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Apporva Arya Jun 4
I told her to leave.
I am miserable .
Wont be able to give you anything.
But she stayed...
Now I am more miserable.
Now I am more afraid..I am afraid she is also a journey not my destination.
No one in the world is really here forever to stay
as they all have to eventually depart someday.
We should then look forward without any regret
and not bear in mind anything we wish to forget.
From "The Quatrains" ongoing writings since the early '90's.
Isabella May 26
When I think about you
My heart hurts
It hurts for you
It hurts when I think about your pain
The pain you described to me
My heart hurts for you
For your pain
For the pain I wish I could erase
But I cannot erase it
You have to find a way
To see that all will be ok
That the pain is temporary
But still
My heart hurts for you
what is poetry?

an abstraction of words,

nobody knows.

it comes from the womb
of an unknown place

you’re unable to see it
hear it smell it taste it
it can’t be felt
but you could
feel it
and sometimes
it comes slower
than grandma’s
other times
it hits you
like a police raid.

you could introduce
many women to your
bedsheets and their
clothes to your
bedroom floor
and call it love

or **** on the wall
and call it art

or blow up an anthill
with firecrackers
and call it presumption.

you could burn down the
cathedral on Easter Sunday
and call it beauty

or put the newborn
in the dryer and crank
the heat on high
and call it nature

you could carry your own cross
and dig your own grave
or even help them
nail it shut
and call it death

from the hands of the clock
slowing ticking away at your
worst day at work to the best
motel ******* ever received

from the escape and release
of the world and it’s problems
to the cigarette butts floating
in the stale bottle of malt liquor

poetry is everywhere
and nowhere all at once.

the dream is to chase women,
dragonflies or hot dog carts,
not the literary compositions.

the words will come when they’re ready
and if it doesn’t, patiently wait until it’s
starring at you like a double barrel
shotgun or a woman’s fat ***.
don’t try to coax it out
like a cesarean section,
let it flow, come out easy
and in the meantime
while you’re lingering around
with wasted time
practice the piano
take photographs
guzzle your *****
experience the generalities
of love and lust when you can
and try to have a little fun
with your present existence.

poetry, o’sweet sweet poetry

we are the beginners of tomorrow,
always searching for the endless
result of ourselves.
girl gonzo May 7
the sky slides like a napkin falling from the dinner table
slanting like a wayward line that you drew with a shaky hand
the pills kiss you deeply and suddenly the double doors the color of luminescent moss turn into the double dutch jump ropes that whip your heels if you aren't careful but you're always too careful and you jump with the intention of never feeling the sole of your foot smacking the pavement but then the sound hits and your eyes open
your friend next door has greasy bangs and a mole that covers the top of her cheek and you're always catching yourself staring at it too long and you have to stare at the stains on the hallway carpet instead
but if you let yourself they all become old blood stains
there's a little baby in her home
a baby that has lungs like tattered tissue paper
a heart like a deflated balloon that hiccups too much
but the mother cradles it like perfection, like it can all be helped with enough arms and bottles of medicine each individually labeled with his name
her eyes are tired around the corners but you don't understand why and your brow sweats every time you think to look at him and you feel clammy around the edges
there's a night when you're woken up to screaming and ambulance siren lights
the dizzying red and white make their way into your veins and stay tucked in for years in a different city you can still taste the smell of antiseptic
when you come out to greet her days later there's no baby anymore and there's a suffocating silence
weeks later there's a small tattoo on your friends mothers' chest with his name on it
sloppily inked and looking permanently temperamental and you understand it as a kind of reminder or shrine or apology
you wonder if there's a funeral
you ask your father if babies go to hell
the television is talking about the beneficial antioxidants of wine
as he drink his coffee looking at the morning newspaper and never replies
the sirens can be heard in the distance and the morning feels like closure
Bea Aguilar May 3
I just want to ask if there is anyone who is interested to make a blog/podcast with me. It can be about anything under the sun.
Just message me! It would mean a lot if you are interested ❤️
I'm on a hunt.
A hunt for love.
scratch that,
I'm on a hunt for true love.

I'll swim over every lake,
I'll climb over every mountain.
I'll do anything it takes
to find the one I love.

The one who will love me,
the one who will care.
The one who will treasure me,
the one whose heart I can share.

I'm on a hunt,
a hunt for true love.
And I'll do anything
to find the one
who will bring me
And I'm starting now...
February 11 2019

For what is a man
If he gains the world
And loses his own soul
Nothing. Nobody at all

We are nothing but a mask
To everyone that sees us
For the person inside
Is nothing but an unread book

If no one sees you
Do you even exist
Does only God see our dreams
And the devil steals them away

If no one hears you
Why ever speak
If for only God to hear your voice
And the devil to silence it forever

If your only critic is God and the devil
Who reside in your head
Maybe society is your only enemy
Whose ideals fill your heart with dread

And who do you bow to
The God and devil of your mind
Or the God and devil
That society has taught upon you

The balance and understanding
Of what is good or evil
The knowing that words
Can shape reality or even inspire minds in time
found one i erased. huh, to bad i dont got a time machine for the other 550+

arii nyx Apr 10
You pulled back your fishing pole and cast the line.
Me, being the fish in the equation, bit the bait on the line.
I waited and waited, day and night, to be pulled in.
Waited to be caught, waited to be yours.
But that day never came.
I swam up to the surface to see if you were still there.
The line had been cut and you were nowhere to be found.
I let go of the bait and I sat and waited for another to come around.
But they would just do the same each time until you came along.
You were my one.
You pulled back your fishing pole and cast the line.
Me, being the fish in the equation, bit the bait on the line.
You reeled me in and set me in a bucket with many other fish that you had caught.
I thought you were the one, my one.
But you did what all the others had done, except for making me suffer.
I am not able to breathe, not able to think.
Unable to move, unable to sink.
I am unable to do anything.
The ones who cut the line and left me in the water to thrive knew better than you who pulled me out of the water to die.

You see, in actuality, I am not the fish and you are not the fishermen.
We are just two individuals with a whole lot of baggage and a whole lot of insecurities.
You don’t like your smile, you don’t like your body.
I don’t like my body, I don’t like how my face looks.
We don’t talk outside of social media and that was the issue,
Because I fell for this fake persona, who wasn’t you.
We talked about everything, had so much in common, and now we have nothing.
We had a pact, to never leave one another unless the other wanted, but that didn’t last.
We made promises, but we took them back.
It would never work, and we knew that.
I forgive you for leading me on and being a siren, singing a sweet, yet soul-crushing song.
And after all, somehow I still love you, but I can move on.
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