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Please don’t call me beautiful
when your hands are between my legs,
and god forbid you say it as a seg-way
between you’re so hot
and my caution, your response
you’re sure you don’t want to?
I’m pretty sure the way my body looks,
nineteen and stress-infused with an Oreo belly
isn’t really what you pictured beneath my blouse,
and I’m positive you didn’t listen
to the story about my dad and the bad prom dress
because you cared. It was just sentiment. You said it was beautiful,
but really you wanted me to believe the act
like a description in the Playbill
and ride that trust all the way until the curtain dropped.
Please don’t call me beautiful
when the word ******* is before it
or if we are ******* because making love
is for married couples and you don’t even want me
sticking around for the ****** sunrise that peers
underneath your shade every morning.

Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m crying—
crack me open and watch the colors bleed
like a painting that hasn’t dried. Admire
the light that peaks through the clear parts
like a windowpane, no blinds.
Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m laughing,
when I’m reading my favorite part of a book,
when I’m stuffing my face with peanut-butter
pretzel bites and I haven’t washed my sheets in weeks,
and I’ll know you can’t be lying
because I’ve listened to the waves your heart makes
when you’re sleeping and I’ve called your smile
to the surface many times when you’ve tried
to deflect it back inside. You’ll know that
and you’ll know I’m beautiful.  
Call me beautiful
when you’re not even trying.
Call me beautiful when you’re by yourself
and the smell of my hair is still on your pillow,
or the memory of how dumb I sounded
singing my favorite song breaks your heart back
to the best little pieces.
Try to understand.
 Nov 2014 Amaya Bhavya
Amee
Walk a mile or two from highway down
A school was located in a small town
Summer was very hard to miss
Sun soared up, to give a kiss
Little children came out to play
In break of a boring long day

Evening, teddy bears were sold
Outside the gate, by a man old
Big and small, brown, grey, white
In a black robe for dollars five
One day, kids hit him with a rock
"Defected teddies!", old man they mock

Anger ensued in the mister seller
Love for the kids or rage dweller?
He waited for kids to be good
But long can he live w/o food?
Hurt was his enormous heart
Revenge was this day to start

He picked a knife and killed em kids
Tiny, little, small ****** bits
Tortured, butchered and slaughtered
To hell, the revenge was offered
Stuffed body pieces in big cotton teddy
Killed himself that day very

Years went by, in blink of an eye
Stories told of how kids die
School shut down, high inflation rate
Loud painful noises heard till date
Entrance had tall gates of metal
Midnight, hinges creaking sound settle

Souls of notorious kids scream
"Wake us from this horrendous dream"
They know not they are just ghosts
Hanging in teddy bears, from tree host
And there below sits the old man, black cloaked
Killing new passing kids, in teddies blood soaked
Passing by a park, we happened to have come across hawkers selling teddy bears hanging from a tree. Creepy visual led to writing a horror story.
 Nov 2014 Amaya Bhavya
Just Melz
When a poet doesn't know the answer
To the simplest questions
It's because their mind is so filled
With abnormal poetic revisions

When a poet doesn't know
The way to say how they feel
It's because they need to write it out
So they know the feelings are real

When a poet doesn't know
How to say I love you
It's because they haven't found a rhyme
That brings out the best in you

When a poet doesn't know what to say
Or simply how to make you feel better
They just type up some lines and rhymes
Like... "We'll get through this together"

When a poets doesn't know the answer
Or how to say what they feel
Or that they're in love with you
Or how to make you feel better still

And they don't have the words to write it all down....
That poet's world is sure to crumble to the ground
As a known poet among friends, they find it odd that I don't always have the right words to express myself in normal conversations sometimes. Maybe this will shed some light on that.
Do any of y'all really know me?
Can you see who I am from my poetry?
If your answer is yes, you're wrong
Even I don't know where I belong
When people ask who I am
I say I'm 26, a mother, a poet,
I basically just read my bio
But you've all read that too
Does that mean you really know?
A friend told me lately
To stop being so humble about my poetry
I don't like to come off sounding cocky
He says I'm **** good at what I do
But not every poem is about you
Not every word is always true
Sometimes, they're just words written in ink
To give you an idea, to really make you think....  
But my poetry doesn't define me
Doesn't show you who I am inside
Sure, you've read about my heartaches
And all the nights I've cried
But nothing I write,
Can show you the inner workings of my mind
So, please don't think you really know me
Based solely on all my posted poetry
Because, to be honest, I'm not even sure who I am
And I know me, better than all of you
But please continue to read and comment
Because I'd love to know the truth
About what you all really think of me
Honestly, y'all have really helped me through
designing n expressing…
a field I chose,
as there’s no right or wrong…
where one can sing
one’s own painted song…

surfing the waves of life
ignorant of my inner strife.
I flew on wings of dreams
till I chanced upon, one day
on the spiritual door, up stream

spirituality then happened to me.
I equally happened back to it.
ever since its been a love lore

all boundaries now diminished
like baby inside mother…
the ‘doer’ and the ‘doing’
the seeker and the sought
have merged into each other…

is there an ‘other’?

‘love’ and ‘spirituality’ to me,
are one n the same thing.
both facilitate the connect of self,
oh so deep within.

the door to immortality
both hold the key.
let the truth unfold
you don’t have to plea.

love is my breathing,
art my signature,
spirituality my anchoring,
absolute soul my true nature.
6th Oct 2014, Interlaken, Switzerland

the moment i landed here in Interlaken
just a few days ago
i felt an affinity unique.
ever since i have been flowing
as if poetry is me.

a unison of a sort
a tryst with me, my self
an enigma…
a line…
a dot…
or a shine?


Who are we?
a sum total of our illusions…
or the choices of our delusions…
a window to our mind…
an absentia…
a presence…
or total blind…

Who are we?
energy…
or mind…
body…
or spirit sublime…

a lung…
a heart.
an *****…
a gland.
or an invisible cast…

the ‘hold’
or the holder…
inane
or a super natural plast…

Who are we?
the question perpetual.

Who are we?
question which shows ‘void’.

Who are we?
the question itself, a void.
filling, is but our indulgence.

to live our mind
to play our mind
we locked our ‘self’
we chose to forget.

The ‘self’ is.
we chose sleep.
the reverie we love…
but enough we have seen
and lots we have been.

the inner self beckons.
the sound of beyond…
we hear but neglect,
we respond some,
then again forget.

the waking, the reverie.
the ebb and the tide.

we lesser mortals,
ignorant of our shine.

some of us have woken,
we can’t lie now…
we hear the silence,
we know the flow,
we know that space,
where death doth not show.
 Nov 2014 Amaya Bhavya
Anand
Maybe that is why
I don't cry
when to my dear ones
I bid goodbye
can't say if it's poetry, just a passing thought...
I did not cry when my grandparents died.
I bid them farewell, cherishing the memories I shared with them.
Because I believe life is not a destination but a journey. The moment you die, a new journey starts, and this circle continues 'till you are liberated.

Moreover, I have seen people who didn't look after their parents all their lives
but on their demise, during funeral ceremony, they portray a false, insincere display of emotion, shedding crocodile tears.

All you have got is here and now. Live life and love your dear ones to the fullest. :)
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