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Page wasn't a sage
He wrote a blank page
Oceans for him were lakes
His page more than a book
Inanity made him smile
The Sun envied the shine
Page wasn't a sage
Petrified of his putrefaction
He wrote a blank page
Oceans for him were lakes
His page more than a book
He stood on the stage
Petrified of his putrefaction
Audience ran away to escape
The stench
The pleasant fragrance
Page thought he emanates
Page wasn't a sage
He wrote a blank page
Sometimes a paper lies in front of you
And a pen sits still in your hand
But the only thing on the paper
Are wet drops of tears
Falling from the heart
Have you ever found me in my blank poetry?
I try to write something.
But it's too hard to think.
So I left my page without ink.
Indonesia, 22nd May 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
Kirsty Taylor Apr 25
As you sit to look at your calendar,
Something once overflowing,
Is now becoming more and more
Tauntingly blank.

In a place between the end of something
And the start of the next thing
Stuck in what feels like a hiatus

As you sit to look at your calendar,
Something once overflowing,
Is now becoming more and more
Tauntingly blank.

In a place between the end of something
And the start of the next thing
Stuck in what feels like a hiatus

Bit by bit,
Your calendar starts to fill again
This time it fills with things for you
You and only you

Your calendar,
It has more white than before
But now the white looks like snow
Instead of the ice from before.
M Apr 16
These foul bones you have will make you rot from the inside.
My hands cannot stop digging this dirt you've lived underneath for years
Spirit, spirit come here
You're my haunted lover
Daivik Mar 22
It was evening
I was sitting under a mango tree
When a cool breeze kissed me
A butterfly
Flew through the red and pink periwinkle

I heard the voice of cars
The sun was setting
Birds,returning home
And I felt tranquil
As if I had grown wiser

Though there were voices all over
I was submerged in the silence
Of solitude
For me
Time had become still
And I had become one with the moment
My class 8 collection shud I share more
Crummy Mar 2
I lay out the paper
I pick up my pen
I rattle my head again and again
Yet nothing emerges, I draw a blank
Just like this paper, all but blank
This mind far from empty, my thoughts race
Yet I can't get them down, can't find a pace
This mind of mine, so sporadically poetic
This mind of mine, equally pathetic.
sage Mar 1
years ago, when i would climb fully clothed into a dry bathtub to cry, i would think about atoms.
my own, specifically. though whether any of them are still mine, i do not know.
the atoms making my bones, my liver, my lungs, are older than stars.
what were they before me?
that's not the question that scared me. what scared me, scares me still, is if i am made of anyone else. and if they should despise what they had become.

but at the end of history, for it has finally come, it seems silly.
who cares what i am made of?
the world is full of death and fire and shoes with separate toes.
why waste the time to care about the history of my skin?
and while this voice who belongs to nobody makes an excellent point, and i am aware of my ridiculousness as it pours down my face, i cannot shake it.
our minds have not evolved to fit the whole world. i cannot visualise it.
the great, stomping, climate-change godzilla is transient. he phases through the walls of my brain like a ghost, chains scraping along the floor as he goes.
but he finds me, as he leaves me, alone with myself.

and that, i can never run from.

i can cut my hair off with fabric scissors in the middle of the night. i can fill my empty hours with meaningless, instant content i forget as soon as it ends. i can move houses, cities, entire continents. but in blasted spite of every effort, it's still me.
of course i preoccupy myself. it's the one thing from which i shall never escape.

there is no way to trace my body backwards through time. that i know.
i will be myself for the rest of my life. that i also know.
planet earth may not outlive me. makes a trinity of knowledge i have.

so where do i go? stuck inside a body who feels like a stranger, hurtling ever forwards on an increasingly broken world.
i would love someone to come to me, preferably accompanied with a cloud of smoke and ****** of crows, and give me the secret of a life that never feels like static.
but that's only because I'm waiting for a quest that won't come.

no, the solution is far less fantastical, far less the stuff of poetry.
i have to learn to like myself. to know them, trust them, to build a foundation stronger than anything i can break it with.
and though i have already started, i am nowhere near finished. maybe i never will be.
but that is a fear i am letting go of, finger by finger, releasing my grip on.
eventually the wind can sweep it away, and i can forget.
hehe idk
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