Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
VI of Cups
Connection to the past

There is a generosity in your eyes
You give what can't be given
To heal the past, to heal your friends
A childlike innocence keeps you driven

Before it heals, it haunts you
Your life is stiff and without play
To forget you must forgive
I feel nostalgia for today
A poem every day.
13/11/2020
That is what it is like
when somebody loves you
more than you love yourself.
You find you're loving them,
and in loving you trust,
both them and their judgment.

If he loves me for me,
and I love and trust him,
then I should love myself
just the way that I am.


and

I want to be the one
he is deserving of,
and I want to become
the best version of me.


and

It's not just for his sake
that I want to improve.
I'll grow and change for him,
but also for myself.


That is what it is like.
six pm Apr 11


i
am a
sentimental
physicist.
observing
the gravity
of emotion.
noting the
subtle lensing
of light,
as it
filters
passed you
and
distorts my
star weary
eyes.
i must
crunch the
equations &
check them
twice
before
i don
aluminum,
endure
your
endless
cold,
& shoot
for your
moon.•
○.

⁂⁖
.
the
mass
effect
of you
consumes.
hypothesis:
your
spirit’s
path is
visible
light,
racing
towards
a cosmic
wall; to
decorate
galactic sky
as microwave
impressionism.
•°.


.
to
make
sense of
your dark,
i spend
my nights
measuring
boundless
black
matter that
surrounds us.
enraptured
by the
scented skyline
prophesying:
jet propulsion,
serenaded, and
lemonade rainfall;
Armageddon
upon another
acid planet.
your pain
upon the
reaches
still unpinned
by travelled
telescopes;
dying
technologies
making me
jealous of
all the
places where
the universe
sees the
parts
of you
i am
physically
incapable
of being. °
•.

⁖⁕
.
as love
moves
in ellipticals
it eclipses
my heart,
eventually.
always,
the awe
never ceases
to inspire me.
invokes my
muse.
devote my
life to
translating
the beauty of
its euphoria
into the
English
vernacular.
ceaselessly.
to release
the burden of
it’s memory
like the sun
burned into
my retinas.
i compose &
compute each
intangible
equation.
nuance
comprises
itself onto
endless notations.
converting numbers,
filtered through
my limbic system,
into colloquial
prose.
closest words
to illustration,
as my
cerebellum
can
surmise. •
. •°.

•.
code the
sentences
unto
my poems;
my theories
of everything.
presenting
my poetry
to everyone
as my
thesis.
phantoms
obsessing
my mind
my only
tangible
evidence.
am i
still the
only
person
who can
see
how
perfect
we
are?
the
only
person
who
sees
our
future
w­ritten
in the
stars?

-six pm
www.by6pm.art
Shrika May 2020
I wake up to a morning where,
Splendour sketches an idyllic scene,
Snowy clouds shroud the dazzling sun,
Swallows soar high, gliding,
Through these vehement winds,
Rustling leaves sing an ode to this peace,
Grey, white, blue, blur into one,
A myriad of colours found beautiful by none,
All Acts and Roles- forgotten,
And the Play- lost,
Trapped in this second,
Enchanted by no magic,
Every passing moment envies the next,
Solitude settles in the air,
Loneliness bids me goodbye,
Rationale screams for realization,
But soul guides me to tranquility,
Life seeps back into me;

I'm awake.
I find joy.
I find myself.
Today's weather made me poetic, I guess.
And dull, grey skies are something I love.
Lost in my Head Jun 2020
6
The savior of the strings
The blade that softly stings
There’s a lot here and in short I’m glad that **** is all behind me
Next page