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 622° 
Cazzie
He reclines in his brittle chair carved from his own grief,
Not very regal, but heavily resigned to the aches.
The weight of silence cleanly cuts through the air.
His hands, now mapless, no longer seek.
Memories he left behind in clouds, were few and brief.

Books cradle their breath upon the shelf.
Never once a glance as he knows their unchanging tone.
The windows screech with tempered light
As regret drips down the pale pane of ivory bones.
His posture reflects the weight of years notched in his belt.
The leather groans, stretched too thin like his sense of self.

The hour never bows a whim to beg his name.
Dust circles, never sure as to where to fall.
His suit of choice is a reliquary of loss.
Each button, a distant memory hard pressed in shame.
The air is stained
The room too small.
A silent gasp
The last breath falls.
 581° 
Raven Kuhn
For the first time,
I hold
and
I see you.
Originally a blackout poem.
 415° 
A Vryghter
“I’m getting sick of it, Darling.
Poems meant for you, I mean.
I want to grow, yet my heart doesn’t.
And that’s your fault.

I want to write the forest dry,
but my head doesn’t wander.
I try to forget, will I regret it?
But the trees keep sprouting.

I’m feeling ill, my love.
‘Cause you forget my name.
I’m stuck, the trees closing me in.
I don’t have an axe. I stay.

I want to throw up words.
Get sick of paper in my mouth.
But my heart seems glued,
Repeating the same.”

A.V.
when you love someone who doesn’t love you.
 397° 
Poetato
Some parts of your journey
Are only temporary
And maybe, this is one of them.

It teaches you a lesson
About losing, accepting
And at last, letting go.

It might feel heavy and dark
Yet that's where the light begins to seep in,
Slowly bringing you back home
To yourself.
Well, such is life. Imperfect, yet ours.
 360° 
lizie
it’s selfish,
but i love
that every word i give you
turns into poetry.
TURN INTO ZOMBIES
WHILE OTHERS JUST
ROT IN THEIR GRAVES?

Zombies are just like you and me: they crave understanding and
physical displays of love. Many ex-lesbians report that their form-
er lovers often become "zombified" before jumping off the top of
the Washington Monument (obelisk). These jilted lovers are
like ice cream that doesn't get hard or Walmart cashiers
with large **** cysts that make squatting painful.
 232° 
Carlo C Gomez
Affixed to the Lee–Enfield,
this blade, this trigger point,
stricken by ambush,
enters the melee
along the false edge,
cuts to the core,
like sympathizers of
William of Orange.

There are no daggers
apart from war,
just an ocean of
death and defeat,
its water,
its ever rising water,
swallows us whole.
 210° 
Zahra Ali
Breath finds its
way to the ribs.
How do we draw
love near?
proximity ♡
 209° 
Rose
if roots can wait,
beneath the earth,
for a rain they cannot live without.

and if the stars wait,
lingering in dusk,
just to see the moon once more.

then i,
full of burning ache,
can wait too.

I will wait for you.
I'd wait for him in every lifetime
 203° 
Sia Harms
An arm's length
Of distance--
A question on
Hesistant lips.
A shake of a head,
An answer tinted
With resignation--

Because he is a fragile soul
Formed of glass and passion—
The pieces lay on their sides
—already broken.
 199° 
souletry
I suffer from the chronic consequences of elongating my own obstinacy.
Every single coordinated action rises from fear
So my heart can drive in the name of patience.
something short
 195° 
Jimmy silker
It's that heavy happiness
When you're listening to Leonard
So simply expressed
Though you know he knows the big words
He'd rather talk to many
Than the cognoscenti
See there I just did it
Shame on me
Get salted through with Cohen
the beauty elementary.
 188° 
Soul-in-poetry
Flower petals fall
A sweet reminder of death
Of how a flower–
Is slowly rotting away,
The second it grows petals
 181° 
CS Modei
A small piece of satin,
Held by single thread and pin.
To divest myself of it would be
To undo what has been.
Fun Fact!: This poem was originally stanza two of the poem "Sewn", but I felt that it held meaning beyond that of the original poem and was subsequently split. See the irony? Enjoy!
 178° 
Riri
Beneath the boughs where twilight spills its gold,
The whispering winds through blooming meadows glide.
A river sings where silent secrets fold,
And daisies nod with grace the hills can't hide.

The sky, a canvas brushed in fading flame,
Reflects in pools where dragonflies alight.
The lark ascends and calls the sun by name,
While shadows dance beneath the birch’s light.

In Nature’s hush, the soul is softly stirred—
A truth more pure than ever man has heard.
 177° 
Kim Seul
.
I held the seashells,
sang the songs,
let the waves pull me in,
pretending I belonged.

But the tide went out,
and so did I,
footsteps fading,
hidden in the sand.
if you stop writing

about me , will i

disappear?

will we be so quiet

no one will notice us,

any more?

the bear considered, thought

it may be nice.
 152° 
Nak
First came the declaration
But we were too busy clapping
Second came the rules
But we were too busy living
Third came the action
But we were too busy fighting
Last came control
And we loved the chains
We loved the silence
Let freedom ring.
 151° 
morallygray
It's as simple
as splinters in a finger
or ripples in water
feeling her fingerprints
etching her
on the back of my eyelids
the suffering of millions
condensed in a compound word
goodbye
a tear escape as she walks away
and carries itself across every terrain
hoping she'll caress it with soft hands
simply following
 147° 
CyberInk
Weariness infects my soul
Randomness deflects my struggle
Years of sacrifice and compromise
Yet met by a cosmic probability
Where time and place have the final say
Whereas I was yielding in the air
The train for the lucky has departed
You lied with grace.
I bowed with love.

You took my fire,
left me ash.

I saw your face,
and lost my faith.

You left.
Still,
you called me
light.
 143° 
Nastia
A tiny beetle
Shimmering in the sun
All the colors of the rainbow.
Like benzine spilled in the rain.
 142° 
hannah
if all the creatures in the world
blinked at once
would i still exist?
 123° 
Amisha priya
If you feel
Life is a rejection
Just thank god
You just
Escaped from
Life injection! ....
 118° 
M Ignacio
quantum entanglement
(has me) synching
into
silence
jump!
 104° 
Julie
Look
look close enough
into the eyes
of people

They speak
stories
memories
and worries

Behind them
they hide seas
full of tears

Look into the eyes of someone
and you will know them -
just then
 96° 
Shahriar Hosen
Oh gentle breeze!
don't touch me, I'm cursed.
Oh gentle breeze—
I'm not sacred enough,
I'm guilty, I'm abandoned,
I'm like a pile of trash in the holy land!
Oh gentle breeze, never touch me.
I don't want to leave you tainted!
Oh gentle breeze,
sweet gentle breeze—
Don't touch me!
 94° 
NostalgicFeeling
You said
"It's not you,
It's me"
Maybe it was true-
I haven't had a clue
That it was for the better,
Even though it felt like a fetter.

You lifted me up,
Called me pretty-
Was it just your pity?
Then you got bored;
I've felt so ignored.

I know I've always been pretty,
Sometimes I've been too gritty,
To the little old me,
Now I know there's no price on me,
No measure of my worth-
I deserve to walk on this Earth.
30/3/25
What do you think of the phrase "It's not you, it's me"?
If someone truly wanted to be with you, would they find a way? Let's talk about it!:)
What do *you* think?
 83° 
Kai
"Respect your elders!"
"Respect your elders!"
"Respect your elders!"
"Respect your elders!"
"Respect your elders!"
"Respect your elders!"
How about respect my boundaries
Respect your place
Mind your business
Stop cyber stalking me, Ryan
Before I figure out where you are and smack you in the face
NO???? IM NOT GOING TO RESPECT MY ELDERS IF THEY DONT RESPECT ME AND THATS FINAL.
 82° 
Orjeta
“At the end of life, when the final breath escapes, everything we chased loses meaning.

A single breath takes a lifetime to release—yet still, I wonder:

how many breaths must be drawn and lost before we truly grasp the values that matter in this world?”
Inspired by the quiet truth that visits us when it’s almost too late.
 79° 
PhantomSavage
I
Dont
Understand
Life
I
Dont
Understand
Myself
I
Don't
Understand
Anything
I
Don'­t
Understand
Please
Help
Me
Understand
How
To
Survive
The
Calm
Af­ter
The
Storm
After
So
Long
Living
In
The
Hurricane
 75° 
Santiago
para no estar solo un rato
vine a estar con un yo
débil y quebrado
que no sabe como moverse
ni como pararse
ni que decir
a veces me sorprende
pero casi siempre me hace sentir
ganas de decirle
todo lo que me dijeron a mi
y cuando vengo de estar solo
y vuelvo a estar solo
agradezco
que todo haya terminado,
que la niebla se haya disipado,
y mis oídos ya no estén tapados
ni mis brazos dormidos.
Mi espalda lentamente deja de doler
quizás en vez de acercarme
tenga que irme lejos
y nunca
volver
just tell me what i mean to you
 63° 
McKinley Flynt
You know, it's been rough.
I lost my girl, my job, my car
And I never was enough.

My refuge is gone and my heart remains yearning
But after all this time I'm still just learning
I just wish you didn't have to be a life lesson

There are two lives in my head
One is still with you
The other is dead.
This is gonna be my last one for a little bit, just need some sleep.
 62° 
bleedingink
What if,
one day,
you just can't
anymore.
Une colombe gémissait
De ne pouvoir devenir mère :
Elle avait fait cent fois tout ce qu'il fallait faire
Pour en venir à bout, rien ne réussissait.
Un jour, se promenant dans un bois solitaire,
Elle rencontre en un vieux nid
Un œuf abandonné, point trop gros, point petit,
Semblable aux œufs de tourterelle.
Ah ! Quel bonheur ! S'écria-t-elle :
Je pourrai donc enfin couver,
Et puis nourrir, puis élever
Un enfant qui fera le charme de ma vie !
Tous les soins qu'il me coûtera,
Les tourments qu'il me causera,
Seront encor des biens pour mon âme ravie :
Quel plaisir vaut ces soucis-là ?
Cela dit, dans le nid la colombe établie
Se met à couver l'œuf, et le couve si bien,
Qu'elle ne le quitte pour rien,
Pas même pour manger : l'amour nourrit les mères.
Après vingt et un jours elle voit naître enfin
Celui dont elle attend son bonheur, son destin,
Et ses délices les plus chères.
De joie elle est prête à mourir ;
Auprès de son petit nuit et jour elle veille,
L'écoute respirer, le regarde dormir,
S'épuise pour le mieux nourrir.
L'enfant chéri vient à merveille,
Son corps grossit en peu de temps :
Mais son bec, ses yeux et ses ailes,
Différent fort des tourterelles ;
La mère les voit ressemblants.
À bien élever sa jeunesse
Elle met tous ses soins, lui prêche la sagesse,
Et surtout l'amitié, lui dit à chaque instant :
Pour être heureux, mon cher enfant,
Il ne faut que deux points, la paix avec soi-même,
Puis quelques bons amis dignes de nous chérir.
La vertu de la paix nous fait seule jouir ;
Et le secret pour qu'on nous aime,
C'est d'aimer les premiers, facile et doux plaisir.
Ainsi parlait la tourterelle,
Quand, au milieu de sa leçon,
Un malheureux petit pinson
Échappé de son nid vient s'abattre auprès d'elle.
Le jeune nourrisson à peine l'aperçoit,
Qu'il court à lui : sa mère croit
Que c'est pour le traiter comme ami, comme frère,
Et pour offrir au voyageur
Une retraite hospitalière.
Elle applaudit déjà : mais quelle est sa douleur,
Lorsqu'elle voit son fils, ce fils dont la jeunesse
N'entendit que leçons de vertu, de sagesse,
Saisir le faible oiseau, le plumer, le manger,
Et garder au milieu de l'horrible carnage
Ce tranquille sang froid, assuré témoignage
Que le cœur désormais ne peut se corriger !
Elle en mourut, la pauvre mère.
Quel triste prix des soins donnés à cet enfant !
Mais c'était le fils d'un milan :
Rien ne change le caractère.
 61° 
Jude
it's eleven in the evening
and I put on a CD with bird sounds on it.

nothing else
just mechanical sounding
tsjirps and songs.

I am happy
   with my birds
   with my loneliness.
 59° 
RMatheson
Over the ridges of kettle corn chips
as some sort of enduring
piece mail attempt at balance.

It's never possible.
You are unlovable.

And if fault may lay,
it lay in me.
When I die,
early of my years,
I've gladly gone,
and am listening to music
with Noni
and Tim.
 58° 
León de Greiff
Como llegamos a la venta
-desde donde, a lo hondo, se oye el río-
desmontamos de las cabalgaduras:
en las piedras cantaron los espolines
canción de estrellas teñidas de sangre...

-Ah de la venta! ah de la venta!
Cantaron nuestras vozarrones.

Luego cantaron canción de burbujas
y de cristales, las copas traslúcidas.
E inquirimos por el tesoro de la venta serrana:

Ya se irá, ya se va, si no se ha ido...

En la venta se cruzan vientos duros
-la venta, en la garganta de la sierra desnuda-.
Cantaba el viento, cantaba el viento.
Allá en el fondo, a lo hondo, la línea del río
y el treno del río.

Luego de la canción de las burbujas
cantó el fuego en las piedras del hogar.
Cantaba la sangre peán de lujuria.
Más tarde iban cantando las estrellas
vigías, su silenciosa música.
Y rezongaban preces las viejas de la venta...
Tornamos a inquirir:
-¿dónde está María-Luz, de los bezos de moras?

Ya se irá, ya se va, si no se ha ido.

Y volvimos a las cabalgaduras piafantes.
La Cruz del Sur en la linde del monte y el cielo.
Cantó el hierro en los cantos redondos.
Callados iniciamos el descenso
por el camino en caracoles y en escalas;
por el camino en lumbre tamizada de violetas;
por el camino en perfumes del viento que susurra;
por el camino en perfumes ásperos del monte;
por el camino en músicas de las aguas dormidas
y de las aguas que se despeñan.

De su prisión de vidrio verde
saltó el claro cristal: gorjear de burbujas
y del perfume del anís montañero.

Íbamos silenciosos. Cada cual dialogaba tácitamente con su amigo de vidrio.
Mas uno de nosotros -el viandante de la barba taheña-
cantó, cantó (que taladró la noche
con su voz recia) El Rey de los Alisos,
malamente... E inquirió con voz más ruda:
-¿qué se haría el tesoro de la venta?

Ya se irá, ya se va, si no se ha ido...

Tornó a cantar la voz de las burbujas
y del claro cristal... Y al río, al fin, llegamos...
-¿Si Nuño Ansúrez no nos pasa en la barca...?
-Bah! da lo mismo!
                                    -Bah! da lo mismo!
Nueva canción de vidrio y de burbujas
y fresco trasegar diamantes vívidos.
Media noche. En las márgenes del río
qué limpia media noche!
                                            Esta es la selva
de múrice y de oro!
                                    Esta es la abierta vida innúmera!

-¿Y qué se haría el tesoro de la venta?
-¿Dónde está María-Luz, de ojos de hulla,
de melena de hulla, y boca sombreada...?
Ya se irá, ya se va, si no se ha ido...
 57° 
Carlo C Gomez
~
Lipstick to void. She is a race against time. The beveled past a disruption in her lines of influence.

Travel is dangerous, and tonight it darkens the highway of blood vessels coursing through her extremities. She wants to be luminous and under the skin.

While Dorothy dreams of tornadoes in Kansas, she dreams of remote climbs in lesser Glasgow, of party drugs in Tokyo. How many lights does she see?

In her hair are sixty circuits. But she waits, religiously inclined on the hotel bed. She drove through ghosts to get here wearing nothing but Las Vegas.

So strange at this hour, in a city full of sleepwalkers for the taking, she now dreams she's a bulldozer, she now dreams she's alone in an empty field.

~
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