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  3d Anna
Pagan Paul
     I stare down at the plate of toast and beans
     wondering why this was never part of my dreams.
     Looking for the future with an illusional pretence,
     hoping good apples will fall on my side of the fence.

And as the fork dances slow
around the legumes in spirals,
the tedium of a wasting life
bears the burden and scars
of missed opportunities in paralysis
and the colour of once bright lights
          glow black,
shining a shadow into the void
covering the bruises
that were once achievements of worth,
     now tender patches
          of failure.
I drop the fork ...

     … pushing away the plate and leaving food uneaten,
     my desire for its nutrition fought and beaten,
     Looking at the apple tree with sombre regret
     maybe its fruit will fall and save me yet.

And disappointment
is worse than anger,
it begins with the stench of loss
the nasal whiff of
what if …

And what if the little apple tree
drops all its fruit down to me?
Would I recognise fortune on my side
or fear the illusions and run to hide?

© Pagan Paul (17/02/18)
Anna 4d
“What is the meaning of life?

Do we just wait around here to die?”

She asked sighing

Looking into the night

“No.” he smiled

Reaching for her palm

“The meaning is as simple

As holding your hand in mine.”
  4d Anna
हो चाहत में इतनी शिद्दत, के कोई ताकत सामना कर ना सके
हो दिल में इतनी मोहब्बत, के नफरत भी मुकाबला कर ना सके

Let my desire have such intensity that no power dare face it
Let my heart bear such love that no hatred can ever match it
The sure way to **** temptation is to face it.
again and again.
and once more.
or twice.

Titled प्रेम पुजारी - translates to 'Priest of love'
Anna May 10
News Article

Throwing Headlines
In a green bin
Quit recycling our
Bottled frustrations
Switching the venue
And the weapon
And the mother in mourning
Unsuspecting of the grief following the packed lunch
That morning
Just another


Of a population
Living in a warzone
America: the land
Built on wailing, cursed bones
don’t take our guns
What if the terrorists come?
And what if they do?
And they are white and they are male
And they look….just….like…
When the writing prompt is a recent news article, its a crying shame there are multiple reports that helped create this poem.
  May 8 Anna
Ditte Jakobsen
grab my hair
and touch my skin
breathe my air
and let me in
whisper softly in my ear
that I have nothing left to fear
cause time has left
and so has place
just you and me
floating through space
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