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 Jan 2016 Shylah S
syhlent blue
To love and be loved

We all crave the same fiery temptation

To feel and to be numb

We contrast the beauty of love

To be broken and to be rebuilt

We have all seen an illusion of love

To smile and to cry

We fear love because sometimes love hurts

To drown and to float

We sink in despair, waiting to be rescued

To be confident and to be insecure

We weren’t born the same

Most of us hate ourselves

Wishing to be remade

Or maybe wishing to never exist at all

To be heard and to be ignored

We hold everything inside because everyone on the outside is too busy to listen

To be untruthful or to be truthful?

Truthfully. .

We are blinded by our fears

So far deep in our tears

We run from love because we never been chased by love

We accept less because we think that’s all we deserve

We reject love because we are tired of getting hurt

We feel like we are ugly because he or she is more appealing

We camouflage ourselves because we feel like society will judge us

We die inside because we never felt alive

We limit love because we never experienced it’s measures

To love and be loved ?

We will never understand it’s depth

Why?

Because first we have to **love ourselves
 Jan 2016 Shylah S
Àŧùl
People only come and go,
So do my transition inspiration sources.

But lest I forget my motive,
Remembering the ultimate aim in life.

Never demeaning it because,
Life Goes On.
My HP Poem #1001
©Atul Kaushal
 Jan 2016 Shylah S
Àŧùl
Shattered with her departure,
I feel no more enthusiastic,
The reinnervated poet,
Inside me died.
My HP Poem #999
©Atul Kaushal
 Jan 2016 Shylah S
Àŧùl
Bhumika
 Jan 2016 Shylah S
Àŧùl
I miss your poems.
A collection of bests they were,
Only not giving due credit,
And plagiarism they term it,
Your poem about your bunny,
It was as real as that hot sunny,
Why plug out my recharge wire?

Her poems were not all plagiarized,
At least not her poem about her bunny,
What you guys did was to pshaw her so much,
That she deleted her account altogether.
My HP Poem #1000
©Atul Kaushal
 Jan 2016 Shylah S
Richard Riddle
Friends, there are many(I think, I hope). So, to be fair, I will respond with this.


"Stricly an Opinion"
October 20, 2014   8:40a.m.

On August 28, 2013, strictly as a novice, and not having posted anything, anywhere, I posted my first two pieces of "literary art" on the HP site. I had previously searched other similar sites until finally deciding on posting with HP. I'm glad I did.  Why?

Not knowing what to expect, I threw "1894", and "Folklore and Fairy Tales" into the "mixing bowl". Pradip and Sally were the first to comment, and I will never forget the encouragement their words gave me. Never! Quite often, I go back and re-read them, particularly when I get a little discouraged when the "writers block" syndrome decides to attack. Thank you both, so very, very much!

But that is the core of the HP Family. There is an aura, a special atmosphere of cohesiveness among its contributors, willing to offer(in most cases) constructive criticism without being cynical, and always encouraging each other. Making friends whom we may never see, whose hands we may never shake, but a friendship none the less, that is spread throughout the globe, with the thoughts that will always be there. It is a feeling I did not sense with other sites.

One thing is for certain. We never know what our readers are going to like/dislike on any given day. When we post a piece, of what we may think is the work of "pure genius" could go by the wayside in seconds. On the other end of the spectrum, what we believe is not so great, could trend in minutes.

We will keep trying.

Richard Riddle
copyright: October 20, 2014
 Jan 2016 Shylah S
enin
drowning in caffeine
breathing the nicotine
my blood cant circulate - your love will stimulate.
the ****** of death in **** will simulate
your touch , my need
as we spiral in to sin

separation , depression , paranoia
anxiety - the absence of my sleep
aggression , desperation
toxicity - of a drama we are in
discoloration - i can't control the spin

screams - muted by bitter pills
our dreams - induced by the  acid
capsuled lives - longing self destruction
your embrace - disconnection
release me from what is real

obsession - for what we cannot fix
frustration - for what we can't control
memories - of what we used to be
delusions - of what we could have been
isolation - thoughts of being free
now voices dictate what i should feel
digging through my skin - opening the wounds
put your fingers in

remembering the days when we held
an illusion no drugs could replicate
i can't forget.
exchanging promises of never letting go
was it all in my head?
i can't escape the hole.
i walk the road alone.
 Jan 2016 Shylah S
ryn
Shoes
 Jan 2016 Shylah S
ryn
The shoes I bought
Are too big for me
But I love them
I love them dearly

I strapped them up tight
I redid the laces
Put on layers of socks
Crammed ***** of tissue to
fill the empty spaces

I submerged them in water
In a pail, to the bottom they'd sink
I left them in the sun
In the hopes that they'd shrink

I just wish that they'd peer through their eyelets
And see me for all I've done
I will not cease to fill the voids
And fulfil the love I've begun

The shoes I bought
They remain too big for me
But I still love them
I love them dearly
 Jan 2016 Shylah S
ryn
I was a shape in my cosy little shell,
I stayed...
I nestled.
My cookie-cutter thoughts would
occasionally rebel...
And stray to the windows.
But still they were imprisoned by the
walls that surrounded.

I would steal bashful peeks
out a window.
I'd let my senses take unrestricted flights,
as I stared into the grandeur of the carnival
that seemed to have sprouted overnight...

Just beyond the confines of my home.

"What a marvellous circus!" I'd think...
I'd gawk with child-like adoration
and never blink.

The universe lay sprawled
in a celebration of systematic chaos.
It stretched far into the horizon...
A delight to the senses,
perceived through such young eyes.
The world had told me stories.
They were like fireworks
that speared up to the sky.

I wanted to be a part of the jubilee...
I longed for the validation of my existence.
I wished to claim the gift of life bestowed upon me.
I'd resent being held hostage by my indoctrinated ignorance.

I was a shape.
I knew I was a square.
I knew I had a home...
But not within those four walls.
Simply because...
My heart wasn't there.
 Jan 2016 Shylah S
ryn
Square
 Jan 2016 Shylah S
ryn
I was once a shape...
Equally jointed,
at four opposite points.

I was a square...
I never knew the way of the world.
Never open to new experiences,
even when they presented themselves bare...
Even when the shrouds of uncertainty
were wiped away leaving the future unfurled.

I grew up...
Huddled under the roof set above me,
with four walls that kept me safe and sheltered.
That was the entire universe.
That was all I saw...
Views so narrow and uneventful...
A life so bland with the fun bits all sheared.

Never brought up to question...
Never given the time and space to think.
There was always a yardstick upon which I was measured.
The sea of expectations was vast but shallow...
So I could wade forever,
but never sink.

I was once a shape...
No one then expected me to be other than a square.
I had everything I needed,
all within the confines of imposing cordons and tapes.
But the world would constantly rap on the windows.
Peddling its fantastical ware.
It would entice with its secrets and mysteries.
Boasting the wonderful stories it'd like to share.
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