Beautiful Poetry - Hello Poetry

19h

Agnes de Lods

Diary

What is a body without its soul?
I saw his face,
not recognizing him
without warmth,
without breath.

When all that remains
are sharp denials
and a soft yes,
I know all is gone.
I keep trying
to redefine myself
with my thoughts.

My virtual words
will never hold
the scent of a book.
A microcosm,
woven on the platforms,
divided across
bittersweet days.
I leave space
for those who may come.

Now I drift in the bubble
of those already lost.
I am, like them,
a sum of interactions,
a collision of thoughts,
the familiar melting
of the same sounds.

A diary
of gestures left behind:
unfinished sentences,
gazes suspended
without reciprocity
or brief fascination,
until I am no longer
canceled by the completed past.

Yes,
for someone
I was
all reality, all world.

#diary

1d

Karen

Flying jewel

Shimmering wings hum
Pure as morning glory blue
Traced upon the breeze

6d

Agnes de Lods

The Mathematics of Feelings

My thoughts strike from within.
Anger, helplessness, then tenderness
crash against an invisible wall.
The helmsman has set a course
for unsteadiness—
in an hour, maybe two,
another wave of doubt will come.

The sum of scenarios
weighs more than yesterday,
tattooing my soul from within.
I’m waiting,
freezing my tired mind.
Forget?
I can't anymore –
The anchor sank deep.
His voice rests in my depths.

I don't want to sail alone,
even though words of assurance
sound like a childish game.

I divide my loneliness into two,
adding up the “what ifs” –
I forgot the order of operations,
still remembering that my heart
beats slower, then faster.

I take a calm breath.
An invisible pin
pierces the back of my head.
It hurts—physically hurts—
But I won't back down.

I don't want to sleep.
I'm waiting for dawn,
for the solution to the equation
of my life,
with two unknowns.

I'm waiting
for those hands,
for that gaze,
for that smile,
for that warmth.

#mathematics #feelings

Aug 12

David Hall

envy's facade

she's beauty you think
sashaying through your mind
she's perfect in pink
anathema to our kind

he's brilliant you swear
as he climbs upon the altar
he's courageous, he's fair
come to save us when we falter

her beauty a mask
his brilliance a disguise
all bent to the task
of selling the lies

the deepest truth hidden,
reality’s grandest lark—
we are all ugly, broken children
stumbling blindly through the dark

Aug 3

Palindromic Angel

I Write, You Paint, We Bleed

I bleed with ink.
You breathe in brushstrokes.
Still, we meet
in the same shade of ache.

I call it a stanza.
You call it a sky,
but both are ways
to survive the silence.

My pen trembles like your hands do
when the colours won’t blend.
We try to tell the truth,
but it keeps slipping
into metaphor.

I say “I miss you”
through rhythm.
You say it
through smudged reds
and too much blue.

We never made sense
in black and white.
But somewhere between
my verse
and your canvas,
we almost
became a masterpiece.

When a painter loves a poet. Find me on the Poesie app as palindromic_angel to hear my readings :)

#love #pain #art

Aug 3

Rastislav

THE POEM HE NEVER WROTE

(for him - and for her, because she knew)

he sat beside the window
as if touching the curtain
might undo
the schedule of departures

he spoke (gently?)
of energy
& the cosmos
of souls that keep circling
unless you tell them to stop.

sometimes (i thought)
he believed in stars
more than in us

the ones who loved him
knew
he wasn’t easy
and so did the others

she...
she never tried to save him
she just placed bread
on the table
and said nothing
when it burned

there was no fear
in her eyes
not even of his fear

she laughed
like someone who knew
truth doesn’t live
inside words
but inside
who stays
when words don’t

he was never strong
but he rehearsed it
so well
they believed him
even
as he began
to flicker

now he talks about dying
like someone
apologising
for being
human
after all

she would have told him:
“nothing real disappears.
it just returns
differently.”

but she didn’t say it
she let him
arrive there
alone

i don’t reply
i just
listen

and hold inside me
the words
he never wrote
(and maybe
never meant to)

not as son
not as disciple
but as someone
who didn’t run
when the ashes
finally
began
to speak