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red is the blood that pours down his arms
red is the flush on her cheeks
red is the flower that they wear on their charms
red stains my carpet for weeks

wine and women
power hungry; driven
red controls life.

red is the heart
hurting the boy
pumping too hard and fast

red is the truck
that took them away
the world speeding past

red is hungry
red is power
red is strong.
im doing color poems every day im grounded.
hope you like them, cuz this hurt.
Zywa Feb 17
In ashen wisps clouds

are moving across the sky --


Far away: the moon.
Composition "Moon Viewing Music" (2018, Peter Garland), for three gongs, part 2 "Even more so / because of being alone / the moon is a friend" (haiku by Yosa (Taniguchi) Buson, 1716-1783, translated by Yuki Sawa and Edith Marcombe Shiffert), performed in the Organpark on four gongs by Pepe Garcia on February 8th, 2025

Collection "org anp ARK" #86
DJQuill Feb 16
A payphone,
Paid for with time and energy
All my change I spend on you
Released from the caller's heart
An already safed contact,
Feeling like an anonymous number,
Ignored like spammers
"Call me back" left on voicemail
Hanging loose from the box
Still waiting-
more days to come
i lost a friend today.
not to death.
almost to death.
i called the police as they attempted.
they have stopped talking to me.
they are angry

i lost a friend today
i wish i had done better.
they almost left.
without a word.
i wish they hadnt told me.

i lost a friend today.
my friend attempted suicide today and i called the police. they told me to ******* and die.
i want to hurt.
Vianne Lior Feb 16
The door yawns open—
its hinges groan like old bones.
Dust blooms in the light,
a ghost of every footstep
that once passed through.

The walls inhale,
exhaling the scent of old wood,
something sour, something lost.
Wallpaper peels like dead skin,
exposing the raw ribs of the house.

In the kitchen, the table waits,
a chair slightly askew—
as if someone had just left,
as if they might return.

A single cup, cracked,
lingers in the sink,
stained with ghosts of coffee,
lips that once pressed its rim.

The stairs creak beneath my weight—
not in protest,
but in recognition.
They know me.
They remember.

Upstairs, the air thickens,
choked with the weight of silence.
A door stands half-open,
swollen with time,
holding its echoes close.

The bed is made,
but the sheets lie stiff with dust.
A shirt drapes over the chair,
sleeves limp, reaching—
but for no one.

I reach out, fingers grazing glass—
a shadow stirs in the corner of my eye,
but when I turn, nothing waits for me.
Only absence.
Only the house, patient, watching.

I swallow,
but the house does not.
It keeps everything.
It keeps them.

I turn to leave—
but the walls hold their breath.
They know.
I will come back.

I always do.

itsmekacey Feb 16
i am all alone
please don't lie and say
i am loved
because that's simply not true
life is pointless
why would you ever say
there's hope for me

(now read bottom up)
we used to walk downtown
close to Christmas
you would be stoic and quiet
I would get excited over anything we saw

you wrote poems about me
you told me the most wonderful stories
I always listened
when you called me your little Sunlet

I loved you
I still do

to love a poet is not the same as to be loved by a poet.
to be loved
is so much more fulfilling
I loved you

moon

-L
to my sweet moonbeam
you are loved
you are missed
A box, small and unassuming,
holds more than metal and stone.
Three rings, each a chapter closed,
a story whispered, then silenced.

The first, a Hawaiian sun,
gold warm against my skin,
a maile leaf lei etched in enamel,
a promise of island days,
a love as bright as the tropic bloom.
But the bloom faded, the sun set,
and the lei withered, a memory
of sand and surf, and a love
that sought solace in another's arms.

The second, silver, a simple band,
smooth and cool against my finger.
A barrel, strong and unadorned,
like the love we built, or so I thought.
A quiet strength, a steady hand,
a foundation laid, brick by painful brick.
But the foundation crumbled, the walls fell,
and the silver tarnished, a reflection
of a love that found comfort elsewhere.

The third, titanium, cold and hard,
dragons entwined in gold, a symbol
of power, of a love that burned bright.
A fierce embrace, a passionate fire,
a connection that felt unbreakable.
But the fire dwindled, the dragons slept,
and the titanium grew heavy, a weight
on my hand, a reminder of a love
that sought warmth in another's gaze.

Children grown, their laughter echoes
in the empty rooms of my heart.
Their friends, once my own, now strangers,
their lives moving forward, while I remain
anchored to the past, a silent observer.
A long-distance love, a whispered promise,
a fragile thread connecting two souls,
but the distance stretches, the thread thins,
and the whispers fade into the wind.

I stare at the box, at the rings within,
each a symbol of what was, what could have been.
A new ring beckons, a design forming
in the depths of my mind, a symbol of hope,
of a future yet unwritten.
But doubt whispers, a serpent in my ear,
was it me? Was I not enough?
Or were the circles simply incomplete,
destined to break, to shatter, to fade?
The Weight of Circles, heavy on my soul.
Q Feb 13
Not yet plant or earth but soon.
Not yet runes or sin immune

In this room, and as my tomb,
My voice, only speaks as blooms:

Maybe then the creatures and eaters
Can make a home out of this unbeliever

For maybe I perceived or perhaps I was the deceiver
But I hope that in death,
I could be their redeemer
So when the weavers weave their homes
All along my bones,
My tryst with the reaper
Are where the feasts were.
I tried to try something different
Andrew Feb 13
I do not exist when I’m alone.
Not in any way that matters.
I move, I breathe, I think,
But it feels weightless, distant,
Like a story left open in an empty room,
Pages turning for no one.

Nothing is real until someone is there.
Until a glance, a word, a touch
Pulls me from the quiet.
Like I am only a reflection,
Flickering into being when seen,
Vanishing when the mirror stands empty.

Do I exist when no one is looking?
Or do I fade into the spaces between moments?
Drifting somewhere between thought and absence,
A pause too long, a whisper among the breeze,
A shadow with nothing to cast it.

And when I step back into the world,
I pull myself together with careful hands,
Wearing the shape they expect to see,
Smiling, speaking,
As if I had been whole all along.

Maybe that’s why I hold onto every word,
Every glance, every touch.
Because in those fleeting seconds,
I am seen.
I am something.
I exist.
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