millions
condensed in a compound word
goodbye
a tear escape as she walks away
and carries itself across every terrain
hoping she'll caress it with soft hands
simply following
 65° 
Cazzie
He reclines in his brittle chair carved from his own grief,
Not very regal, but heavily resigned to the aches.
The weight of silence cleanly cuts through the air.
His hands, now mapless, no longer seek.
Memories he left behind in clouds, were few and brief.

Books cradle their breath upon the shelf.
Never once a glance as he knows their unchanging tone.
The windows screech with tempered light
As regret drips down the pale pane of ivory bones.
His posture reflects the weight of years notched in his belt.
The leather groans, stretched too thin like his sense of self.

The hour never bows a whim to beg his name.
Dust circles, never sure as to where to fall.
His suit of choice is a reliquary of loss.
Each button, a distant memory hard pressed in shame.
The air is stained
The room too small.
A silent gasp
The last breath falls.
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