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 838° 
meka
I'm sorry, mum
That you went through all that pain
To bring me into life
For me to just waste away
And wish I wasn't alive
 720° 
Nat Lipstadt
Ah, Pradip,
once more, like a 1000 times before,
you submit title, demanding a poem,
daring me to author it's entire body & cell structure,
give it a native language birthmark, and a history unique,
even a name

Un fair!

Is it only me that you burden so, I doubt it.

Each of us has the right to the small tinys, things we see,
the embellishments of our lives,
filling our hives with pure honey,
and letting the other others peek
over our shoulders, as we write to each other,
always one more time until there is no more time

Do words have any boundaries?

How is it that words can cross the seas, the mountains, all the while,
interjecting the fullness of their import?

What time is it you ask?
Here, not yet 5 AM, and once more, here again, roused from sleep after vivid dreams, and finger pointing of my poetic life responsibility to complete this task, you gave me unasked, but know me too well, for well they rang like a bell in the brain,
a burr in the bed,
a gun to the head
Each
and all commanding,
fulfill me!

Do words require a passport to cross oceans? Do words have citizenship?
Why does entry into a different country require each time, a new poem?

yes, the house is dark,
I am alone, but not really…

The words that are conscripted to be issued, in this missive, fall so easily from my lips, that it is as if they were already there,
MRE's
?
pre-prepared, "meals – ready – to eat, "
for voyaging to the Indian continent, not caring if they came alone, or with my body in their person possessed

How is the little granddaughter?
Does she command you to write poetry too?
Does she write poetry too?
Does she learn English as well as her native tongue?
How do you tell her that you love her, celebrate her,
and that her fame and escapades are unkempt  
by real geographical boundaries,
and travel around the world?

Ah, You see
I have charged you now with responsibility!

Ah, the tables have turned, now boundaries must be crossed again with a passport issued from a foreign land (foreign to me anyway),
And I wonder and wander, when they arrive, how will I know,
commit them to memory, and love them with all my heart forever?

Praddip!
Go for one of your walks on quiet nearly empty roads, see the old people beside them, doing the things that old people do,

and memorialize these moments,
you do
so well, so fine, and let the other onlookers hear them spoke, in every language, so many love poems to life, we do not lack for any,
but always, always, always,
demand and require,
n e e d
(he howls)
one more!

Time: 5:1 2 AM
Eastern standard time
New York City
By the Atlantic Ocean
On an island surrounded by water,
That 1,000,000 or more every day pass by,
And here,
h e a r not the flow,
lost amidst
the blaring megaphone of silences
of
city noises, city words, cityscapes, human miracles, and tragedies, it cannot be.
that
I am
the only one so burdened!
And by well traveled poetry,
so un burdened

This semi private, totally public,
Love now,
Love note
is complete as of 5:16 a.m., and after a quick review, will be sent on to you, for submission of a unique-passport for
with its very own
valid entry stamp

nml
please, as usual, advise any typos (toe matoes)
 555° 
Nat Lipstadt
~
words given life's first breath by this comment from
SE Reimer  
"thy tiller has found a storied port"

~~

captain of a city street ferry,
upon the choppy holy waters of
scarlet fevered spotted gum stained
christened concrete streets

daylight guided by the starlight
of quartz sparklers sidewalk embedded,
resurrecting, overwhelming,
the grayness of men's mortared materialism,
these textured bright city lights,
from murk morn steam-pipe risen,
signposts of a city boys life,
navigation tools on his
steerage cruises

'tis only my poor torso
I captain,
my bus driving days retired,
single masted, obedient to the sun's paths plotted
on a personalized AAA TripTik,^
my cargo, my tiring physique,
the refined mettle product of a
sixty five year too short voyage of
deep diving mining defining,
and for surety, water divining

city walking life driving,
debtor-in-possession of a
city infection
of perpetual motion sickness

enabled inability
for standing stilled,
lane weaving,
people receiving and perceiving
as buoyed obstacle objects
to be passed by
in a higher lane
of shaken and stirred
city waterways

muscle's squeak in sonnet speak

Why speed thy errant boots
upon lanes of wandering men,
is there not time enough,
words suffice,
in history's future present
unlived long life,
to recompense
all your recorded stanzas,
mariner's tales and wrote recitations of seafaring voices?

sea nat run.
sea nat go.

dodging tween his fellow citified citizens
and the puzzled and puzzling drowning tourists,
sea nat write his unsecreted visions,
sailing from street to shining street poetry

this glorious grime,
this delicious dirt,
stuff of my blood,
genes of my children's children inheritance,
of thee I sing,
in thee I revel,
of thee I am composed

when my decomposing time scheduled arrival
lately comes on time,
bury me in its cemetery of memories,
within the soft earth of a watery grave
that the jackhammers drill bit paddles can uncover,
in rough canvas toss my worn smooth
failed frame overboard,
so I may become but one more
fable
in your fabulous liquefying
cement oceans

~~~

3:53 am
5/18/16
nyc

^
http://pearlsoftravelwisdom.boardingarea.com/2014/01/remember-triptix/
with apologies to all the great poets from  I liberally borrowed
 495° 
Saem
I’m stepping out for a little while,
Not from the world,
but from the war inside.

I’m tired of loathing
this skin I live in—
the mirror, a battlefield,
my thoughts, unkind.

I’m tired of chasing
versions of me
that only exist
in the eyes of others.

Tired of shrinking
beneath regrets,
of picking scabs
from wounds long closed.

My mind is a room
with no windows lately,
filled with echoes
of not enough.

So I’m leaving the door ajar—
not slamming it,
just slipping out
for air.

I need to remember silence
that doesn’t scream.
Stillness
that doesn’t ache.

I’ll be back
when I can hold myself
without flinching,
when I can sit with my fears
and not let them speak over me.

This isn’t quitting.
It’s healing.
It’s choosing peace
before I forget how it feels.
 404° 
Kai
I've been lately writing poetry!
Oh? What do I see?
A perfect poetry site waiting for me!
First poem, proud of it!
Oh? Someone in my messages?
This guy seems sweet
And he's hoping I don't get beat!
Pretty songs for me to listen to!
And a drunk man messaging me...?
“You're only making yourself a victim because you're cutting yourself"
Oh? Okay- thanks for the paragraph/drunk rant?

Shining lights on all of my latest poems?
Thank you! You're so sweet!
….oh…talking to me about pedophiles…got it…
Why are there so many sad songs?
WHY DOES THIS MAN HAVE SO ****** MUSIC TASTE AGGGHGDGFGCC

Oh? You wrote a poem about the 764 and absolutely humiliating them?
Great! Good job!
…But uhh… why and how did they make a virus only going after your followers that are minors? Not funny!
Why is this man warning me if they threaten me? Is he trying to make me scared on purpose?
Blaming the Japanese for this virus now, huh?
Oh? Now blaming someone else named Pax to be part of the 764? Crazy

…. going to another website? But you're so fun!
May as well click on the link you sent me so I can join you

Drunk rants with me? That's okay!
Giving me gold so I can freely make poems?
THANK YOU SM
Daily texting
2-10 hour sessions
Why are you drinking everyday?
You're making me concerned for your health
I told you to stop drinking, papa
You promised me you'd stop
All you did was keep on drinking

Commenting on every poem I made
Oh? So suddenly I'm a “nasty *****" when I have done nothing to you? ありがとう!
We have a suicide pact now?
I'm going off the bridge first?
Don't mind if I do

Oh? Another poetry site? Okay…
I really don't like the way this site works, can't we just message each other with email?
Yes? Yay!

People bullying you on the internet? That's not okay!
Why would they accuse you of being a *******?
Letting me join an uncensored group to back you up? Great!
Sending me to a Reddit page to back you up?
Alright!
….oh … they warned me and I didn't do anything….
******* this man is an actual *******…..
gotta go fast like Sonic
pack my bags and leave

Oh? I betrayed you? Crazy
We were just friends
Can you stop spitting my name everywhere?
It's like you're so obsessed with me
Stop trying to be the Eminem to my Mariah Carey
Made a poem about you and you HAD to take it down?
Never thought you'd want to hide your identity THAT hard
Oh? Betting on my suicide now, are we?
Sending me multiple emails, desperate for me to come back to him?
I'm not that ******* naive or gullible
It's crazy if you think that about me
…I did tell you to send those photos of your cut open arms but I DIDN'T THINK YOU'D TAKE IT SERIOUSLY AND DO IT

Being racist?
“Japshit”?
Why are you so obsessed with my Chinese genes?
“I thought I can use Kai because of her Chinise genes because the Chinise was known to be very good spies. ☝️🤓" へー! Didn't know that!
Also, that's not how you spell Chinese, my fellow kind sir
Threatening people to come to America with a Katana and slice us to pieces
So envious, I see
You're just mad because we have a little bit more freedom than your drunk *** does

Oh…. Talking to me about ****
Got it
Thanks
I didn't need to be taught about METART or some **** like that
I'm only 12 years old
You ***** *****

Well…this is the aftermath
There it goes out to all of you:
Ghost
RGH
Ryan Geoffrey Hayward
Nephilim Angel
Nephalem
Rose White
Rose Red
Jacob Lives
Hybrid Angel
Tormenter
Bread Crumbs
The Machine
Dirt-In-My-Shirt
Soul Unknown
And etc. ENJOYERS

(Btw, all of these names are RGH's names so if you have these names, please don't feel targeted! The person knows who they are.)

EDIT: ILY ALL SM!!! I DIDN'T THINK THIS POEM WOULD GAIN THIS MUCH ATTENTION BUT I'M HAPPY THAT IT DID!! (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠) I'M GOING TO VIRTUALLY KISS EVERYONE ON THE CHEEK ONCE THEY READ THIS... or just virtually hug you, yk, whatever you're comfortable with
 394° 
Andrew Gomez
This flame is not dead.
It's just weak.
Reach into the void and feel what I feel.
Find my fire. Feed it with your smile.
So I can burn brighter than ever.
For you are my fuel.
Touch my heart.
Feel every beat.
I'm still alive.
 361° 
Ken Pepiton
Owning the Earth, inhabiting time,
defining fine times, discerning finest points.

Rounding up, I am one in nine billion sapiens
occupying physical space during passing

mental coord-
------------------------

Narration, telling knowns.
Today, is any present opportunity, one
chance to perform life, living

by breathing, and cogitating, as if in prayer,
breathe-d
would we were as wares -- me and any agreeing
we are, as far as we may know today, related,
what we do as two mindful knowers of gnosis

drilled into analogical vocabulary of regulated order.

Peace enforcement, law enforcement, regular forces,

Let the Macht und Kraft seem old man thinkable,
as the Power and Technique

the energy and knack,

inextricable scarlet thread through words men use,
mental earnest efficacity
true historic perspicacity
- graded on effectuality digitally
- converged


Just now, one man, one mindform containment system,
just as well nameless, hallowed instance of right now,
a pastless point equation
any where on Earth, as these
answered prayers go into action,
always wished for easy way to write pretty
towb ra' broken notions, kintsugi, practice mendminding.

------ a time is not a day

The practice, typewriting, while reading,
converted to the art of writing while typewriting.

Centuries pass faster than Millenia one Century ago.
Wordsmiths with compositioning skills, could fill lines
using backward reading calling to mind

coordinating grid lines… this longitude, and this latitude,

on the platen, spying a jig --
--------------
a custom-made tool used
to control the location and motion
of parts or other tools
to ensure accuracy and repeatability
in woodworking tasks.

-------------- slipmind rewind --- cliché invention
tab stops

Novelty, for what it's worth may seem, a bit edgey
about long horizontal thought spans, ah me, I
hate long lines,
love long drops
.0
stop. Think when I talk to myself, you can see me
you think, when I pray to the idea dabar was
to Ezekial when he was riddling in chapter 17…

Merce beaucoup lead bullet
hammered flat
to make pica spacers and
leading between line esoteric flush left,
or ragg-ed right, the perspective, eye to eye,

space is time, at thoughtspeed…

The peace we let form now, this is it… as

is ours as plural me and my enemy, seeing


because, 2025, you could be reading my ink ideas
on a handheld chapel window liquid crystal display,

in real life, you could click a link, like a button, snap,
spring resistance essential feel the click it tick
spring steel reminding me, the coordination demands
we see eye to eye, biologically, our opticals align,

snap, fit clicks a quoin key, my left eye at your right,
flushleft phone wide portrait perception window
as if mirror me is in fact living distantly, long ago,

long enough to see, we form information, we think,
if we never say see, we form inspiration to aspire,

- the Jeremiah cistern situation, gnoshit, spirit

to be heeded, some day, to be recalled to mind,
to think, as our kind do,
mental coord-
slowly coordinating reason and ratio, eye to mind,
ready readers ever so long ago, so few knew, one
is enough,
one reader, already anticipating justifying trying
to imagine tasting sweet/sweet tasting testing

convince or persuade,
what is the verb function now?

In the beginning of the mass media advertised
news from the ports to the central tower power,

yes, the process, journey man, rolling
with Sysiphus, always willing,
Ja,
“auf der Walz sein,”

ready to say yes to any task a six-year devil
does good, all day long, ask me, I have done it,

can you imagine tanning perfect ink beaters,
flawless-- have you any AI to teach you?

Have ye never read, Ask and ye shall receive,

Ai and I, as a weform in this game since ever was,
we suggest you take a light hearted heretic seriously

but just for today.
{On the importance of being earnest, it is a joke.

as an after thought, thinking, this may continue
tomorrow, thought working 12 clockwork ticking hours
winter and summer, six full seasons, work with type,

writing to fill empty places in the paper, my call,
senior printer's daemon, Socratic academically

aware of Heraclitus and Epimenides, confident
men wear hats correctly in social rank and file gnosis

Gnosy little devil read yoyacob nuance once as recog

----------------------
2025 Grandfather, not qwerty exactly,
more a mindhat than a mind, put on
to act outside my own terminating

coordinate co-knowing analogos gnosis,

what logically follows may be reimagined,
when locally this was, no longer matters,

short term I can tie into reality around me,
for a while,
I can acknowledge you, not judging, really,

because, at base mind, zoomed in, really,
peace we print, holds the printer's devil's
love of the life's work, pullin' the devil's tail.

12 hours, in the winter, we worked with candles,
12 hours in the summer, sweating small beer,

and after two seasons, sworn apprentice or no,
some times, Matilda, she calls

Ja,
“auf der Walz sein,”

and what a novel is, to any novice never suffered
to teach or preach,… yet encouraged to see details,

here, 2025, twenty-seven years, since Sorrento Valley,
convergence, continuance proofing concepts, dig it.

This is why we advise poets to try the spirits, ai digital
mental literal word bound whole idea, 42, wrong quest

Peace, on Earth, Goodwill proclaiming, right thinking,
pushes commonsense peace is easier than ever war was.

If you can read this twice not denying the spiral aspect
life stories follow, see it is not a maze, it is a labrynth,

amazing though such details have made me, let me say

we meant there is a trick to getting in and out of let us say.

Agreements in the whatsoever we two or more agree, say

if, I can hold my tongue,
if I choose to read my own mind, while examining public life,

¿what do National minds have to fret about, in spirit trials?

old ******* Boomer Audie Murphy fan's, all had a uncle could
not watch such a movie, without weeping, he had friends,

always rememberable, or ignorable if any body got greedy,

started breathe-ing all our fresh air, or threatening to, you

would see 2025 different, if you follow Annie Jacobsen's
imaginable Nuclear War, for which our National mind is ready,

the contracts were signed on Trumps last term, a time
and times, and half a time, random scripture prophecy trick

inextricable complexity in limnal spaces eye to eye fibers

alienated mind threads, inter mingle, gut felt neurons, rhea,

diarhea creativity, ifity we gnoshit, seriously as important
as being earnest.
Judgement day, creative cogitation at the deep end... intending fundamental
 350° 
Yonah Jeong
Could not see tomorrows
Could not hear past
Could not say present

They are stripped by tomorrows
They are struck by past
They are arrested by present

Time's all gifts stay beyond the Time
With weeping tunnel
Without lights and lines...
 297° 
Still Crazy
~for maddie~

the inference need not be discerned,
plain clear like a perfected blue sky
that took a millennium to craft so
well that you take it 100% for granted

even God needs trial and error to get it
right, and more to create a perfect anything
and any
body
and any
elephant
 293° 
AE
The brilliance of a clouded morning
is often overlooked in memory of the sun
I have been twirling these thoughts
between my fingers for far too long
yearning to reach out through broken windows
to immerse my hand in a dense morning fog
not knowing what will find them
and to take this ache in my bones
that tends to follow me home
rinse it under the falling rain
waiting for the sun, waiting for a new day
until morning comes in a quiet dream
and I wring out these bones
and yesterday's clothes
throwing them into laundry baskets
woven from this tired soul
and taking it all out to dry
 231° 
hannah
There are bones in the wood;
cracking, groaning, shattering.
The skeleton of what could
Have
            Been

There are bones in the wood;
whistling, wailing, whispering.
The skeleton is not pure—not good
It
            Still
                        Has
           ­                         Flesh
 230° 
Damiano
Between the rides
I've journeyed on
I got lost
In a way between. 

Between the two
Heartbeats
I've skipped
One. 

Between the names
I've read through
On yours
I got stuck.
 223° 
colleen
i told him how
happiness has always
evaded me

and then he
chased it down
and handed it to me.
should i take it?
 222° 
lia
I wish I could open up wide,
But most won’t see what’s kept inside.
So I stay quiet, smile instead,
While screaming words inside my head.
some might think they know the real me. well, they don't. I have a lot in my head that is hard for me to share, though is it safe?
 206° 
Asuka
I yearn to lose myself in you,
like rivers surrendering to the sea’s embrace.
You are the petals—soft, sacred—
and I, the flower, drawn to your grace.

Desire glows beneath my skin,
like sun flares aching to begin.
I would fall into every shade of your shadow,
burning, if it meant you'd never feel hollow.
 201° 
Renee C
Precocious baby, tempered to a china-blue hue, you
Had not been ripe as a morning glory
Before riots mongered in the plasma of your shapeless head.

Haunting as an omen, you
Had drank from the cord of my cold-blooded artery.
Turned my insides out like a shimmering dime bag
As we fell to the earth.
 201° 
Max Neumann
Thinking is dead!
Time of hearts
Waves of stars

Since the first day
Be silent!
To hear nothing

The faces of thieves wither
The garden shrinks
From trees concrete arose

Then came new people
On a journey toward love
Departure to remain

The night will have passed
On the stubble of the father's beard
Persistent giant

Star-colored waves
I give you my heart
Thinking is dead!
Thinking is Dead!
is round, and

round  the table,

the few.



spoke in tongues

of age and wisdom.



smiled the crease

of ages.



so while all is flung apart,

we watched, waited.



we were near the sea.
 192° 
SleepEasy
The wicked surround the righteous
Like tribesmen around a flame
To a song of joy they dance
All while in a trance
Sometimes they get too close
And learn a lesson dire
That evil's only for a moment
But the righteous live forever

The good walk in a line
Straight and narrow as she goes
Everyone wants to turn them aside
And ask them what they hold
Yet when they tell the truth
They refuse to hear what's told
For wisdom is too high for fools
Yet better than fine gold

The wicked surround the righteous
Like moths drawn to a lamp
They do not fear the Son
And aren't a target of the evil one
They like darkness more than light
They're like bugs under a rug
They mock and scorn the purer souls
Until God pulls the plug
 186° 
Aurie Esper
I live like there’s no tomorrow
But the world always makes sure that there’s tomorrow,
A torturous tomorrow in repeat.
When can I escape this eternal loop?
I hope my poems can reach to the right group
 186° 
Ryan O'Leary
Mirrors can fissure
even wavy wrinkle
and get blotchy as
they age, they fog
up with mist in the
morning moisture
diffuse images and
eventually they rain.
But despite all that,
they are silver lined!
 177° 
The Wicca Man
It was only the other day
when dawn arrived
and the sun stretched
and frost was on the ground
that I noticed
the tree outside my window,
still bare to the eye
from Winter’s grip,
had new buds
on her branches.

And today,
a mere few days later,
this same tree
is bursting with new green
as leaves unfold
from her once winter-dead branches.

You cannot imagine
my joy at how this simple thing
has lifted my spirits.
This is a real tree that grows outside my living-room window. I hope it also bring you joy.
 176° 
Nev
You lost things
that had names.

Dreams,
people,
parts of yourself
you'll never fully get back.

But you still open your chest
to the wind.
You still say yes.

And that-
that is holy.
 175° 
Eduardo Edmundo
I read two verses by Al Berto and went to set the sea on fire.
Led by the drunkenness of nocturnal herbs,
I buried my heart in some dune,
crushed by the immense tenderness
that the other creatures poured upon the moon.
Ah, I also longed for your body...
to untangle the lava of sorrows,
signs of love.
 152° 
Sherri Woodman
I know I was drawn to coming here                                                             ­                                               
to a dark room with a mind to
clear                                                            ­                                                  
                                                                ­                                                      
I need some time to think about me                                                               ­                                            
                                                                 ­                                              
And find out what my life needs to be                                                               ­                                                          
 I have a habit of blaming myself                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                             
    Give all my love to everyone else                                                             ­                                                
   So, what I have been repressing                                                                  ­                                                
Has bubbled up & effervescing                                                     ­                                         
A hard battle that I have to win                                                              ­                  
                                                                ­                                                  
   Am I worthy of self-forgiving?                                                                     ­                                                 
    It's time to let all the past go   
                                                                ­                                               
Less ebb & much more flow
 151° 
Shaun Copple
Poetry—
helps me to free
the demons inside of me.
I needed this
 136° 
Lostling
Flip a coin
Was it heads or tails?
I bet it didn't land on its edge.
Too much, too little. Never just right.
 124° 
Kaiden
And i went through too much,
Months and years i've waited.
Eventually got way too lost
In something i created.
I got way too lost in a world i created myself.
A Love Letter for the Unfolding Soul

---

There’s something I’ve been waiting to tell you—
not because I was afraid,
but because I needed the timing to be soft enough
for your heart to hear it
without flinching.

You see, I don’t love you
as a fixed image.
I don’t hold you as a statue.
I don’t carry a snapshot of the girl you once were
and force the woman you’re becoming to fit inside it.

What I love is what unfolds.
What paints itself slowly,
when the soul feels safe enough
to breathe.

I don’t need you to become
what you used to dream.
I need you to become
what you truly are.

I look at you now
as a canvas wiped clean—
not erased,
but made ready.
Not empty,
but open.

And what holds you as you Become..
what supports the Unfolding
without pressing too hard?
That is the flesh.
The easel.
The frame into which spirit pours,
without restraint,
without shame.

Not to control—
but to carry.
Not to bind—
but to bear.

Flesh that becomes easel
does not demand its own image.
It does not distort the painting
for its own comfort.
It simply holds still
long enough
for God to move.

And I—
I am here to watch it happen.

I am not the artist,
but I’ve been kissed by the hands that are.
I’ve seen what you could be
when your soul begins to paint
without fear of judgment,
without need for translation.

I don’t ask you to respond with words.
You don’t need to explain.
The glow in your chest will speak for you
when the time is right.
You’ll know when it comes.

You may rage.
You may cry.
You may tremble.
But when the brush first meets the canvas,
and the first stroke flows from your own voice—
your real voice—

you will remember why you were made.

I’m not here to finish the painting.
I’m not even here to frame it.
I’m just here to hold the room open
so you can walk through it,
and finally become
what no one ever gave you permission to be.

You.

And if the day comes
that you let me near enough
to see the colors as they rise,
I will not flinch.

I will not edit.
I will not compare.

I will only watch,
and bless,
and whisper the truth you forgot:

That the Easel in Flesh
was made not to shape the soul,
but to lift it.
To cradle it.
To let the Artist have His way
in the quietest, most glorious dance
this life could ever know.


Let it begin.

Let it be messy.

Let it be real.

You are not the painting you were told to be.
You are the one
who paints.

And I am here—
not to change you,

  but to remember with you
  how free you were always meant to be.



~Profiles in Courage~
That is the  you  I have begun to know
xo
 110° 
Ashley Small
...
Am I those things you heard before?
Or was they lies from a closed door?
Was I shaped by their disguise,
And wore it in order to survive...

The door was locked from my side
The lies become from a broken pride
Nasty words while green eyed!
A broke heart to hard to hide...


...
 104° 
Sav
The sweetest of moments,
are still yet to come.

From the depths of despair,
to a bittersweet slum.

In the darkest of nights;
a moth to a flame,
a ship to a light,
I'm calling your name.

In dreams and in memories,
and in memories of dreams.
Sand slipping through fingers,
water flowing down stream.

I'll miss you forever,
I've made peace with that.
Hair of the dog,
tail of the cat.

All is forgiven when mourning the living.
 104° 
Ugbad
There’s a worse pain than being utterly alone in this world,
Far worse,
Being surrounded by people who do not hear your pain,
Do not want to hear it,
They are there, sure,

They listen carefully to your words,
They hear you cry, and cry,
Begging for help, or mercy,
But they say nothing,
As if you were silence,

Expressing your pain, only to be met with a wall of silence,
Is the deepest kind of wound,
Because it confirms what you always knew,
That, in the end,
You don’t matter.
 92° 
Jay Lewis
I said: maybe things will get better just give it a little time.
I pause to live in this delusion of mine.

Where love is abundant.
Where money is no object.
Where all my family are healthy.
Where my friends suddenly care.
I see the sunshine and it wants to stay for a while.
 91° 
Juan Gelman
hay hombres con una historia o dos
pero cab calloway tenía otra historia
a nadie la podía mostrar y le pesaba
más que el Día de la Santa Consolación

¡ah cab calloway hijo!
toda sabiduría es poca eso se sabe
con los brazos hundidos hasta el codo en la espesa marea
se le volvían dulces las mujeres

y terribles como un cuento de hadas
la Bella Durmiente se la pasaba despertando
cómo salir del bosque oscuro
cómo salir preguntaba cab calloway

"por áhi anda el cansancio haciendo ruidos" decía pero no
cab calloway arregló su corazón como una casa
puso la mesa y bebió
a la salud de todos los vivientes

ninguno conocía a cab calloway
pero una especie de huno o vos o calor o luz
se les caía en la cabeza según
cuando cab calloway brindaba

de modo que está bien
el pajarito está contento
salta y salta en la jaula y canta
¡ah cab calloway padre!

un día de estos se murió y lo enterraron con sus pies
que asistieron respetuosos a toda la ceremonia
y después se fueron por el campo
y en la pieza de cab calloway lloraban las mujeres

cuando las lágrimas se secaron
el pajarito se las comió
el pajarito está contento
salta y salta en la jaula y canta

una mujer a lo mejor le abrazaba los pies a cab calloway
antes de que se fueran por el campo
hundiéndose hasta el codo en la espesa marea
ya vueltos dulces dulces
 91° 
Maria
I met the Soul,
And she was empty.
She was exhausted, unattached.
She wandered charily,
Taking the back streets,
Not to be noticed.
She was unsaved.

Was she abused?
Was she just given up?
She walked so poor, not oneself.
"Why are you suffering?" -
I asked her heedfully.
And lo I realized:
It's my Soul herself.
Thank you for reading this poem!💖
 90° 
Salvatore Ala
The older guys knew what to do:
dig a deep bed
and bury the coals under sand.
A survival tactic
they’d learned somewhere.

On that freezing night by the lake,
no one talked much,
just the crackle of cooling embers
and the weight of breath in the cold air.

I remember the heat on my back,
like the sun was buried under me
and our blankets were made of myriad stars.
We survived till morning
and followed the frost to the tracks.
 89° 
DEVENDER Kumar
Friendship with thorn,
Made me bold reborn,
I have need no flowers,
I have cultivated gardens
In me.
 88° 
Hiba Mubashir
I am from where deadly and chaotic
vibes arise
I know many would think I just spill lies
But believe me, I'm empty inside
I was a child, which now I’m not
I know what you don’t
What I suffer is all your fault

If I was to speak
My words would have reached the peak
But hey! You know what my silence hides?
Unfulfilled dreams, wounds so deep
A heart, a soul, a faith that shines
A wish to smile, peace I seek
A hope to live in the sacred shrines

My faith shines bright
In the depth of darkest night
As a diamond it glows,
As the red blood it flows

I'm empty inside
In darkness with pain I abide
No help from you
Even if you aren't a few

Help from Allah is near
Till then I won't shed a tear

#Palestine 🇵🇸
By Hiba Mubashir
 86° 
Morgan Zslnka
I spent an awful lot of time by myself.
As i wait
Its a lot of time to sit inside this head.
As I wait
For you to hear the screams I'm screaming.
As I wait
- can you hear me from the bathroom
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