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Amoeba Jul 24
Cheap theatre, cheap movie, that's how we begin, With patched-up dreams and secondhand skin, We take our seats in the flickering light, Hoping a broken story might still feel right.

The sound cracks, the script falls apart, But we stay, clapping with half-open hearts, The heroes stumble, the endings fray, Still we laugh and we cry and we stay.

No refunds, no rewinds, no better show, Just the slow unraveling we pretend we know, The ticket was cheap but the cost runs deep, We pay with the promises we couldn't keep.

Cheap theatre, cheap movie, our messy design, Crooked dreams projected on borrowed time, And maybe just maybe that's all we need, A cracked-up world where we still believe..
This isn’t about a movie, it’s about how we live. We sit in life’s cheap theatre, watching dreams on a flickering screen, hoping broken stories still make sense. The cracks in the sound, the failed lines, that’s us pretending it’s fine. It’s not the price we paid but what we lost to keep believing.
Life might not be fair, but if you focus enough, on the merits of life, you will see the beauty of life, you will feel the warm embrace, the clarity of acceptance.

There will always be two sides, only you can choose which you see. The dark one may be the easiest, but it is also the hardest, you can always end up here, but only few can leave, like a dark, cold and empty abyss, while the light is the guiding flame in the dark abyss.

We go to bed, in belief of waking up in the morning, enjoy life while you still can, live each day as if there's no tomorrow, talk to your loved ones, as if you won't meet them again, leave no regrets for death is inevitable, if you do you, life might pass before your eyes, don't fret, if something goes wrong, there is an infinite amount of choices ahead.

Death must not be the end, but a new beginning, for those who seek to learn acceptance and moving on.
Sharda Gupta Jul 22
They told me —
a woman’s hunger
should be poetic,
not physical.
Desire should be folded
into metaphors
and hidden in kitchen drawers
behind cumin and shame.

But my lips
do not write verses
to please you.
They burn with wanting—
not your approval,
but my own arrival
into a body
that I refuse to apologize for.

You called me dangerous
because I asked for more
than survival.

You called me broken
because I moaned without fear
and dared to say
what women were only allowed
to whisper into pillows
after the lights went out.

I am not the fire
that ruined your perfect home.
I am the fire
you lit
and ran from.

I touched myself
and did not shatter.
I confessed to desire
and did not turn to stone.
I spoke of my body
as mine—
and that
made your temples tremble.

You said,
“This is why women are left.”
“This is why marriages die.”
“This is why daughters should be quiet.”
“This is why God gave shame to Eve.”
And I replied—
“No. This is why women are reborn.”

Your disaster
is not my doing.
It is your brittle masculinity
cracking under the weight
of a woman
who refuses to be less.

I lit a lamp inside me,
and you called it a wildfire.
But don’t mistake my flame
for your ruin.
I burn to become — not to destroy.
This poem was born in a quiet rebellion.
A rebellion against the idea that a woman’s desire is dangerous,
that her longing is shameful,
that her softness must be hidden to be respected.

I wrote this for the girl who simply wanted to love
— with her heart, her body, her truth —
and was told she was too much.

Every time she expressed her wanting,
they made it a crisis.
Every time she opened her arms,
they closed the door.

This poem is her fire,
her clarity.
It says:
Desire is not a sin.
It is not a storm to fear.
It is a song —
and I will sing it without apology.

Because my desire is not your disaster.
It is my birthright.

— Sharda Gupta
ash Jul 17
give it to the night sky,
i whisper, looking down at our intertwined hands—
sweaty as they are, my palm amongst yours.
you tighten the grip just right,
looking me in the eye,
pleading silently to never let go.

i smile, as i usually do,
but this one carries the hint of weakness—
the feeling brought by you.
and i look back up; the moon stares—
like a mother, like a father, like a family.
it holds you and i under its pale light,
surrounding us,
despite the dark enclosing us from all sides.

give it to the night sky,
i say again, broken at the end.
you shake your head—
i can't, i hear you mumble,
makes me cry, i hold it in.

you could, give all this love to the night sky,
let me go,
and i'll dream about you.


but is it really necessary?
i promised to stay.


so you do.
i see strength,
and i see the way it fits you—
it comes in waves
until it grapples over you.
and while the dark seeps right across your chest
through the tendrils of my hand,
you never let go.

i watch you break,
wait for you to disintegrate,
as i've always feared—
except the smile never quite leaves your face.

and you give me the look,
looking straight into my eyes once more.
you smile the same way you did the first day,
and the day i told you who i am,
and the day you saw me destroy the world around us—
the same inkling of love
disguised as the passion of a fool.
aren't you a fool

you never let go,
even as my murk surrounds you.
it circles,
ensnares,
screams,
and cries—
but you hold my hand tight all that while.

and when i see it take over you,
thoroughly,
i break down—
like a glass piece shattering.

can't afford to look back up,
can't look at your face.
what have i done,
after all this time,
once again?

squeezing my insides,
finding something—
the same anchor of the heavy
that's held me down all this while.

the feeling so floaty,
i start losing grip of your arm.
and as it falls nimbly to your side,
i can't look at your face.

but there's a shimmer in the night.
the dark is overshadowed—
never has it happened,
but it does now,
as the moon brightens twice.

and your voice echoes—
first in my mind,
then my heart,
and slowly it takes over me,
as a cold hand searches for mine.

the grip is back—
it grounds so light,
unlike what i was before.
you make me look up,
and i see it in your eyes:
no murk, none of mine,
even though tendrils of it
snake around your neck
and give way into lines—
lines shadowed by a glow,
a glow so pure and bright.

you still carry the same smile,
and it makes me cry.

you withheld it all,
i question,
hoping you won't fade away into oblivion.

there are stars in your eyes,
and i see the hearts in mine.
the night glimmers,
and i feel alive.

brought you back to life, didn't i promise?
it could have killed you—
they always mentioned it did.

none of them had the urge,
or the strength,
or saw through you the right way, perhaps.


i chuckle.
perhaps—
i wasn't worth enough of that.


hey, what of me—

well, love, my love,
tie u and i, i shall
our hands together
let this feeling swell,
and you're right,
i'll give you it—
you did bring me back to life.

something jinx and ekko poured life into
it's reallllly old and i'm stuck in a writer's block
Matha Jul 17
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Our temperate country roasts and burns flesh
with Apple devices cheerfully
advising that the temperature is
currently a three dicey digit affair

walk in the 100 degree overheating
atmosphere, where sluggish slugs,
once mobile New Yorkers, search and save shady places that proffer
a handful of degrees relief from the
brutalist sun, who was heard smirking after a wet Juno,
"oh yeah,
I'm back baby with the vengeance
of a squalling and squabbling infant!"

and to harmonize on our lack of immunity from the terrors of weather, and yes, it's still June, the quiet nighttime skies awake us a thunderous slapping of sheeted rain, squalling and squabbling,
rat-a-tat large caliber bullet/droplets drilling holes in our
template temples expecting early
morning serenity;

the Newspaper rags in search of pithy witty declaim:
Rainstorms To Crack The Heat Dome In NYC

neglecting the cracking of tempest tossed tempers,
furthy discombobulated composure
of forced sheltering in place
more, again, uhh,
as if parched thirst or drowning are a choice

ok rant over!

the displeasure was all mine
Nat Lipstadt Jul 15
I have been accused by y'all of being four of the five above,
But never ever has anyone accused me of being
Pithy







<>
well, maybe the second definition below,
As in
"natty oh natty.
you're full of…
pith"
Oxford Dictionary
adjective
1.(of language or style) concise and forcefully expressive.

2. (of a fruit) containing much pith.
1DNA Jun 26
~
When light falls
To horizon’s brink,
Brave legacies rise
From the darkest ink.

When all is dark,
And gold weeps bleak,
Abysmal words
Reflect what we seek.

~
I finally got it in italics!
Cadmus Jun 22
🖤

Like a child running to his mother in tears,
seeking warmth in her arms,
only to be silenced with a slap.

That is the ache of being let down,
right where you thought safety lived.

⛓️‍💥
Some wounds don’t bleed , they echo in places we thought were safe.
Isabella Ford Jun 19
~A Letter From Mom ~

I thought of you, that quiet day,
in January’s cold, aching way.
I searched for a cardinal to help you see –
a mother’s hug, sent quietly.

But no scarlet feathers came when I
prayed,
they’d flown instead to ease another’s pain.
So where red wings should have stirred
the air,
I sent a man – gentle, strong, and rare.

I breathed my love soft into his ear,
a whisper only your heart would hear.
Step by step, though he never knew,
his every footfall led him to you.

You’ve carried so much on your own,
yet love was never yours alone.
So let love in, don’t turn away –
you were never meant to lose your way.

Daughter dear, breathe deep and hold no
fear.
You are loved beyond compare.
Let your heart breathe soft and free –
and know my love will always be
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