Sometimes, I feel
that the modern world
has traded love, for clarity...
has traded flowery gardens,
for deserts.
has traded stars,
for a picture of stars.
has traded dance and songs,
for analysis.
has traded ecstasy,
for mere control.
has traded heart,
for mind.
has traded life,
for death...
© Manan sheel.
Dec 15, 2024
Dec 15, 2024 at 1:40 PM UTC
I love slow,
not snailish,
random acts,
but where one is
relieved, revealed
in their yawn and
stretching of limbs,
a little scratch
in the ribs,
stomach
like an animal
absently fluffing
up fur...
a spread of charm,
wayward hair
strand curled
curled to a spiral,
deep guttural sigh
of a woman asleep
over her lush hair
or walking quietly
under the trees
trance-gazing
a stray cotton seed,
helicoptering dry leaf,
squirrel run...
I love slow,
gentle sidestep
dance to it,
revolve of
lissome waist to music,
liquid spread
in a hot pan,
still breath
between kisses
sea waves licking
up the feet,
slithering afar,
time nibbling
away...
Dec 15, 2024
Dec 15, 2024 at 1:06 PM UTC
Will you kiss my scars?
Will you love my rot and decay too?
Crystallize me in all that’s unnatural and unpleasant.
Frame me in my ugly.
Be there when I see no light but only beckoning hands into the darkness.
Cut me your hand to hold instead of trimming the edges of my sanity.
Starve yourself with me. Starve yourself of me.
Taste me when I’m solely iron in your body,
trickling down your nose to remind you I'm there.
Feed me sugar cubes to keep the flies warm.
Wean me off the good stuff until I shame you for sharing.
Won’t you keep me sated?
Won’t you blanket your daisies in my mouth?
But what about the moths?
What about the maggots and, oh, what about the monkeys that tease you to let me go?
Let the dead go. Let her go, they say.
You won’t kiss my scars again if you knew I was dead.
Decaying won and I still love you!
I still love you.
I still love you.
How can’t I?
You loved me enough to care for the rot.
Dec 11, 2024
Dec 11, 2024 at 2:11 PM UTC
the best time to realize
when
what
causes one to experience
the meaning of to be
deathly afraid
is
exactly
when
you are not
joy purifying
enfolds you, envelops, indeed,
you
are subsumed, a sense of being
secondary
to the unusual flooding of the
dry riverbed in your head that’s
been dry since you can’t remember
when
when you understand
that one cannot truly
write only love poetry
to precise excess
unless
admittedly you love
to excess,
otherwise
you are incapable of making
good
love poems
when
you are not
within that
rare off the beaten yes trackless meniscus curve,
in
country
of first love
of
only
true love
Dec 9, 2024
Dec 9, 2024 at 3:37 PM UTC
be the vines,
exist slowly. cautiously.
crawl up, looking for any
footholds to expand your reach.
exist violently.
tear down the bricks of
the building you conquered
and above all else—
rise to the top of what you hate the most.
Feb 8, 2024
Feb 8, 2024 at 2:06 AM UTC
all we feel is pain
from a society that has torn us apart.
our words ignite thunder,
and our actions burn scars.
our views have altered because of
dreams crushed by stars.
our reality has deadened,
like our once-beautiful hearts.
Dec 14, 2023
Dec 14, 2023 at 11:18 PM UTC
he strung pearls round my neck
and I strung him from a tree
as he choked his final breath
I crooned, “save a spot in hell for me”
a kiss of red upon his cheek
the ghost of lust haunting his lips
as imprinted on his memory
as the bruising fingers on my hips
he thought me as a canvas
he could paint to be refined
pretty to be looked at
touched with detachment of the mind
the fool should have kept his pearls
and found another portrait to admire
for if you give me a golden candle
I’ll set your world on fire
Dec 14, 2023
Dec 14, 2023 at 3:07 AM UTC
There is a beauty that comes from seeing
a flower dancing in the wind with the
leaves that follow.
It's no different with ballet.
For the art comes from the music within a soul
and the mortal coil brings it to light with
enchanting dances.
For I see myself in a the blank canvas of a theatre
and the Swan Queen graces the canvas as the brush,
with raw love expressed not from her body but her heart.
As she spreads her wings, I can hear the words behind her moves,
the flame that twirls with kaleidoscope wonders.
"I am here," the voice says. "Don't you see? I am here! I am free!
I am freedom!"
And as the Swan dies, broken but content, the crowd erupts
like thunder in the Heavens.
"For you see now," the voice echoes as I claps. "You see now.
The secret language within a soul that passion can only bring out."
Dec 9, 2023
Dec 9, 2023 at 3:29 AM UTC