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𝕀 π•‘π•’π•šπ•Ÿπ•₯𝕖𝕕 π•₯𝕙𝕖 π••π•’π•£π•œ , π•¨π•šπ•₯𝕙 π•₯𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕠𝕧𝕖 π•ͺ𝕠𝕦 𝕀𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕖𝕕 ,
π••π•£π•’π•¨π•Ÿ π•₯𝕙𝕖 π•¦π•Ÿπ•π•šπ•žπ•šπ•₯𝕖𝕕 π•“π• π•¦π•Ÿπ••π•’π•£π•šπ•–π•€ , π•¨π•šπ•₯𝕙 π•₯𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕖 π•ͺ𝕠𝕦 𝕓𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕖𝕕

π•šπ•₯ π•€π•™π•šπ•Ÿπ•–π•• 𝕕𝕖𝕖𝕑𝕝π•ͺ, 𝕛𝕦𝕀π•₯ π•π•šπ•œπ•– π•ͺ𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕖π•ͺ𝕖𝕀 ,π•¨π•™π•–π•Ÿ π•žπ•–π•₯ π•¨π•šπ•₯𝕙 π•žπ•šπ•Ÿπ•–,
π•”π•’π•Ÿπ•§π•’π•€π•€π•–π•• π•₯𝕙𝕖 π•žπ• π•€π•₯ 𝕓𝕖𝕒𝕦π•₯π•šπ•—π•¦π• π•žπ• π•žπ•–π•Ÿπ•₯𝕀 , 𝕛𝕦𝕀π•₯ π•π•šπ•œπ•– π•€π•šπ•‘π•‘π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜ π•€π• π•žπ•– π•§π•šπ•Ÿπ•₯π•’π•˜π•– π•§π•šπ•Ÿπ•–

β„‚π•’π•Ÿ'π•₯ π•π• π• π•œ 𝕠𝕦π•₯ 𝕒π•₯ π•₯𝕙𝕖 π•’π•žπ•’π•«π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜ π•˜π•π•šπ•žπ•žπ•–π•£π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜ π•Ÿπ•šπ•˜π•™π•₯ π•€π•œπ•ͺ,
π•Ÿπ• π•₯ π•–π•§π•–π•Ÿ 𝕒π•₯ π•₯𝕙𝕖 π•‘π•£π•–π•”π•šπ• π•¦π•€ 𝕀π•₯𝕒𝕣𝕀, π•¨π•™π•šπ•”π•™Β Β π•€ 𝕨𝕒𝕀 π• π•Ÿπ•”π•– π•¨π•’π•Ÿπ•₯𝕖𝕕 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 π•žπ•ͺ 𝕖π•ͺ𝕖

𝕀 π•₯π•£π•šπ•–π•• π•₯𝕠 𝕀𝕑𝕒𝕣𝕖 π•žπ•ͺ π•₯π•šπ•žπ•–, 𝕛𝕦𝕀π•₯ 𝕓π•ͺ π•˜π•’π•«π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜ 𝕒π•₯ ℝ𝕖𝕕 𝕣𝕠𝕀𝕖𝕀,
𝕠𝕣 π•–π•§π•–π•Ÿ π•₯π•£π•šπ•–π•• π•₯𝕠 π•‘π•šπ•”π•₯𝕦𝕣𝕖 π•žπ•– π•’π•π• π•Ÿπ•–, π•¦π•Ÿπ••π•–π•£ π•žπ• π• π•Ÿ-π•π•šπ•₯ π•Ÿπ•šπ•˜π•™π•₯𝕀,
𝕓𝕦π•₯ π•”π•’π•Ÿ'π•₯ , π•Ÿπ•  π•Ÿπ• π•₯ π•–π•§π•–π•Ÿ π•šπ•Ÿ π••π•£π•–π•’π•žπ•€

𝔽𝕠𝕣 𝕀 π•”π•’π•Ÿ'π•₯ 𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕑 π•žπ•ͺ 𝕖π•ͺ𝕖𝕀 π•€π•–π•’π•£π•”π•™π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜ π• π•Ÿπ•π•ͺ 𝕗𝕠𝕣 π•ͺ𝕠𝕦
𝔽𝕠𝕣 𝕀 π•”π•’π•Ÿ'π•₯ 𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕑 π•—π•’π•π•π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜ 𝕖𝕒𝕔𝕙 π•₯π•šπ•žπ•– π• π•Ÿπ•π•ͺ 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 π•ͺ𝕠𝕦
πš‚πš˜πš–πšŽπš˜πš—πšŽ πš πšŠπš—πšπšŽπš πš–πšŽ 𝚝𝚘 πš πš›πš’πšπšŽ πšŠπš‹πš˜πšžπš πš–πš’ πšŒπš›πšžπšœπš‘ , πšŠπš—πš πšŠπšœπš”πšŽπš πšπš‘πš›πš˜πšžπšπš‘ πšœπšŽπšŒπš›πšŽπš πš–πšœπš. πš‚πš˜ πš‘πšŽπš›πšŽ πš’πš πš’πšœ!
πš†πš›πš’πšπšπšŽπš— πšπš˜πš› πš–πš’ πš‹πšŽπš•πš˜πšŸπšŽπš πšŒπš›πšžπšœπš‘ , whom 𝙸 hadn't πšŽπšŸπšŽπš— πš–πšŽπš, not even known to me yet!!
(About my imaginative crush)
i do not sing the storm. i do not sing rage, wrath
the lightning bolt, the scream. Despair i do not sing
i do not sing struggle–revenge poisonous blast–
the hurricane, the quake that tears the city of peace

i do not sing no border. i do not sing no flag
i do not sing no warrior but she that fights all fear
Poverty & sickness-night, the blade, the club, the trap
blows, wounds, cries, lies, bursts & war-blood i do not sing

i do not sing despise for any thing or being
i do not praise no richness no governors, no kings
From all this flower-garden i pick one single rose:
creation is just dew upon the rose of love

i celebrate one flame. i only sing one blues:
the flame of endless loving with you & only you
~
When you are alone
And you stare at the ceiling
And time feels like an eternity
When you’re sad,
That’s when you become a poet.

When you are with someone
And your heart flutters
And time feels too short
When you’re happy,
That’s when you become a poet.

But when the sky was a different shade of blue
And my heartbeat was louder
Than the drops of heavy rain
And time felt like it froze
As I felt my first numbing pain
Of being left,
That’s when I became a poet.
You are my unsent message.
The cursor blinking rhythmically,
With my heartbeat,
Waiting,
For me to hit send.
But I am not ready,
And I’m not sure if I ever will be
So I left it like that.
Unsent. Unseen. Unread.
β€œI miss you.”
She watches me
as I illuminate her
head on the pillow,
still cornering the daylight
into the rear window.

She lays, outstretched,
filling the back seat of the car
with unwrapped thoughts,
too deep;
my rays can only reach so far.

Her sleepy eyelids blink
at me in question.
A suggestion?
I hide my face behind a cloud.
"'till soon," I whisper.
I'm only just a surface moon.
All children gather round in a circle;
While in their teens in the middle-
go on playing spin the bottle.

As adults figuring out a purpose;
Life is a colour of passions-
we all could be a colour purple.

Under the shade of a plum tree;
As days are like purple leaves-
praying not to be lost in the winds.

All children gather round in a circle;
While in their teens in the middle-
go on playing spin the bottle.

As adults figuring out a purpose;
Life is a colour of passions-
we all could be a colour purple.

Under the shade of a plum tree;
As days are like purple leaves-
praying not to be lost in the winds.
Children shouldn't need to worry, they're afraid to go home, It just may mean a beating and to sleep in a hole. Why do parents do it? because they cant find a job? this man is a drinker a beer guzzling slob. How about the mother? she is guilty too. Cigarette burns up and down his back, bruised black and blue. Where do these people come from? I feel that I know, because when they were little with broken hearts and broken toe's. I'm talking about decades, of years of this pain, if you knew it all it would drive you insane. I want to raise an awareness of these babies so small, how they brought you joy when they learned how to crawl. when they ate their first French fry, then learned how to walk, then mumbled out sounds and eventually talked. So the next time you feel like your loosing control, then you take a beating and sleep in a hole
I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)
In order to proceed,
Do it.
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