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So many misinterpreted metaphors
make me cringe
''are you trying to ruin poetry for everyone''
but I hide my damp eyes behind my fringe
because I mustn't argue and my teachers are never wrong
They sing without a meaning or lyric in their song
we are taught to write what they want to hear
not the truth we feel inside our hopes and fears

But i must turn the other cheek
to get my degree I need..when home I ponder, I weep
because it was the school that killed poetry
for many of my peers..
But all is not lost..wipe away those tears
Grab the pen that feels ethical
the paper that doesn't deceive, doesn't lie
and write a poem that you can feel
you'll get out of school alive
(You know who you are who started this haha!)..Don't get me wrong I love teachers in general..I plan on becoming an awesome one someday too :)
All the mothers are working all the time right from their birth.
They are always learning and teaching for the sake of humanity.
They stay in our memories even after they have completed their life.
Whether they realize this or not but yes, they are always busy working.
In childhood they are busy learning basic skills required by human beings.
In teenage they are busy learning how to differentiate between right & wrong.
They then learn cooking and get married only to get more busy altogether.
They get extremely busy indeed if they started working at a service job.
Adding to their busyness are children and their bringing up as kids.
We must take care that they don't get depressed due in their lives.
That's the least thing we might do for our respective first love.
Dedicated to my mother and all the past, present & future mothers on this Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day

My HP Poem #627
©Atul Kaushal
A writer asked me long ago,
For advice on getting better.
He runs through his works with a fine-tooth comb,
Sculpting each and every letter.

I said,firstly sheath your fine-tooth comb,
For blood-lust it will only bring,
And undress your cliche armour sir,
For it only numbs the sting.

And then I said, with cigarette lit,
Be not ashamed of all your vices,
You're allowed to care; and it's fine to swear --
It's allowed, if you can write it.

Don't do this **** for fortune,
For fame or to be credited,
And if you want advice on writing well --
Keep that **** unedited.
Here lies my eighteenth birthday,
The days we've kissed, and said goodbye

And all the laughs and heart to hearts,
Our extinguished tears and fiery eyes,

And all our childish fantasies,
Dog breeds, houses, children's names,

And the blackened fragments of our lungs --
From which we laughed and gayly sung --

Now rest peacefully in the ashtray.
Always, I have been here before.
I tried living backwards with her,
Asking the questions after her answers,
Falling in love once she was long gone.
But that was another, not the same, in a chain of serial Dulcineas.
But then you came along and climbed down from that pedestal,
you slapped me,
Hard,
But laughed,
And I realized,
how you had been right,
All along.
You've got it all wrong.  You're doing it wrong.  Listen to that coarse voice because it is much more practical than you.  There is nothing romantic about a pining Quixote, he's just another giant mouth to feed.  Elevation and desire, the one you need is not the one you want, candy is sweet, but can give you indigestion.  Life's best lessons are painful, don't ignore their value.
Hear that noise here:
https://soundcloud.com/warmphase/i-have-always-been-here-before
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