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 12° 
AUSTIN FIELDS
I feel it pull
on me,
im not meant
for it,
the weight
of love
-i felt this tug on my heart in the middle of the night, that ache to be held by someone, but the wound hurts to much. Sometimes you wonder if you’ll love again
 12° 
yram
yesterday was different
my heart was changed
ill have to make a decision
to remember forever
it would be like that either way
 11° 
Bri
Do you remember?
The way I stood to the side?
The way you looked to her first?
Do you remember?
The way I never was a part of your joke?
The way you ignored me?
Do you remember?
The way I held back tears around you?
The way you never asked about me?
Do you remember?
The way I wanted to die around you two?
The way you ruined me?
Do you remember?
No.
Because I was never more to you,
Then a second thought.
 11° 
Tymeri Hinkley
The moon calls to me tonight—
I cannot resist her charms.
I slip beyond the confines of my room
To let the evening soak into my soul.

A full moon spills her silver light,
Darkness braided with her glow.
Rocky earth crunches beneath my feet,
Each step alive with sound and scent.

The high desert hums its song:
Stars glimmer, coyotes cry.
A noisy stillness fills the air,
As daylight’s brightness fills the sky.

My heaven is green grass,
And scent of sagebrush and hay.
I belong in this moonlit nirvana,
Where constellations burn like fire.
 11° 
Zahra
stop! I said to
this clanging mind
go! I said to my
hedonist heart
neither of the
  two deserves
my body.
 11° 
RobbieG
Between the lines lies lay within the message, lined with fines demanding blood in exchange for an eternity of faith I remain uncertain.
 10° 
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
HUNGRY, HOMELESS, HOPELESS

Mankind has suffered through a pandemic
from when it first set foot on Earth:  not only
killing and torture and slavery, but also hunger
and homelessness and hopelessness  Why
has it taken thousands of years for human
beings to realize, and then to create, a just
world that is still as impoverished as its poorest,
as healthy as its sickest, as ignorant as its most
uneducated? All lives on Earth are meant to be a
collaborative effort, which is called love. To love,
one must first be loved. If loved, one then has
love to give, This concatenation, this progression,
once begun, will grow exponentially, endlessly:  
it will be a pandemic in reverse:  love, not hate;  
compassion, not revenge;  sharing, not hoarding.
This is what Earth was meant to be, a lonely planet,
yes, but a home for all living creations where love
increases the more it is shared.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
 10° 
Whit Howland
I threw my body
into you--

heart and soul
too

But you were someone
else's

gift

love,
just not mine
Fable I, Livre I.


L'olive, aux champs, n'est pas ce qu'elle est sur la table ;
Le premier qui, sur l'arbre, essaya d'en goûter,
Fit une mine épouvantable ;
Au feu voulut faire jeter
Le tronc qui produisait un fruit si détestable.
Mieux vaut le cultiver, lui dit la Déité
Qui faisait ce présent à l'Attique fertile ;
Plus qu'on ne croit, son fruit peut devenir utile,
S'il se trouve chez vous un homme assez habile
Pour corriger sa crudité.
Minerve avait raison ; le fruit que l'on dédaigne,
Par un fort habile homme à la fin ramassé,
Dans l'eau propice oĂč l'art le baigne,
De ses défauts un jour se voit débarrassé.
Il n'est, depuis, ami de bonne chĂšre
Qui n'en veuille en mille ragoûts ;
Et grĂące Ă  l'apprĂȘt qui tempĂšre
L'ùpreté de son caractÚre,
Ni trop douce, ni trop amĂšre,
L'olive est devenue un mets de tous les goûts.
Cet apprĂȘt que l'habile artiste
Fit subir au fruit rebuté,
Est celui que le fabuliste
Doit donner à la vérité.
I won’t back down, I’ll sing it loud
So that everyone can hear me
I’ll profess my love for you
Because I love you dearly
It must be known
I’m not alone
To venture on this journey
Through hard times
When lives combine
It becomes obligatory
And so we’ll live our fairytale
With a happy ending story
I mean, who am I to garner praise
When I’m blinded by your glory
 9° 
badwords
Perception
Conception
Deception
 9° 
Lyra Callen
Is it when my voice
is heavy with no,
or when silence chains me
to the no I couldn’t say?

Is it when my hands
refuse to move
in the dance they command,
or when they move anyway
just to keep the peace?

Do I lose my beauty
when my smile doesn’t bloom
on cue,
when my nod isn’t obedient,
when my spine stays straight
instead of bending?

Do I fade
when I cross streets in straight lines,
stand still where told,
pretend I’m fine—
even pretend I’m dead—
to survive the laughter
that stings?

Do I stop being lovely
when my lips pray
instead of pouting,
when they sing,
recite verses,
or whisper secrets to the wind,
but refuse to curse
for entertainment?

Tell me—
is beauty only mine
when I surrender,
when I ache quietly,
when I let their script
become my skin?

Or do I stop being pretty
the moment I live
for myself?
this piece is inspired by Louise's poem  "When Am I Not Pretty".
 8° 
jeffrey conyers
Oh, how?
Did that ugly soul pull that?
Folks' talks about the ugly effect like is a sad theme.

But that love attracts.
When looks just an act.
A manipulation theme.

He treats her like a Queen.
Let her shines like a diamond ring.
Leaving an impression of warmth.

Oh, why he with her?
Must be self-esteem issues.
When it could just be an impression.

Beauty can be an attraction that some wear well.
While others wear it to fail.
Falling into the ugly love effect.

Questioning, why they are so all alone.
 8° 
Salmabanu Hatim
A big ovation,
Fathers disappeared,
Despite all hardships,
They stayed and gave us a home.
15/8/2025
 8° 
Lynn Stillman
You can't sing or dance.
But you can use just your eyes,
put me in a trance.
 7° 
CantSeeMe
it was dark and tender
my dad next to me
I was five
so free
at the driveway
we be

at some point
of the night
we looked upon the sky

I don't know why

we looked at the north
I saw a star so bright
with the colour of light

I looked him in the eyes
and said
“that's
grandpa”
flying so high

he said “no”

that's the northern star
it will always be
the brightest of them all
it's there when you seek
a guide to peek

when you've traveled so far
where no one can fish
when you wonder
‘Is this
 ?’
or
‘What if
?’’
remember the star
that's it
An evening in the driveway of our house with my father...

I can't remember many of my memories...
I used to remember all the bad things, now I've forgotten them too, but I still remember this one.
 7° 
S R Mats
Seagull days
Ocean sprays
Blue-green sea
Glowing me
Crystal skies
Bright in eyes
Cheeks red
Hat on head
Toes in sand
Sunny tan
Cool breeze
Exhale, breathe
“Ah” I sigh
 7° 
Ami Mathur
You say maybe...
I wish it — to be true
I want to tell you
That my ailing heart is exhausted yet it pumps for you.
Reddish blood of mine
is now storing your memories—
in its plasma.
These Banyan trees—
Whisper stories of your charisma.

I lost my musicality
Withstanding the world's brutality—
Reading your verses
On that well-crafted page
I lost my sense of poetry.
I lost my presence on this earthly stage.

If anyone can feel my ache
these deciphered lines would then depict—
That my heart is at stake.
A betting bait—
Your maybe...
Is my spinning wheel with options: Two.
Either the obvious oblivion
Or the make-believe truth.
Rebellious yet resilient
I am in a zone—undefined.
Maybe we will chance upon—
Rowing the same boat
Or perhaps... you will find me
near that crossroads.
 6° 
Amado Nervo
Azrael, abre tu ala negra, y honda,
cobĂ­jeme su palio sin medida,
y que a su abrigo bienechor se esconda
la incurable tristeza de mi vida.

Azrael, ĂĄngel bĂ­blico, ĂĄngel fuerte,
ĂĄngel de redenciĂłn, ĂĄngel sombrĂ­o,
ya es tiempo que consagres a la muerte
mi cerebro sin luz: altar vacĂ­o...

Azrael, mi esperanza es una enferma;
ya tramonta mi fe; llegĂł el ocaso,
ven, ahora es preciso que yo duerma...
¿Morir..., dormir..., dormir...? ¥Soñar acaso!
 6° 
Nat Lipstadt
<>
"for the vanity of man is as porous as dust...and, in their supreme wisdom, because of this failing, the Gods have decreed, that mankind deserveth no more, no less than his designated allotment of being.
And such it shall be."
writ by
The Marshal Gebbie
June 2023
<>
rise up, rise up,
son up, sun up!
see for yourself a newly birthing day,
the early rays licking the unlocking of a grinning earth's face,
humbling humans and their perpetuity e~mo/notions of eternity.
how are the daily~we, to measure ourselves, versus our ancestry,
by whom shall we~be set forth as examples to our posterity
what tools we fools think, we possess, an etch~a~sketch,
to imprint of who we are,
what we were, and
who we might become, and
be  beauty becoming,
marking our time with ensigns of
words of integers in some giant network
authored, offered, up unashamedly

and even though the sun
does not always greet & meet
the discombobulated human riffraff
every diurnal,
daily identical,
when it shines,
it shines for us all
in an equality of glorious,
it shines upon us all in equality,
it, great equalizer, who restores and
replenishes our colored planets blue green,
a methodology of air, soil and water interactively,
for we are all chemicals, forever effervescent rebirthing

and so it goes.
our cells, are a
rare earth depository,
we plant ourselves
eternally, fed by
foodstuffs of
our ancestors cells,
their brewed ***** dust,
and thus each of us singly
is thus remembered, reconstructed
as are we, both, individually and collectively,
from dust we are, to dust we return, this matériel future prepped


postscript

We Hebrews have a knowingly foolish,
a most beauteous custom, gifted to us by
our forefather Jacob, who when espying a
solitary grave by the road, a nameless marker of
piled-on stones, marking an unknown person last remains,
added one more, add-on to ensure this nameless one yet remembered,
so we too do not pass by without adding a stone, a tiny pebble,
we encumbered, to solidify, perpetuate, renew, ever sustaining,
cannot pass by without adding another rock,
another pebble, that time will surely shift,
but as long we follow this custom,
spiting time's erosive nature and until today,
yet the same, for at a cemetery, every grave,
all marker, ego big, humbled small, topped,
festooned, with small stones, we top them
signaling that this, very spot here, here!
for now, until for ever
shall never
be forgot

<.
and so this peculiar, deteriorating canister places
one more smoothed handy beach pebble, upon
this, his unmarked resting spot
nml
<>
Monday morning
7:10am
an august, August dream day
specified as the 11th day of this
eighth month in one particular
calendric methodology
and as the
17th of Av 5785
in his ancestral calendar
sJews place stones on grave markers as a long-standing tradition symbolizing remembrance and respect for the deceased. It's a way to show that the person hasn't been forgotten and that someone has visited their final resting place. Unlike flowers, which are temporary, stones are seen as enduring, representing the everlasting nature of memory
Historical Roots:
The practice may have roots in ancient times when graves were marked with piles of stones
 6° 
badwords
.
asks the one in the $9 Craigslist chair,
legs crossed like a philosopher
mid-way through a YouTube binge
on dark matter
and dopamine fasting.


He thinks it’s profound.
It’s not.
It’s a shrug in a trench coat.
A crisis dressed up in code.
An old fear wearing digital cologne.

If this is a simulation—
what the **** are we simulating?

Heartbreak?
Minimum wage despair?
The number of times I check my phone
hoping it’s her?

Is it
a stress test for gods,
a beta for consciousness,
a joke?

Because if someone coded this—
they should be fired.
Or worshipped.
Or sued.

Where’s the patch notes,
the exit key,
the server room in the sky?

Where’s the moment it glitches
and someone finally says,
“Oops, our bad—
you weren’t meant to feel
all of that.”

You talk about the veil of illusion
but you still cry in parking lots.
You still ghost your therapist.
You still love people
who don’t text back.

You bleed,
you ache,
you spiral—
whether you’re made of atoms
or ******* pixels.

Your god wears headphones.
Your sacred text is a Stack Overflow thread.
Your heaven is a loading screen.
Your hell is just
Monday.

You pray in 1080p
to a silent DevOps deity
who hasn’t pushed an update
since the Bronze Age.

This isn’t philosophy.
It’s cosplay for cowards.
It’s a way to sound deep
without touching dirt.
Without risking faith.
Without changing anything.

Because if it’s a sim,
you don’t have to care.
If it’s a sim,
you don’t have to try.

You can just sit there,
scrolling.
Wondering if the fire
is ray-traced.

But here, the only questions that matter:
Does it hurt?
Do you love?
Can you lose?

Because if the answer is yes—
you’re in it.
Whatever it is.
Simulation or not.
I have no objections to simulation theory.
The idea doesn’t offend me, challenge me, or keep me up at night.
But the way people use it—
to avoid meaning, to dodge responsibility, to slap a silicon face on old human questions—
that’s the rot I came to scrape out.

If the theory inspires you to live with more wonder, more purpose, more curiosity?
Good.
But if it’s just your newest excuse to sit in the dark
and call it depth—
I wrote this for you

—-

I don’t object to simulation theory.
I object to what it’s become.

I object to the way it’s wielded—
not as a lens,
but as a crutch.
Not to elevate wonder,
but to escape consequence.

A lazy man’s metaphysics,
an atheist’s afterlife without stakes,
a Redditor’s way of sounding like they’ve read Plato
without ever having to bleed like him.

âž»

I don’t mind if this is code.
But code doesn’t absolve you.

The simulation doesn’t change the taste of grief.
Doesn’t mute your mother’s voice.
Doesn’t make your failures less yours.

If you’re still broke,
still starving for affection,
still clinging to a memory that won’t call back—
then congratulations:
it’s real enough.

The texture of suffering is not theoretical.

âž»

And yet I see you,
parading this theory around
like a get-out-of-meaning-free card.

You want the permission to disengage.
You want the illusion of knowing
so you never have to act.

You wear this idea like armor,
but inside it, you’re hollow.
You never went to war.
You just cosplayed philosophy
and called it courage.

âž»

Let’s be honest—
most of you don’t care if it’s real or not.
You just don’t want to feel stupid
for wasting your life.

So you slap a label on it.
You say it’s all a sim.
As if that makes your apathy profound.

âž»

But if this really is a simulation,
the insult isn’t that it’s fake.
It’s that you wasted your one shot
to matter inside it.

âž»

I don’t care what this is made of.
I care what you are made of.

And if all you can do is point at the veil
and call it interesting—
you’re not asking a question.
You’re just running from an answer.
 6° 
Farwa
Its me
  I'm not perfect,

I'm flawed
   not worth it,

Its me
   I'm flawed,

A broken heart
    That's worth it.
And a little self-conscious.
 6° 
Rebecca
The poet is an architect
he constructs sentences.

The poet is a cook
he mixes words.

The poet is a philosopher
he reflects on what he writes.

The poet is a student
he learns words.

But above all.

The poet has no definition
he defines himself.
Up to the trees I go,
Further north where fresh water flows.
Travel preparations with my heart aching,
Home is where I’m free,
Left alone just to be.
Not in this gloomy place,
Not within this heat wave.
Like a pioneer,
I pack my bags,
Leaving behind the places I know,
In search of the places,
Where I’ll grow.
I’m on the road, making my way up to the mountains. Travel is good for the soul, you shouldn’t dwell in the same places for too long.
The street is washed in a morning hush,
Tiles whisper stories under rush.
A woman walks in flowery grace,
her dress flowing behind her
A building in the background keeps watch
Over all that’s there
Like a silent protector

Between the stone and sky’s soft blue,
The city breathes in something true.
Modern windows, ancient light—
the city begins the day just right.
It’s morning.
 5° 
greatsloth
I saw your face
And thought an angel,
The sun has fallen—
You shine so effortlessly,
With a heart of gold
Brighter than any other,
And even blessed with a laughter
So contagious it makes the dead chuckle;
You've captivated me
My eyes set you as the prize,
But I know I'm destined for bronze
That is why the delusions must end—
Maybe in the next life
I can make you love me twice.
 5° 
Jay Jelly
Back to where
We began
I think I’ll stay right here

Dullness finally restored

Stepping outside the nest
Turning tides
Winds changing direction

A life you never

Imagined thought possible
Has come to fruition
Doors opened

Steps taken days feel fuller

It’s all coming around
Living life never felt so good
You can’t

Have it all right now

But that doesn’t matter anyway
Live in the present
The past will do you no favors  

Never let you mind drive the car
Follow your heart always
 5° 
Birdie
You keep your cards safely packaged
Close to your chest,
I throw mine around the room,
And they never rest.
You are careful, calculated and
Logics steadfast servant.
I am flippant, chaotic and
Ever fierce and fervent.
The bottom line is that you
Don’t feel like I do.
You don’t love me it’s true.
And I feel and love too hard
When it comes to you.
Dealt such differing decks and holding such dissimilar hands.
You and I are so desperately distinct
In ways we’ll never understand.
 5° 
Nat Lipstadt
4:21am
Tue
Aug 12

<*>

restless is the thinking brain,
rapid repeated beating
from an overheating sun
in a room of full-on dark,

difficult to weep,
harder to silent breathe,
one listens to his arrhythmic heart,
sending out messages incessantly & incomplete

every single sin ever committed
comes in with cheery face,
a greeting of, still here!
in this ,
our temporary final resting place

finish us off by completion,
makes us full of restitution,
by seeing to our undoing,
revolving, unending, the finally of sufficiently

those old curses
we can only face
by turning our faces away,
drop in, like best friends, come to sunrise visit

though dawn is yet eons of minutes far away,
though relief can never be fully attained,
though "though' is the first ****** word of excusal,
though betrayal is always next, the secondarily, refusal,

there is never a dot of period,
only a comma of pause, because,
there is no ending in completion
only in forgiving by your harshest critic,

yourself, yourself, our selving,
this unsolvable function of forgiveness upon this,
this, the two-days of Tuesday,
to day
two partings of one day ~ the night and the day

f:
In various contexts, "f" can represent several different things. Most commonly, it refers to the letter in the English alphabet, representing the voiceless labiodental fricative sound /f/. In mathematics, "f" often denotes a function, especially when used as f(x), which represents the output of a function for a given input x. Additionally, "f" can stand for force in physics or frequency in other scientific fields. It can also be a written abbreviation for various words starting with "f". Furthermore, in musical notation, "f" (or "forte") indicates a loud dynamic.
A priest arrived by ambulance
to bless our sudden kiss

A doctor brought his bag but cannot
treat such things as this

My jewelry is just colored rocks
like pretty polished hollyhocks
in silver settings gone to curls
the same as any other girl's

but I could be your only love.

A flautist played our melody
in notes so fine and clear

That summer brought her midnights close
so that the moon could hear

the notes, the song so marvelous
the player played so long for us
the priest laid down his holy flask
the doctor blushed before he asked

if I could be your only love.

An urchin took a photograph
of you in uniform

You gave me spice and chocolates
to keep my fever warm

and lucky is the lucky bird
who calls and calls a wafting word
In this peculiar pregnant dawn
his curious and constant song

that I could be your only love.
 5° 
nergui
"Ako'y alipin mo kahit hindi batid",
Kinakanta ng puso ng pasambit,
Kinakanta ng puso kahit masakit,
Pinipiling ihimlo kahit hindi rinig.

Sa bawat kanta na binibitaw ng bibig,
Pinapakita na ikaw ang tanging iniibig.
Sa bawat linya na kinakanta ng bibig,
Makikita na tanging ikaw lang ang hinibig.
 5° 
Anna May
❓
Will you love me anyway if I told you about my scars?
❓
Will you love me anyway if I told you about my eating disorder?
❓
Will you love me anyway if I told you about my father?
❓
Will you love me anyway if I told you about my OCD?
❓
Will you love me anyway if I told you about how they ruined my trust?
❓
Will you love me anyway if I told you about my trust issues?
❓
Will you love me anyway if you knew about my anger issues?
❓
Will you love me anyway if you knew about my mood swings?
❓
Will you love me anyway?
❓
❓❓❓❓
 5° 
Agnes de Lods
Carrying my truth.
I stand by my views,
watching through
my weakening gaze.

After a raging storm,
making peace with myself,
I vanish into the air,
my convictions fold with me.

Without simple answers,
wearing the new lens,
I see another world:
not clearer,
not wiser,
not safer,


just slightly shifted.
 5° 
ayushikori01
He stepped back without slamming the door, but i can still feel him standing behind it, maybe still waiting.
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