loverboy,

I cannot remember the last time I looked into your eyes without imagining a
blue-sky Sunday coffee type of day.
The type of day where I sit by my window and yearn for an exit outside of the hole I’ve fallen into.

I’m sure you didn’t mean to do it.
It was I who dug a hole and covered it with leaves thinking you’d fall into it just as I had.
I remember how you didn’t even turn around to face me as I tumbled down and under.

You didn’t even hear me fall.

Don’t worry, I don’t blame you.

I used to play with a fire too hot to hold. I still do.
I let it burn right through me with hopes that you’d see.
Apparently I was so bright that I blinded you.

You couldn’t see

Why couldn’t you just see me?

It’s not that hard, dear lover boy. I didn’t just rip out my heart,
I carved it out from my unwilling body

because it beat only for you.

It was useless in my own self. Why didn’t you just take it?
Offered right here on a silver plate

It beat for you.

It’s all right.

It’s all my fault

Covered in autumn leaves, the gaping hole inside me wasn’t big enough for you to fall through and return the very ***** I entrusted to you.

I don’t blame you.

I’m sorry.

-lovergirl

from the sun-dappled emerald green plains
to the mountainous tides of the deep blue,
i will search for a dream settled in the history of our time.

my dream clouds will sit atop the north
like pillows placed on a bed
too materialistic to sleep on and too minimalistic to dream about.

caged?

Vadym Komarov, June 20th, 2019 - ******

hold me down.
i can see the story fluttering in the light,
but they do not let me out.

they keep me caged like a siberian tigress
bound to the melting frosted forests
our planeted body had provided for her.

they keep me caged.

whirlpool

a step in the sandy dunes of the Sahara has me dry.
the only thing i inhale is silence and sand.
the grainy ridges seen in the distance slowly weather,
until they are nothing but quicksand whirlpools.
as i fall into one, i can only think, “let me out of here”.

it holds me down.

Obed Nangbatna, May 25th, 2019 - Crossfire

spotlight

Lyra Mckee, April 18th, 2019 - Crossfire

in which the moon dances with the sun in a waltz.
even dancing with the moon,
the sun sprays its spotlight on the earth.

what is that?

it shoots its rays on a portion of our world.
look, there it is,
dancing amongst the skyscrapers,
galloping among the spray of bodies.
i wonder if i should follow it.

Ahmed Hussein-Suale Divela, January 16th, 2019

i follow the spotlight.

birthed

troy gave me my name.
the civilizations of Ilium,
the villages of Rhodope Mountains,
the flat plained city of Thessaloniki.

i want to run from them.
i can’t, so i run to them.

i find something.

crossfire

point blank guns are zeroed in on me
earthquakes rumble under my feet
as i stumble ahead.

refugees,
immigrants,

Leonardo Gabriel Hernández, March 17th, 2019 - ******

i guess we’re all the same.

Mojamed Ben Khalifa, January 19th, 2019 - Crossfire

monarchs,
Norma Sarabia Garduza, June 11th, 2019 - ******
tyrants,
Francisco Romero Díaz, May 16th, 2019 - ******
presidents,

different shades of governing bodies which diverge from our own political awareness

saints and sinners alike,
it doesn’t matter how much your soul is tainted.
we are all sainted souls that have sinned.

it just depends on whose part you play in the crossfire.

Amjad Hassan Balkir, June 18th, 2019 - Crossfire

tear

we live in ignorant bubbles,
cages of sort.
they are never ending
chasms of expectations and anxieties
our minds have conjured because of our complexities.
they prevent us from catching our stories, attaining our dreams.

i’ve fallen into whirlpools, followed my spotlight, retraced my birth, and plunged into a crossfire trying to escape my bubble.

i’ve followed my dream,
Jamal Kashoggi, October 2, 2018 - Dismembered
now will you follow yours?

housekeeping

i will make my bed,
fluff the pillows that were once
filled with my aspirations.
the pillows, now flat, vacant enough
to let new dreams puff them back up.

i make sure to leave the comforter untucked,
so the next dreamer can slide in easily,
slide into a place that once  sustained my adventures and stories.
i leave it untucked, leave the lights dim, and leave the door ajar.

i do not ever enter again.
A star-lit ballad plays for the dreamers who pursued their dream to the very end.