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Our bodies are facing
The arms of dawn.
Conflicts of our skins
From night's reverie
Floating with fading purple.
Still lost in the depth of
Your starry mouth,
Particles of me
Merging into the universe.
Mingled thoughts
Under mingled fingers
Making galaxies crumbled
Time after time
Inside my closed eyes,
As I'm being washed by your
Warm luminosity.
I'm overwhelmed as Merged got selected as a daily poem. It means a lot to me. I'm grateful to all the poet-readers of HP. I wouldn't be able to achieve it without their support. Thanks a lot ❤
It's like being a child again
Doodling hearts and
Writing the name of that boy in your textbooks
Or the name of that cute actor from that TV show you really like

Like living in a city
With lights near and far
Looking up into the sky
Barely able to spot a star


When I look into your eyes
I feel myself stop breathing
The intensity, diving into the pools of thought
It's almost hard to keep gazing

Leaning against you, it's like being home
Your arms encircle, and I'm close
I'm untouchable, safe and sound
My comfort cloud at the ends of a million rainbows

I can almost feel your warm embrace
Like a phantom limb I yearn
But it's just not there, unsubstantial
An ache I can't discern

Stray thoughts keep flitting by
Little bubbles I have to pop, can't resist
Pop! There's that smile! Pop! And a laugh!
Oh and that makes your eyes crinkle adorably I must insist

Uncertainty had been warring
On the battlefields of my mind
The throne's been seized, a side has won
I know for sure, this is what's mine

Like living in a country
With summer all year round
Getting ready for Christmas and looking out to see
Not a single flake of snow on the ground


It's like being grown up, but there's still that little girl
That wants to see his name doodled all over
So she writes about him in a journal
And his name is there, everywhere, hidden amongst the sentences
With every deep wound
comes the gushing blood
; and with every drop of blood,
comes the ink for your poetry
on poetry*

A poem is only a mouthful of air
until it is read.
Imagine it. Craft it carefully
from your heart's flesh.
Seal it in a bottle
of clear, pure words.
Set it adrift on
the ocean of time,
life's restless surge,
until a few congruous spirits
pluck it from the sea-wrack
and recognize a message
that illuminates their souls.
Readers find writers;
never the opposite.
The silence of solitude
sings to me at night;
soul-satisfying
words whispered
for my ears only
while the house sleeps.
I draw from the well
of my self, and savor
each drop thirstily.
The starving beast within
gnaws at every fresh
crust of aloneness,
melted butter soothing
scalded hands,
until my rumbling gut
is sated, and is at peace
with itself and the world.
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