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Oftentimes,
A poet doesn't lift their pen daily,
It's better to write nothing,
Than force something out.

As well for the fact,
Some things are best left unsaid,
This world is a rocky streambed.
Sometimes you just gotta put the pen down and try again tomorrow.
You’re not allowed here
Your room
The smell of clutter
Cuts through you
The trauma the trash
The lies shatter you
stay in your room don’t go
I matter right
Don’t fight
Shhh dont lash out they won’t hear a word
Trash doesn’t deserve to get out
Your a monster right stay longer
your lost in the process toss in  piles and piles
I’m lost in the lies and the misery
Dont yell don’t make a scene leave
Don’t come back
That room isn’t yours
Was  I a guessed let’s guess
I was your daughter
But just laugh it off
Because what you keep inside
builds up just like the clutter
Don’t look back
Those roots rot  
Because they will lack the ability to move forward
You left but that trash stayed back
Don’t go back.

RLC
 Feb 28 Khoisan
Amethyste
Fairy
 Feb 28 Khoisan
Amethyste
The fairy stood at the rock.
Her golden eyebrows fallen down.
I could hear her whisper to the waves.
The boy did not show up today.
He is not writing poetry anymore.
 Feb 28 Khoisan
Twisted Poet
the feeling of powerlessness
that turns good men
cruel

-you know the oldest lie in history? is that power can be innocent
 Feb 28 Khoisan
Twisted Poet
i wont glorify or romanticize heartbreak
for me it was a kind of death
and i was forced to keep on living
 Feb 28 Khoisan
Bekah Halle
Denial will not bring freedom,
Acceptance will.
Not for anyone else,
But You.
Walking in the light,
Will bring freedom!
 Feb 28 Khoisan
Amethyste
I write poetry to get to know myself
When I forget who I am
I go through my spilled verses
And I remember.
 Feb 28 Khoisan
Ken Pepiton
Salmabanu Hatim  
Tanzanian wombed man,

said in a poetic mind, reading
the name and kind of mind we mean

realizing,
we are alive,
during times of living words,
present in one instant, to any eye…

Tall Story

works some magic, telling old
what we were told, old times

back when story seed got stored.

Stories some say old as words.
Saying some things aloud are so beautiful,
Forever
for never
always, last May
she'd felt the air was acidic
scorching past bruised lips to fuel the wrong kind of engine
that water was a balm just out of reach, forbidden.

Today, with her boot turned to lead, Jessie raced alongside relief
a king's ransom in her contacts
she a queen-to-be.​
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