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My heart
It’s empty
like a blank sheet of paper
She reached her pen
And started to write

She wants me to live on
She wants me to feel emotions again
She wants me to smile again
She wants me to be happy

I look at her
Her eyes filled with tears of ink
I take her my arms
Whisper in her ear
And said

“You are the words on my paper”

I let her fill my empty paper
Her gentle warm love
Saved my heart.
.
As his words flow like honey onto the page
with a nod of approval from a linguistic sage.
Long gone are the days when a woman's plays
would look at the poet with a romantic gaze.

His sad verse no longer makes her cry,
his love poems fail to lift her heart to fly.
Her attention wanders like a lonely voice
away from sanctuary, towards more choice.

And as his pen drifts across a blank page
he remembers the ladies, being centre stage,
the looks of adoration in a beautiful face,
deep pools of experience for his art to embrace.

Melancholic he dips his pen again and tries,
imagination musing her gorgeous erotic eyes.
But the words won't flow, so defeated he cries,
and arranges poets tears into convenient lies.


© Pagan Paul (2017/18)
.
Jay  1d
Bubblegum
Jay 1d
I woke up to a checkered reality
and the absolutes of abandonment
three-hundred miles from a meal
From the red velvet love I craved

From cream cheese acceptance
and everything bagels with
horseradish guidance, the kind that
Stings in your nostrils and
goes down sour, but resurfaces years
later. With sweetness like ice cream

I woke up to empty pantry lies
The kind to which self authenticity dies
and I fought on, hungrier than I’ve ever been
Skinnier than I’ve ever been
I woke up lying in bed, puking on myself, and lying
to everyone around me
“I’m fine,” I say
and it’s true as long
as the bile stays in my insides

I choked down the bitter pill
Choked on a bitter hand
Bruised myself on a baseball
one I had to throw and catch and
catch and throw
Alone for hours
before I could come inside

I licked my sweat and bile
from my face.
Swallowing my dried tongue,
I ran until I couldn’t breathe
for the father who told me to
for a glass of water
And last night,
I choked down a bitter bottle
to feel something a little sweeter

All the while, I dreamed
strawberry milk dreams of
a future, spinning like blue cotton candy
the blank, white canvas of a life to live
of your lips, stained blue with frosting
and bubblegum, passed from your mouth
to mine.
This is a poem about my journey, I guess. I had a pretty dysfunctional life growing up, and it's about fighting through stuff and coming out the other side. The last stanza is the trans pride colors. Because escaping from my reality and becoming the girl I felt like I was is the thing that gets me through all the other stuff.
Shofi Ahmed Mar 1
The material body was yet in the making
The first and foremost luminary feminine
ebb and flow heartily pans out
flawless flow to the finest angle.
Across the nadir to the zenith
Fathima eyes on upon it like it
shapes and forms are waxing lyrical:
The pure masterpiece without a mirror!

Arts on the go Fathima moves on.
Praise be to the Lord she being made
to measure inborn mathematical the pi is her!
(For the perfect circle the circumference is masculine
The pi tends to circle the blank space within is feminine)
She can budge equally in the shadow
in patternless pi decimals and in the open,
in integer into a whole full number!

Hops up her first step she looks for ‘the all’
the complete whole the absolute one Allah.
Time and again she steps up but finds no floor
Her measured step by default lays on 360-degree circle
Scans all things at the first go still finds no bottom!

The first luminary masculine peace be upon him
first looks in the open she takes the veiled angle.
Through the evermore pi decimal micro-hole
She looks on and witnesses the first water drop
surfaces up without a base without a roof on top!
It follows through truly the copy of the original
softly springing around the serene water paints  
of all the maters to be created from this first drop.
Fathima looks at it and veils withdraws her reflection.

It’s still remembered in the sky that follows suit.  
First, a star was born stepping in Fathima’s shoe.
It tried so did the full set of galaxy only to disperse
into a profound constellation never finds a bottom.
Cause amidst this water circle floats the first soil.
Allah called it His house that He first created from it.
Every planetary orb pilgrimage around it in the core
known as Ka’abah up to the heart of the earth it rose.

In the pre-designed world after the first masculine
the first feminine Fathima thus did the first pilgrimage.
She walked the walk did so in the patternless pi veil.

Nature is never uneven on the hidden hand of the pi.
Every little fraction, the small decimal does it count
connects to the dot without showing up a pattern!
Long live, long live the digital charisma is on the rise.

Retracing time and again the sun rises in the median lane,
yet the black box scores it's only a dark chart end of the day!
The Moon is yet to moon over an unturned sublunary-dip
It pulls all, the mighty sea that the earth can't
and sync in the feminine water cycle but save only one
with Fathima floating out of the box it can’t link up!

Like millions, ever wonder where Fathima’s grave is?
The earth strived too to the death bite to print her footprint!
Most of the mass visiting Medina look too see the grave of the holy lady Fathima. It has been a tradition since her death some fourteen hundred years ago. There are two graves where she is buried but which one is her is still unknown. Reportedly she wanted her grave to remain unidentified.
Lying on my bed,
Looking at the new dress which is red,
I thought of buying a new pair of shoes,
But then I thought of whose?
Of Action, of Adidas or of some other brand,
Then I looked at the pieces on demand,
Oh finally I had chosen a brand,
But I had an another dilemma,
Which color will look good,
I thought of pink, green & black,
& I found black the best,
But Shit!!!
I realised my pocket was already blank,
Then I lied down on bed & decided to take some rest,
& gave up the dream of those new shoes...
It's what happen in our life... We think of many golden dreams, but we never have enough resources..

— The End —