Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Nov 2020 AylahHearts
Lior Gavra
It flies amongst the stars.
Flashes for a moment.
Despite the left scars.
Holds a place close, yet far.

It carries the fallen.
From mistaken paths.
To reaches impossible.
And develops new plans.

It creates new countries.
Raises dead soldiers.
Stamps unsung heroes.
With a feeling of free.

Hear its silent sound.
Open up your eyes.
Place it in your heart.
Elevate from the ground.

It helps us climb.
Better than rope.
Do you see its shape?
It is hope.
My anxieties run through me like river
I am not all beautiful
But I am trying to be alive anyways
I drink coffee to join mornings
I take deep breaths to live inside of moments

I observe so I can see you without my presence as a distraction
I take in your lips so I know what coming together feels like
I dance with your hands to feel everything all at once
I leave the blinds open so I can move with nature

All of this is to say that I am working to be here
Please do not add to my mourning
I am human too
I am real
I have feeling in my chest
And I don’t want to shatter
So much so… that I never get to glow

... At least just once.
 Aug 2016 AylahHearts
Sean Hunt
I'm so glad there's an ocean
Between you and me
Distance and dreams
Are all that can be

If you were next door
What there would be
Is the danger and drama
Of proximity

I tremble to think
Of the crevice and *****
On the slippery hills of
Love full of hope

Windermere, Jan 25 2016
He was intoxicated
by the scent of the coffee
dancing in the morning
to his mother’s humming.
Then a blacksmith - his father -
taught him how to hammer
form out of chaos
in the muddle of force
and a sweaty anvil.
Now if he wished to see
the sunness of Sun
and the greenness of Tree
he would summon the specter
of an Arab maiden - Fatma -
who was once Berber
to come write on his face
with her soothing finger:
“Salam, my anguished lover.”
When green-eyed Fatma comes
the wreaths of coffee
Would come with her
writing in the air;
and all the songs of history
would come marching too,
in battle array,
like an army dressed
in civilian clothes
for a dance in Rio.
Fatma’s hair –
a still cascade
of thin goldeness,
a tide of watery fire,
a flight motionless  
of a million birds who
speak in tongues
and laugh
to the stone unlettered
of his fidgety cenotaph .

© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, August 27, 2016
 Aug 2016 AylahHearts
Lora Lee
Take the words
out from my mouth
please chew them well,
don't spit them out
Swallow them
deep into your throat
let them circulate,
let them float
into your mind,
into your heart
with my words
         inside you,
we'll never part
        and if
the time comes
that you should speak
in sharp punctuation
across my cheek
know that I might,
for a second,
hold my tongue
before it unfurls
   and becomes undone
it might lash out
in a burning sting
from the shock of
             the lexicon
that fervor brings
but then rage will
melt upon our lips
in satin threads
                 of fire
that burn their tips
and no temporary storm
will declare our pain
in language sacred,
and then
I'd rather bind
my lips to yours
let the waves rise up
           on speech's shores
let the tides of
spill out in phrases
as the moon whispers
bliss in hidden phases
and we'll forget our
periods and commas
and grammatical structures
as polished vernacular
      turns to animal lustre
as we slide to the floor
verbal cannons unfired,
finally at
     a loss for
 Aug 2016 AylahHearts
Skyy Blu
Listen to the melody that plays within your own soul..... and Realize that you are a beautiful song----but not everyone can sing or play you. You are a gift given to the world..... Fearfully and Wonderfully made.... Playing in the key-of-Love----a perfect melody sent from above. There's no other song like you... you are a melody so rare..... Relax, Breath, and Flow in the sweetest melody---- The melody of your soul ---- That is You....
 Aug 2016 AylahHearts
i remember the first time you wrote my name down on paper and meant it, how i ran my fingers over the letters and knew you had to have been sitting on the porch when you wrote them with the sun peeking shyly around the pillars. you left traces of the honeysuckle in the air, of being awake at six in the morning without hesitation, snapshots of the shape of my mouth moving in the august moon too selfish to let you sleep.  we were doing headstands in the grass, we were falling over from the moment we met and you told me how much it meant to you, for us to tumble down clumsily only to keep on trying, to stain our elbows on pews of green and giggle as gravity exposed our bellies to the night.

it was a whisper at the dawn, an echo of certainty-- the first time you wrote down my name and meant it.
Next page