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 Jan 2021
Thomas Patrick
Eternal
Fleeting
Rushing all of it
Most valuable yet wasted
Patient
Lost
Running out
Unrecoverable
Permanent
Unforgiving
Going to end and then there will be nothing what the **** am I doing?
 Jan 2021
Man
inside of me a storm rages
inside of me an old man has a stroke
inside the fire blazes
fresh bricks of burning coal

there is emptiness in me
and it fills me up
so much so

i drown everyday
drinking up a cup
of nothing but the old

made of memories
mostly bad, but some good
adding to them each day
naught but rotting wood

and your family
termites
and your friends
pests
and your lover
a lumberer
 Dec 2020
Delton Peele
Under cold compress
I feel the dank
Cell swelling saturation
Driving me into unreachable
Depression
Bleach flowing from my eyes
Innundating the slits in my cheeks
Farewell to everything.
I lost my will in a game
I didnt know i was playing.
 Dec 2020
Peter
She jumps through the whisper
of the wind
To harvest their sweet blood, to
ammend
The loathsome world, and to ascend
In the world with no sheen—a fiend.

Cursed by the painters, and earthlings
For debacles are what she brings.
She lifts herself through the
mutterings
Even when she's shattered in her
beings.

She, who sheens no light at fight,
Has been mistaken as benighted.
She carries not the death of a dead;
She's an art who's known the shadow
of a knight.
butterflies are beautiful even in its dark skin.
 Dec 2020
Nat Lipstadt
~For Ayesha~

for simply put,
or
simply taken,
they’re a disguise...

eternal guards on duty,
alphabet soldiers that
grow more vigilant

standing reef,
a barrier,

a thousand years to erosion complete.

this is the right poem, but the wrong words. Mystified me, how
can this be? such a young person, whose words speak to me?

If we are not our words, what will we become?
Sep 10 2020
 Dec 2020
Ayn
A frosted mist lies, stagnant,
Over a glittering lonesome field.
Hanging like a martyr’s last breath
In a silent tribute to their death.
 Dec 2020
Ayn
The years won’t testify
The light I’ve lit.
Standing off the edge
And rusting into oblivion,
I stand, united in my scream;
It’s the only way I am whole
I wrote this when? A week or so ago? ***? These emotion thingys are weird.
 Dec 2020
Pallang Mofokeng
Hi my name is Pallang Mofokeng, and this is my Honest poem 🤍
I first saw the sun August the 3rd 25 years ago, apparently that makes me a Millennial or Gen Y
I’m not clued up what that means
I’m 1 Meter 65, I weigh what's considered thin for a man my age
I do not exercise, and I am always the shortest amongst my friends,
Well also the youngest
I’m a sucker for a girl with beautiful eyes, and smart brains.

I’m still learning how to hold long conversations
I’m often good at striking the talk, and always the bad at keeping it flowing
I was born early and I’ve been late ever since

I love books a lot
I love words and I dearly love poetry
I have been told that I kind of have a stutter, people say it develops when I’m in an uncomfortable environment, on the real side I really swallow my words when someone says something stupid
Every time I’m in front of a beautiful girl I happen to want to say a lot of beautiful things about her beauty but my words leaves me in the play.

I have this strange fascination with stories with sad endings and broken promises
Maybe it’s because I have learned that life is nothing like happy endings or fairy tale
Such lessons I learnt 12 times when I fell in love with women who loved me more than I loved them,
And the 9 times I fell in love with women
Who would never love me back
I know the numbers are not balancing
But to be honest, I think we never actually meet our ultimate someone
Actually relationships, they always remind me how I’m not scared of death
But I’m scared of the crowd, and I wonder what would happen when I have a crowd surrounding my coffin

I’m shy. Yesterday I blushed to the reflection of my face in the mirror
I closed my eyes and made crazy silly smiles
I could not complement myself, my stutter came in play
I have had very few fights growing up I can count them without using my toes, but I have had a lot of beatings
That was me beating myself perfecting a life that was never meant to be perfect
Doesn’t sound right hey?
I have made a lot of wrongs than rights
I  have judged myself more than having been judged

Good morning, my name is Pallang
I enjoy cooking and showing off my improvements
And ignore every negative comment made my way
I don’t find it easy expressing my feelings as often as I need to
I have a confidence so low it always goes unrecognized, I always smile even when I don’t need to
My life is a book always edited by my perfectionist mind, convincing myself that I am worth something
Something maybe a name

I don’t know much, but I think
I think heaven if full of poetry
God is monitoring my brain system
It reminds him that, some people heal others even when they themselves are dying inside.
 Dec 2020
Rollercoaster
Her hardened feet and cracked heel
brush against the muddy ground.
She travels on foot to fetch water
as she withers away into the befouled.
 Dec 2020
Poetria
every lie is a *****, rusting, digging into more of what lives in my chest. if you can imagine how a spider's walk sounds, then you'll hear my brown bones closing over this thing that is red. my body is a crowd of one, a room full of me: i stay caged between 4 walls, and it is lonely.

be still so the hounds don't bring you down, not so still that they win without a fight. be still, red thing, but not so still that you may never move again. the world has an appetite for your kind of soul: their mouths, yours too, will be used against you; they'll swallow your tongue and say it was their food.

confined to this live-wire city, you wonder if you chose to be unseen. you wonder when you stopped seeing, too, stopped being a girl with a mouth full of teeth and a red rose that bloomed when she would sing, dance, dream, a girl with less to care for and more to care about, a girl who knew a thing before she was told how she ought to know it.

so what do i know? i sit in this car, i go up this road following signs that read 'home', watching traffic lights come and then go, greening it all the way to the highest hilltop. but mountains tower in the backdrop, the way down becomes an endless ***** and these burning lamps line the sides in warning, urging me to keep to the road.

there is wind in my hair, stars in the radio, and the man in the passenger seat is someone i won't know. he has brown eyes, warm skin, a Cheshire cat grin, and he is everything i hoped he would be, it's unreal. he's here in this scene, in the credits to a movie that plays on repeat, with me on this road to a home that never shows.

and everything bows to the clock anyway so i take charge of the man, the car and the stars, i take charge of the hounds and the spider in my mouth, i take charge of the heart and the bones and the dark, and i let the clock pull me out, out, out and into the arms of something new.
spontaneous writes really give me joy. it's true that i've been feeling so not okay lately but there are so many nice things, too. parks and music and romantic movies and friendships that stay alive. siblings too, sometimes. i came out of 2019 thinking that was the worst and it was, ive never been at a lower point in my life, but the ugliness of 2020 became hard to ignore after the august high.
 Dec 2020
Paul Idiaghe
your heart unmasks
to a dagger, already deep into my atriums,
until my muse is replaced
with the bleeding, and each stanza
is your shadow

in shackles. a poem is just a poem
until you perceive it
out of paper—in the silence,
scratching against your skull—until

it begins to burn, your body
bright-blue beneath, your secrets
streaming out like incense—until
it is a grave, with you
more alive in it.

a poem is just a poem until it bites,
until it howls, until it makes
our memory its metaphor
for midnight.
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