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 Dec 2014
Dhaye Margaux
A life to live, a smile to make
A beauty I have to share
A simple word for someone's sake
Though life seems so unfair

A morning call, a short "hello"
A tap on somebody's back
A simple "yes", instead of "no"
Could be somebody's luck

A simple touch, a goodnight kiss
Could warm a frozen world
A soulful hug, I'll always miss
Surely when I get old

But once this life that I shall pass
Brings me to a peaceful place
I'll face the day, not how it was
But a life that's full of grace.
Only one
 Dec 2014
Dhaye Margaux
My dearest child, I thank you
For the strength you gave to me
For the things that I always do
For the world that you made me see


I am woman, now I know
A mother that cares and love
Perhaps if you hadn't come and show
All the flaws are what I have


What really makes a real woman?
If you bear a child for nine months
And rare him to be a strong man
Without thinking of your needs and wants?


It's been so long since I saw you
Like a tiny thing before my eyes
So weak and frail, I never let go
Of the chance that I could see you rise


Look at us now for five years
I am now a proud woman
With you I share my laughter and tears
My little hero, my dearest son


One day you will understand
All things you have to know
In this world just hold my hand
For I will never let you go.
I am
 Dec 2014
arham
When they first tell you to hold it in, you pretend not to hear,
you shut your eyes and girt your teeth,
you ball your fists and split your skin.

Sharp nails digging into pink flesh
Battered heart taking it's last breath.

Darkness surrounding.
Darkness inside.

When you rise again you let loose, you pretend not to hear,
you stare them in the eyes and let the words out,
you show them the light and you dare not fear.

Truthful words cutting through the life of lies
Still beating heart rising from the dust.

Darkness surrounding.
Darkness outside.
 Dec 2014
Days of Dawn
This is a poem
for the boys who've blown
Their chances,
And ended up on the taking end of a cigarette.

A poem
for the girls who picked
the wrong one,
And mouth of their body meets the mouth of the bottle.

A poem
For the outcasts, the loners
Who die everyday from the words of others,
And end at the end of a razor blade.

This is a poem
For anyone who
Hurts, cries, laughs, tries,
Who ended their lives too soon.
 Dec 2014
Days of Dawn
Why don't you meet me
Under the willows by the river
Where quietude is common
And birdsong the only sound

Come watch with me
Watch the willow branches in the wind
And the sun glinting on the river
Like hammered silver

Read with me
Under the weeping trees
Away from the world
Sperate and secluded
 Dec 2014
Musfiq us shaleheen
///
our mind can feel everything
if we can feel the beauty of roses once
it can make some meaningful words,
even can create a few metaphors of a poem

we write all through our life
it can be grown as words of war
even can be born as a piece of peace
or can be grown both,
war and peace

it can be made a pain or gain
or it can be seemed as a stream,
that can be bought a grain of sand
Even it can earn both,
the pain and the gain

life can make a song
it can be a song of joy
sometimes it may be a coy
even it can make a rhythmic tone
that can't always be a romantic tune
as the river is not always plays a full of chimes

life can be found love
or can be gathered loss
or it can be earned both love or loss
as the poem " Annabel Lee"
that gifts us a pang of pain

life can be moved long like a novel
as Tolstoy's war and peace
even life can be too short, tragic
as the life of a poet,
like Sukanta, Keats and Poe

life looks like a novel
it's growing as well
with both lost and found
of so many stir of dreams

our mind is an endless paper
feelings are as ink
times are as the pen
everybody is the novelist
begins writing since he's born
and finishes before his death
though someone exceeds beyond the death

wise men told
life is a learning
life is a continuous earning of wisdom
that can be repair our kingdom

///
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
///

Tribute to the three greatest poets Sukanta, Keats and Poe.

Sukanta Bhattacharya (Bengali: সুকান্ত ভট্টাচার্য) (15 August 1926 – 13 May 1947) was a Bengali poet and playwright.

John Keats (/ˈkiːts/; 31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821) was an English Romantic poet.

Edgar Allan Poe (/poʊ/; born Edgar Poe; January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American author, poet, editor, and literary critic, considered part of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre.

///
 Dec 2014
Sjr1000
He exchanged his
routines
for the
long dusty road,
he exchanged his
jeans
for a long white jacket
he called it the "white robe."
His hat said "Home"

He took off on the
road only travelers
go.

He had a pretty girl
he was was going to see,
then he knew
he would have to leave.

He stopped saying much,
mainly "thank you"
and "please".

He had exchanged
his mind set
for a new set,
his confusion for clarity
his narrative for poetry,
many said
it had led him astray.

He exchanged his
fullness for emptiness
and
began to take it all in,
the old dusty road became
the only way he knew at all.

He would stand in perfect silence
and
hear it all.
He would stand in perfect stillness
and
travel it all.

He exchanged his awake routines
for dreams.

He traveled here and there,
where ever
that dusty old road
would take him,
some places made sense,
some were flashes
of total innocence.

He had exchanged
his expectations
for creations.

He could love you on the road,
be with you
but with you
he would never go home.

Rumor has it
it was his fatal flaw.

He had exchanged
success and failure
for
experience,
he avoided many a cliff
many a fall
in having it all.

You won't find him
hitchhiking
panhandling
soliciting or pandering
selling drugs
or
in bed with your mother.

You'll find him in the whispers
you hear
in the rainbow aura
around street lamps
on night time
deserted streets,
the meteor at midnight
the green flash at sunset.

He had exchanged
staying for going
and
he was on his way
with dust devils
blowing
behind him.
 Dec 2014
Elizabeth Squires
a pity of ashes, were strewn well about
love lying in ruins, the fire burnt out

embers expired, the flame not living
smouldering heap, love's timber burnt out  

finished passion's taper, no visible flicker
ardor had lost its shine, all twas burnt out

no more elan for the two, the spark gone
love's crackling unheard, a flint had burnt out

verve's bright gusto did dissipate, as the days passed by
an ash mound within hearts, love's cinders all burnt out
 Dec 2014
Roberta Day
why try anymore
why stand from the floor
why speak over a roar
why commence action
why repeat interaction
why sentence construct
when I'm interrupted
why decide when time
keeps on--why contemplate
why this apathy
     despond
melancholy
why this grim mask
life moves so fast
brain's slowing down
mouth stops speaking
thoughts flicker away
no memories today
feeling sedated
tranquilized
catatonic
mute
 Dec 2014
Bassam A
If you sync your time with mine
I would find you as a star in my galaxy

If you become a flower that I smell
I would keep you in my favorite book that I read ..

If you become my lips when I speak
I would keep calling your name

If you become my hand on my pillow
I would find you sleeping in it
like a butterfly

I am not good at saying hello

I am good at finding love

and I adore you
 Dec 2014
irinia
to get my hands ***** with miracle,
to be fed with unknown, quietness, outburst of laughter
to carry me like a bridge into nonexistence
to make me a violin amidst misunderstanding
an imperfect piano in Chopin’s musings

to confuse me with another
spewing me on a distant shore
to bear my craziness of walking naked
among suspicious warriors
to teach me a prayer for each & every
breathing day
to take me to the other side
inside

I want elongation & annihilation
the practice of martial arts
in the truth of uncertainty
to invent distant words for the violent joy
of being alive

I want the little things
filling the imperfection of the day
like the warmth of your socks
my hand finding your stubborn lips
the forgetting of your tired shoulders
the softness of my whispers sometimes
my shoes next to yours wandering there
where something always happens
hic sunt leones
the shape of your thoughts in the bedclothes

I want to fall from grace
to love the weight  burying
me in this round-about,
the hymn of my blood
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