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 1324° 
Marc Morais
It doesn’t stay neat—
nothing does.
Not the room.
Not the mind.
Not the feelings
I have for you.

I spill everything out—
ink, blood, tears—
whatever I hold
too tight.

Even the rain
trips over itself,
but you call it
beautiful—
you always do.
 913° 
Nat Lipstadt
dear patty and Steve,

what’s a mediocre man to do,

(freshly mind washed by the
requisite hours of deep sleep,
that washed away the webs
and dreads of yesterday’s
factoids, lactoids, and brain plaques(

so he can perchance, begin again,

(with fresh slate, white chalk screeching
on a freshly sponged whiteboard
~
(or blackboard when he rues the
upcoming with dreaded calendar
notifications notarized notations of
dead lines)


You see Stevie,
this piety poetry piercing of the soul,

(is a daily face washing, soul scrubbing
of two spies (MadMe vs  Metwo) both madder ‘n hell that life has ***-signed him a nother bothersome empty day with the curse
of justifying his existence)

oh yeah baby,
it’s a contest, a contest within,

(and i am appointed and  disappointed to be
the Sec’y of the Interior who has the key to
the broom closet, and is/in charge of his
own corners cleanup, and besides a broom,
he ain't got no tools but stale words and he’s gotta figure out nice smelling new combos to
justifying his occupying his
siloed-sole-soully space place)

in the uni(as in sole, one)verse

universe verse, get it?
445am Monday Monday
 644° 
Sofia
you
you make me feel like a person
 566° 
Thomas W Case
I am so happy to announce the publication of my new book, It's Just a Hop, Skip, and a Jump to the Madhouse, available on Amazon.  I also read my poetry on my youtube channel.
Thanks to everyone for this great site.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DY4XDQYC
 541° 
Aneesah Lionheart
Please don’t arouse
my anger
I don’t know
what I’ll do
If you threaten
My children
I might
Decapitate you

Please don’t arouse
My anger
Stay on
my Good side
Friend
If you arouse
My anger
It may mean
Your end
The noun love is one of the strongest things a person can possesses. Love is rivaled by few other emotions, anger being one. God forgive me for what I may do, if someone harms one of my children.
To all the poets in the world
Keep on writing
Keep that pen going
Share what you’re knowing
Write to your delight
Day and night
Enjoy
Give joy
Keep it flowing
Keep on going
Write the good right
Use insight
Just write ok
Until the break of day!
 296° 
spilled tears
You do not taste like cherries
Cherries taste like you
she showed me how to make a cherry knot with her tongue, then she showed me where else her tongue could be used
 269° 
dead poet
at the end of the day,
with my illusions at bay,
when bound to obey
a truth so gray —
i travel the depths
with sondering footsteps,
to see if they help
or merely cast a vignette
of eclectic readings,
and years of heeding
the lives preceding;
still bleeding —
like a pair of lips,
cracked at the tips
in sorrow’s grips;
hardly equipped —
to deal with ‘the self’  
with words off a bookshelf,
too dry to spell  
the thought of oneself.
 258° 
Indigo Maroon
You are a flower
Blooming on a page
Drawing everyone near
With your sweet smell
And elegant glory

You are so beautiful

I long to pick you
To hold you in my hand
And breathe in your scent
And cherish you close

But I can only
Admire you
From afar

Hanging
Your masterpieces
On my wall
 223° 
Lovely
… and I can’t help but wonder how freeing it felt to fly.
Trigger Warning⚠️ : My cousin passed away this morning… she took her own life. I’ve gone through a wave of emotions from denial to anger to despair. The world failed her. She was a baby. Seeing how this has shocked my family makes me glad that my attempt didn’t work all those years ago. I don’t know how to feel. I’m just confused.
I’m almost a poet.
I almost make sense
Enough to impress
Others with my senseful nonsense

I’m almost a poet
And I almost understand
Others’s poems and other poets
In the end no use, I tried to no end
But I like to pretend.

I’m almost a poet,
My metaphors are almost immersive enough
And my edges and corners are almost not rough

I’m almost a poet
I’m almost there
But not quite
I’m almost a poet
Almost - a man.

_M
 217° 
nidaa
if imperfections make art,
the skin and your face is anything but art,
but i can't find any better artwork,
then yourself.
but then you're not created by humans,
but by God,
whose creations are perfect as they are.
 209° 
Anais Vionet
I was thinking that If we create an all-knowing, all-wise and all powerful AI, we should probably pay someone to sit next to its electrical plug.
 204° 
Raven Star
The love around
Didn't suffice,
So i ran towards
sins.
The people around me are mostly in arranged marriages and while there is fondness i don't really find love. I long to go away and have a girlfriend and wife if it so happens and be in wlw relationship.
 190° 
Ivan
she is the exception
when my only rule in life
is not
 182° 
Yourshadow
If religion is thought
and love is the law
Will you still love me
if I am seen as your flaw
 166° 
Karen
A elderly gentleman.
Stands by the flowers.
Not knowing which ones to buy.
He takes in the colors, the beautiful scents .
For his beloved.
A single red rose he picks .
 162° 
Zack
Just your body’s here.
Mind’s — gone for a walk. Elsewhere.
Pray you come back soon
 160° 
NF
I will do it,
Shakespeare will have a nemesis,
My words will become the new Sonnet 18.

I will do it,
You will feel it deep in your bones,
Even when our lives are never meant to cross.

I will do it,
When you bear your secrets to the moon,
A reflection of me will embrace you.

I will do it,
So I rise from this corpse of failed dreams,
Become a discipline of Eros.

I will do it,
Entangle my name in yours,
Make ourselves infinite.
 157° 
Mina
Pretty birds in a cage
Little birds in a rage
Red, yellow, green and blue
All bonded like a glue
They try, cry and weep
They fly and forget the creep
Young friends of Earth
Flightless friends from birth
Wish they were never born
Until they eat sweet corn
I don't remember the original poem but I tried to write something out of a stanza
We kissed on the porch
that you set afire with a torch
as my only house burned
that I bought with Mexican
pesos that I earned in
Venezuela last spring
where I had gone to sing
sad songs about my
mixed-gender heritage
 134° 
Taylor
Its simple
freedom is a length of rope
god want you to hang yourself with it
- is it really freedom
 131° 
brooke
I have fled from this profound
sense of loneliness my entire life—

Nothing has ever felt right, good or
Safe. I have hardly found another person
that seems to speak the same language,
Am I to be a single aldis lamp in the night
flashing across the great sea with
nothing but the stars to

twinkle back at

Me.
 112° 
Lalit Kumar
Love Me, Love Me Not
I think it is unkind for me to be in love
and be in love still
I think it is unkind for me to love you
Like every other petal of a flower

I did not pick it
But it is wilting either way.
 104° 
Asterisk
Your verdant eyes are looking away,
They seek for eternal peace somewhere
And I ask every night if I may..
Come closer to you and show my care.

In the light of innocent sun rays
I look in your eyes, where I lost myself,
I look into forest, where my love lays,
But I hide feelings in the deepest shelf.
 102° 
Carlo C Gomez
Tar-dark world. The defining color is black, the inky night of her nocturnal hunts and the deep, bottomless dark of her alien retreat.

A watcher of men, she is everything and nothing. She might be too much of something, or too little of something else. Time will sort out the particulars.

There are no simple entry points – she demands engagement, and to be taken as a whole. Her discomfort is over her own allure, her undisturbed surface. It’s more about intuition and gesture than dialogue. They remain as echoes. They’ve made her beautiful in a real way, with hips and blemishes and dimples in her skin.

The imprint of the lives she begins to grapple with as her time on Earth extends, leads her to stop seeing herself as a mere conduit for her mission, and to start developing a sense of subjectivity.

Her life force is overlapping, shaping itself into a pattern of rings that simultaneously suggests a birth canal dilating, the stages of a rocket separating, and a lunar eclipse as seen through a telescope’s lens.

She's a life-form you can’t quite understand, but it’s carrying on relentlessly, like a beehive, moving backward through the constellations at first approach.
 100° 
Liana
I guess the medication worked
I don’t feel depressed

I don’t feel anything anymore
So many more words to say about this, but there is something in the way. I can only hope that they will come out like the sun in the morning…
 95° 
Ami Mathur
What does the light say?

I stay in your eyes.
I am best seen with your eyes closed
For I lie within you.
I ignite,
I brim
Within you.
 93° 
Dr Peter Lim
There's always beauty
but we turn away
we don't care to see
and inherit a dull and dismal day-

so ugly is the word 'busy'
it keeps wonders at bay:
life is lived in dreadful monotony
and all is but debris and decay
 91° 
Autisma
To reconcile with lost enigmas of forethought and feelings that were always encapsulated in unknown ways I thaaaaaaaaaat still have not found the answer for.
 88° 
Katherine Turner
I could cut it out,
I could.
What good does a heart do,
Loving you.
I see your face,
And it beats faster.
I hear your voice,
And faster still she beats.
You touch my skin
And this infernal cage
cannot contain her.
You kiss my lips
and all is still.

Of all the things I have to give.
She fights furiously to be with you.
She does not sleep but thinks of you.
What good are bread and water
When all she craves is you?
She does not sleep, she will not eat,
But only dreams of you.

In the image of a God
You were made
And god she worships you.
The floor you tread
Is holy ground.
The words you speak
Are psalms she sings.
In you she is lost
And in you she is found.
It is not to me that she belongs.

I could cut it out,
I could.
What good is a heart,
Loving you.
What good is a heart,
when it is all consumed.
 78° 
Nat Lipstadt
~my poet friends and friendly poets~

(written in anger, then sorrow,
tinged with regret, but in the end one
has no choice but to forgive and forget)

<•>

the ghood poet knows no boundaries,
lays down tracks of a New England
pond of nirvana,
or across Siberian froze wastelands,
another
salves the wounds of dying soldiers,
and gives away comfort to the dying
with the freeing oxygen of
comforting words

the world of self,
that thing we know best,
thus encouraged by the textbooks,
well,
to have at it, plays whacamole
with your  owned flirtatious emotions,
none too imperious or low down or
garbage dump *****, that yet
cannot be validated by exploratory
over-the-line words pithy

even the florid, tiresome nickel & dime ing
rhyming scheming crutches,
we so oft employ,
yields up stuff that ain’t half bad,
periodically,
though, the blunt of words well crafted
needs
no such delimiting amusing playthings
or imprisoning
I-am-amoebic-pen-tata-meter

take you inspiration from here and there,
the proverbial deep dark of the mind’s recessed corridors of
corrupted consciousness,
or, the
contrail whiffs of the steaming steaming of the contradictions of a
newborn first day’s contrast of-
the wet dew on toes cooling,
while the simultaneous sun warms all
the cheeks,
heats the blood with
a thanks-god-I’m-alive
overwhelmingly overall tickling,

or
not.

write with the tools you have, but keep
them well sharpened, with
insight and revelation,
exploring the rain’s windowed
navigable rivulets,
the musical tempos
of waves and their multi-mystical variations,
and the readers will come like
pilgrims to your  holy land,
wearied and yet so delightedly hopeful,
with tingling contrasting dictions,
to capture and release,
by shattering any
stale notions of adulation
will bring your
audience of holy voyagers and voyeurs
to imbibe so deeply your creativity for the quenching, and the
amen gasp escaping tween
their lips is just a simple holy,
gentling thank you

discard the bad words as ornery and
distracting, veiled in pomposity and
highfaluting, self-saluting, arrogance of
those deeming themselves critical thinkers,
who thrive in the low mud flats of
self-pretension and the reassurance
of a mirror’s reassurance

write straight from the heart,
fill our eyes with the
complexity of the simple
and
grant us the write to share,
in your humanity

craft the work
and
the work
will repay
so stealthily
by secretly
crafting you





                                   nml
3:43 am 2/16/25

p.s,always fixyour typos
 75° 
Jia En
If you really
Meant what you said about
Caring for me,
I wouldn't always have to be
On the lookout
For signs that you
Truly do;
If you really
Trusted me
Then there wouldn't be
That wall between us; or
Perhaps I mean more
To you than most but I
Never really
See
It, you know?
Actions speak so
Much louder than words,
Have you heard?
 67° 
Repentant
Whose here not what they are?
Like, if you feel it's true
Love will disappear
And forever blinded
You are
 64° 
Bekah Halle
I want to live my best life;
Getting back up, after I fall.
Forgiving myself, after I fail.
Laughing, when I make mistakes.
Being patient, when things take time to re-learn.
Because I have time;
To fall, fail, learn and get back up again.
I have time to live my best life,
Every day.
 58° 
jeffrey conyers
You don't have to tell me, you love me.
I can feel it.
I can see it
And more than anything I believe it.

I don't have to tell you, I love you.
You can feel it.
You can see it.
But more than anything I show it.

It's true that action speaks louder than words.
Yes, it's true that action speaks louder.
And I'm gonna promote it.

Cause you don't have to tell me you love me.
 57° 
matt r
o soft lantern, teach me
how to gleam
in spite of petty falcons.
 55° 
Brwa S Rasheed
Bones threaded with silence,
a weft of unseen tides,
drowned before the sky could murmur,
names twisted into half-light.

Empty calls carve through marrow,
a dissonance stitched in the flicker
of unspoken skies,
twisting where shadows breathe.

Flesh frays in the void of mouths
that never opened—
rusted hums too thin to grasp.

Skin unthreads,
and what remains burns in the air
like a scream that cannot form.

Dust to dust—
the thread severed
in half-thoughts,
too distant to bleed,
too numb to remember.
 53° 
Jeff Bresee
I took for granted everything,
colors of every hue.
I didn’t know those colors
filled my world because of you.
 
So, like the fool I am
I let you go, too blind to see
that on my own I am just alone
and things turned out to be
 
where colors slowly slipped away,
the yellows, greens and blues.
And now the only color left…
is the memory of you.
 51° 
Grace
Thawing snow admires
that sweet wind, steeping the earth
in the till of spring
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