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 1041° 
McKenna Christine
& really, do you even mean what you say? why do we feel like a trap, you were never supposed to be a prison stay. in all actuality you freed me. i mean, at least that’s what i used to think. now i guess i just feel used. finding myself wanting to go back to the forgotten days. how'd i ever let it get this far? hell, where do i begin? your smile. your lips. a promise, never to be fulfilled. an ache, a need, a dismissed agenda. words cannot express the pain that forms when you say you don’t remember. is there something that i missed? i can’t help myself from going back. i voluntarily drown in our memories. you fill my lungs, take my breath, you can keep everything that’s left.
 947° 
Frances Raeburn
I never asked
for tomorrow
I think
That was you
 790° 
SableNocturne
when you're in a crowded room
full of people
but no one sees you
they look right through you.

you smile,
you laugh,
you chat,
but they don't know
the real you.

the small talk,
mundane and
superficial interactions
drain the life out of your soul.

somehow you
end up leaving
emptier and lonelier
than you ever were before.
 604° 
Scarlet McCall
I awoke from the dream, slowly fading,
with only one image remaining:
As I fished, in a lake, on a boat,
police brought up a body
disfigured by bloat.
A man, with his features erased,
leaving an unrecognizable face.
But then I saw the tattoo…could it be..you?
Sodden and bloated from all of your drinking
your body, heavy,  slowly sinking,
until you descended to the bottom below.
The water is also the sum of my tears.
The dream a depiction
of my sorrows  and fears.
Awake, I know that you’re not dead.
But there’s an emptiness
in my heart and my head.
Dreams take many feelings and thoughts and experiences and condense them into a single image.
 442° 
Marc Morais
Why start with
you mean business
when you say
you mean no harm—

When mean is
the reason why
you harm
and the start of
your mean business.
 333° 
Amethyste
Boy with long hair
I love looking at you.
I take long, long sights
Every night we meet up.
 329° 
Melanie Munoz
Open bars and drunkards
Cold feet and dark streets
Pink puke and white slabs
My love is far from me.

-Melanie Munoz
 286° 
Isaac
As I soak in the cinders of silence
that I myself have procured,
I blame the rest of the world for
the burn marks that never really go away.

I'm submerged to my nostrils, barely
breathing, yet somehow I still manage
to fill the tub with unending self-pity.

My tears do the rest of the work,
and they are the fuel for my embers,
and as I wallow in isolation,
I pretend I am dead.
 224° 
Peter Gerstenmaier
Now at the end of all things
As we're breathing sulfur and
Lead's pouring over our heads
I'm glad you're the one I'm
Sharing the trenches with
This is the first thing I'm able to write in almost a month. A little piece about my mental health struggles and how grateful I am to the ones that have my back right now.
 215° 
Kai
Maybe I’m not strong enough,
To carry man’s weight. My back wasn’t made
For empty promises, lack of understanding.

You feel no attraction to me. Yet,
You yearn for me. You tell your father about
Everything I do. You break chains
For me.

Where are Stonewall’s bricks?
Thrown in windows, wooden
Doors.
Doors that mean nothing,
Because my heart is elsewhere.

Maybe God is not strong enough,
To carry man’s weight.
You use his name in vain,
To carry out your warfare on
A peaceful race.
I am new to this website so feel free to follow me or message me or anything!!
 191° 
Jonathan Moya
night drapes
day spreads
stars emit light
moons conceal dark
around the north star-fire
away from the south moon-water
stars journey
moons remain
in their wake
at their rest
stories extend
stories retract
 186° 
Liam
tremors
the familiar anxious feeling
when I'm all alone
alone with my thoughts
the shadows creep in
gifting me tremors
tremors that capture my hands and legs
tremors that make my heart flutter and pound
tremors that terrify me
reminding me of that night
the night I tried to end it all
the memory gives me tremors
and terror
 156° 
MetaVerse
There once was a woman from Spain
Who loved to make love in the rain.
     She also had fun
     Making love in the sun,
And always in the public domain.
 153° 
IrieSide
Nature loves courage,
is what the
psychedelic
sage says

find this power,
some inner guidance
that refuses
to submit
and relinquish
its soul

stand, and stand higher,
rise again,
bring up your brethren
& sistren

follow the flow,
and remain in strength
fear not,
the spiritually hideous
monsters
 146° 
hannah
i'm scared that you'd do what you always do
get me on the fence
feigned proclamations of love
that i believe
your little dove

let you come back
just for you to say
'its only for a minute'
and before i can protest
you use me and disappear
leaving only fear, so clear.

why do u fill the gaping darkness inside of me so perfectly
maybe then i'd learn that its all an illusion, certainly.
i want to hate you
instead i hate myself
bc i can't.
 143° 
just call me caits
I remember the rage in your eyes
when I told you
about that late night
with tears in my eyes

you said it was my fault
and I thought it was mine

but I think
“you made that decision”
doesn’t feel the same
when she pulled me away
and asked me if I was okay

I remember the rage in your eyes
directed at me
but it wasn’t for me to find
 127° 
LL
if I can only
be happy for you and not
happy with you — f***
02/17/2025
 124° 
Vianne Lior
Mornings licked amber—
wet, bright—
papaya pulp split in the grass,
rain still steaming off rooftops.

they came—
sway-backed, jewel-eyed—
weaving cobalt ribbons through the cricket fields,
feathers slick as oil spills.

I waited—
barefoot, rice pinched in small fingers—
not offering—inviting.

they took—
beaks sharp,
eyes glinting like they carried whole summers behind them—
but they never left.

even when the rains came—
hard and urgent—
they stayed, hips swaying under silver sheets,
tails dragging through warm mud.

I thought they danced for me—
as if the whole monsoon belonged only to the girl watching— silent, secret-spined—
hair curling at the nape—
too small to touch,
too quiet to call them by name—
but they saw me.

I know they did.

they crowned me in silence—
Princess of Puddles,
Keeper of Small Hungers.

somewhere between the serpent hunts,
the rain-slick pirouettes—
I learned how beauty moves—
how it takes without asking,
how it lives without needing to be seen.

they were never mine—
but I belonged to them—
to the fevered mornings,
to the blue-green shimmer folded beneath heavy air,
to the secret language only wild things speak—

something wordless—
something that never leaves you.
Every morning, on my way to school, I passed by those peacocks—swaying through the fields, feathers damp with night rain—the first beautiful thing that ever made me feel chosen. Feeding them in my backyard became the quiet ritual of my childhood, and still remains one of my fondest memories.
 115° 
Jeff Bresee
I see it time and time again
that beauty’s made by what is spent.
 
A beauty that demands a price
with outer glow and inner ice.
 
And observation seems to tell
it’s only as deep as the well,
 
for come the day the well runs dry…
such beauty simply waves goodbye.
 107° 
Clay Micallef
I have seen grown
men throwing stones
into still rivers
rivers that are
tired of running
they watch small birds
feast on smaller
living things
they breath out a
steady stream of
blue sadness
they sit in cars
reading Kerouac
looking up at
long naked legs
they have outlived
their fathers
idea of youth
they have played
the puzzle of
insolvable love
they are lost in
quiet rooms
they ask her
politely to leave
they wait for the
dust to settle …
Clay.M
playing with matches lit
listening to the fight
sitting on the stairs
knowing it all
but not helping
you always said
a child not embraced by the village
will burn it down to feel its warmth
but now your house is flaming
the blaze flickers between your teeth
the child plays in the shadows of the fire
what will you do now?
 90° 
Marc Morais
Fences fail quietly—
in a slow tilt,
colors give way,
surrendering—
a silent retreat
from brown to brittle.

I press a finger,
catch the rough
edge of metal,
its dust scratching my skin—
years thin us,
like coins drowned
in riverbeds.

It goes this way,
I think—
a long fade,
grit slipping
into dark water,
turning to mud,
just enough to remember
we once held on.

And I wonder if we, too,
were made to loosen,
to dissolve—
no shards or splinters,
just a long sigh—
as time corrodes
at our hearts,
turning all we were to rust.
 82° 
Joe
A prism lies under the Earth
As strata waste away
The daylight comes ever closer to finding the prism
And its rich hues may one day find my retinas.

I just hope that my mind can process the colors.
 81° 
Thomas Castle
you can't force a realist to realize silhouettes on water.
 73° 
Imarie
I keep it hidden every feeling deep
A private space where my emotions sleep
I say your name in silent, gentle ways
And build a world of remembered days.
 70° 
Nobody
Came back
Survived the ride
Plunged into dark
Saw the light

I'm back!!!
I will now be posting
Regularly
I missed you all
What doesn't **** me makes me stronger *******
 68° 
Nick Moore
Walking one of your
Favourite
Walks,
Through the twisting bends,
Your voice
To me
Talkes,
I consider the soil, trees and rocks,
Hold memory's,
Whispering
On the
Wind.
 66° 
Christian
If I were a tree,
my roots would tunnel towards you.
My branches,
stretching for just one touch.

If I were a flower,
my petals would blossom at the sound of your laughter.
My thorns,
removed by the tenderness of your voice.

If I were a river,
my stream would carve for you a way through mountains.
My water,
purified by your resilient spirit.
Night
and I toss and I turn
wake up cross
and I burn
with angst?

jeez
what am I,
fifteen years old?

someone once told me
something
but I forget what it was

the beauty of becoming ancient
is in the memories you cannot remember.
 63° 
Y
And finally, it's my time to go
Maybe one day I'll realise
That someone out there loves me too
To my best friends
I will miss you.
(4 March 2025)
 63° 
Carson Dees
Sunshine and rainbows
Never hurt anyone

Sunshine and rainbows
Never seem sad

But sunshine and rainbows
Never show anything real

So sunshine and rainbows
Is what I'll never write.
You don't have to find happiness if you're feeling sad.
 62° 
AWURAA
You living to see another day will only draw you closer to the day you bless another person's life.
 62° 
K Balachandran
Every single
mistake of mine,
even the recurring ones,
patiently you edit within
and read as if it's fine,
nothing has ever gone wrong.

see!
what your love
incomparable
has to me done,
my poor, darling!

in my writing, they see
the grammar fully muddled,
so many words I spell wrong.

I see this, only when
others, bitterly, loudly complain
gentle soul, your'e forgiving,
but the world isn't,vengeful it seems,
don't you see the predators, prowling?

Why don't you consider the truth,
I am imperfect, want to be corrected
why not help me change,
tell me where I go wrong, urge
I'll certainly adore you more for that.
Darling, don't turn a blind eye to my faults, out of love
 57° 
Paul
Ribbons of light spiraling through my mind,
each droplet a prism forms colors entwined.

Beams through the canopy, flickering dance,
natures voice calling,  staccato romance.

Light chases shadow, eternally bound,
to battle forever, no victor be crowned.

A rushing of air, landscape transformed to motion. Leaves swirl to the ground, while trees bend in devotion.

Steps create patterns, soon water will fill.
My heart can beat softly, my mind almost still.

I walk and I bathe in the calm of this place, I am safe and I am happy in my forest space.
 56° 
Alfred de Musset
I

Le carnaval s'en va, les roses vont éclore ;
Sur les flancs des coteaux déjà court le gazon.
Cependant du plaisir la frileuse saison
Sous ses grelots légers rit et voltige encore,
Tandis que, soulevant les voiles de l'aurore,
Le Printemps inquiet paraît à l'horizon.

II

Du pauvre mois de mars il ne faut pas médire ;
Bien que le laboureur le craigne justement,
L'univers y renaît ; il est vrai que le vent,
La pluie et le soleil s'y disputent l'empire.
Qu'y faire ? Au temps des fleurs, le monde est un enfant ;
C'est sa première larme et son premier sourire.

III

C'est dans le mois de mars que tente de s'ouvrir
L'anémone sauvage aux corolles tremblantes.
Les femmes et les fleurs appellent le zéphyr ;
Et du fond des boudoirs les belles indolentes,
Balançant mollement leurs tailles nonchalantes,
Sous les vieux marronniers commencent à venir.

IV

C'est alors que les bals, plus joyeux et plus rares,
Prolongent plus longtemps leurs dernières fanfares ;
À ce bruit qui nous quitte, on court avec ardeur ;
La valseuse se livre avec plus de langueur :
Les yeux sont plus hardis, les lèvres moins avares,
La lassitude enivre, et l'amour vient au coeur.

V

S'il est vrai qu'ici-bas l'adieu de ce qu'on aime
Soit un si doux chagrin qu'on en voudrait mourir,
C'est dans le mois de mars, c'est à la mi-carême,
Qu'au sortir d'un souper un enfant du plaisir
Sur la valse et l'amour devrait faire un poème,
Et saluer gaiement ses dieux prêts à partir.

VI

Mais qui saura chanter tes pas pleins d'harmonie,
Et tes secrets divins, du vulgaire ignorés,
Belle Nymphe allemande aux brodequins dorés ?
Ô Muse de la valse ! ô fleur de poésie !
Où sont, de notre temps, les buveurs d'ambroisie
Dignes de s'étourdir dans tes bras adorés ?

VII

Quand, sur le Cithéron, la Bacchanale antique
Des filles de Cadmus dénouait les cheveux,
On laissait la beauté danser devant les dieux ;
Et si quelque profane, au son de la musique,
S'élançait dans les choeurs, la prêtresse impudique
De son thyrse de fer frappait l'audacieux.

VIII

Il n'en est pas ainsi dans nos fêtes grossières ;
Les vierges aujourd'hui se montrent moins sévères,
Et se laissent toucher sans grâce et sans fierté.
Nous ouvrons à qui veut nos quadrilles vulgaires ;
Nous perdons le respect qu'on doit à la beauté,
Et nos plaisirs bruyants font fuir la volupté.

IX

Tant que régna chez nous le menuet gothique,
D'observer la mesure on se souvint encor.
Nos pères la gardaient aux jours de thermidor,
Lorsqu'au bruit des canons dansait la République,
Lorsque la Tallien, soulevant sa tunique,
Faisait de ses pieds nus claquer les anneaux d'or.

X

Autres temps, autres moeurs ; le rythme et la cadence
Ont suivi les hasards et la commune loi.
Pendant que l'univers, ligué contre la France,
S'épuisait de fatigue à lui donner un roi,
La valse d'un coup d'aile a détrôné la danse.
Si quelqu'un s'en est plaint, certes, ce n'est pas moi.

XI

Je voudrais seulement, puisqu'elle est notre hôtesse,
Qu'on sût mieux honorer cette jeune déesse.
Je voudrais qu'à sa voix on pût régler nos pas,
Ne pas voir profaner une si douce ivresse,
Froisser d'un si beau sein les contours délicats,
Et le premier venu l'emporter dans ses bras.

XII

C'est notre barbarie et notre indifférence
Qu'il nous faut accuser ; notre esprit inconstant
Se prend de fantaisie et vit de changement ;
Mais le désordre même a besoin d'élégance ;
Et je voudrais du moins qu'une duchesse, en France,
Sût valser aussi bien qu'un bouvier allemand.
 55° 
Jeremy Betts
Just leave me alone
I'll be better on my own

©2025
 54° 
Jun Lit
Webs catch the small flies
But big bees just pass through them.
Talk about justice . . .
 54° 
Ryan O'Leary
Being a minority voice
not going with the main
stream narratives will do.

And just so you are aware
the gulf stream is not a
given it could go anytime.

When it does Ireland will
freeze over and everyone
will be fleeing to Africa.

With the blacks and Arabs
you mean? Yes, but they
will be forced back up here.

Don’t be sayin dat now will
you or you’ll be sin sirred
by the racist Irish red necks.
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