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Urmi Jan 19
They say eyes
are the windows to the soul
maybe that is why
yours are pitch-black,
clouded and yet
sinfully beautiful.
Fully clothed from head to toe,
bare I lie with my own sorrow,
this sadness that has followed me
in aeroplanes across the sea.
I wish to draw honest breaths,
and meet my precious life afresh.
I’ve tried and tried to keep this pain
away from me, to my own gain:
I have sung Luthario’s song,
and found myself loving the wrong;
I’ve allowed distraction to wreak
havoc in both my work and sleep.
I have let entire days
burn away in the fire’s blaze
singing songs of suffering,
ignoring the joy life can bring.
Yet I read pensées written by
Krishnamurti, an Indian guy,
and there’s this special thing he said
one day, and now it’s in my head:
“you are the suff’ring, there is not
separation, you are the thought!”
And now I think I start to see
just what this sentences means to me:
it is absurd to put away
this sadness for another day–
there’s beauty in communion,
in an eternal union
between this guy I think I am
and this pain within my hands.
But if I am the thing itself,
what’s there to do? Can I be helped?
There are answers my mind craves,
yet instead of being enslaved,
I’m going to run with this one:
that there’s nothing I can become
that will get rid of all this hurt
that I’d so like to trade, or worse.
So here I go, please wish me luck
as I enter a living ruck,
and reduce the space between
the real world and my own dreams.
Cast a gaze up to the skies;
life is not found where feet lie.
Fading light frames deepest fear–
I say, "let the fear come near,
heathen beast, it cannot win!"
(Love shall quake before no thing.)
Then we turn to face the earth,
daring life beyond mere mirth.
Do we rot among the weeds,
or imagine finer deeds?
Deeds of wonder, deeds of awe,
knowing that we can be more!
More than threads of fate may deem–
choices! And a mind that screams
for the beauty of the world:
raindrops in the shape of pearls,
clouds that part and show the sun,
birds that sing and dogs that run;
blades of grass that pad my feet,
hyacinths that share their sweet
loving smell among the trees;
nettlestings on children's knees.
Should one grasp an old tree trunk,
look up from one's phone at lunch,
one might yearn for life anew,
no more breaths and time lost to
qualms that dampen virile fire,
love that stumbles on tripwire.
Is is truly love at all
living as though one must fall
under grief's bewitching spells,
buying lies the devil sells:
heartless, cryptic, gnawing, grim,
plans and projects lost to whim.
Surge with triumph, young and old!
Leave distraction in the cold,
wield your sword of mindful fight;
scream in midst of ev'ry plight:
"Life in bloom beyond a screen,
One of fairest things I've seen!"
On learning to become responsible for my time here.
Co-written with my brother, Alexander:
Victor D López Dec 2018
Flowers bloom next to rusting Pepsi cans,
Watered by the spit of ******* dealers,
And the ***** and vaginal fluid,
Of hot lovers groping under blankets,
Under stars dimly blinking through thick smog.

Nightly haven for muggers, rapists, fiends,
Whose every breath profanes the species they,
So poorly represent, turning Plato’s,
Featherless bipeds, to dead plucked chickens,
Soul-less, pointless wastes of protoplasm.

Abomination-- not in itself but,
For the use it’s put to: a bone for dogs,
Who’ve never tasted steak, and are gleeful,
To feast upon the scraps of fetid meat,
Clinging to well-gnawed bones that they are fed.

Central Park, the bone we are to chew while,
Smiling complacently at skyscrapers,
Daily rising where wild flowers might have grown,
Our humanity proportionally,
Shrinking inversely to their daily rise.

If I seem narrow minded and unkind,
Or blind to the beauty of Central Park,
It is because I’ve stood on ****** ground,
In summer, fall, winter and early spring,
And cannot bring myself to love a *****.
From: Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011
Filomena Nov 2018
I haven't counted the bluebirds going by,
there can't have been more than a few, but
I always chase them away. I'm afraid
the raven doesn't see me yet.
Madison Sep 2018
Oh, Morning Glory Girl, I  love you so.

Little sunrise flower, more innocent

Than she knows, trying to soak up  the light

Of those gone gray, my sweet Morning Glory

Girl, her bright petals start shrinking away.

Oh, Morning Glory Girl, I hate you so.

Vegan vultures feed on your innocence

You bask in the attention of corrupt

Beaks. They do not love you, Morning Glory

Girl, they just want a meal, but you're starving

For that kind of love, so you're happily

Used, every little bloom, chewed up, spat back out.

Oh, Morning Glory Girl, I miss you so.

As midnight settles in, you're all but gone

Every petal, wasted away, all for

Naught. The vultures crow over your frail frame

And hot rage boils within my grieving veins.

By the light of the moon, I mourn and mourn.

How could you do this, Morning Glory Girl?

Such lovely petals, all given away

Only to be torn! You're nothing but stem

Vegan vulture food, nothing left to see.

Who would guess that such a lovely flower

Would become a beast like me? I must go

May both of us carry on, grow something

Brand new. But remember, Morning Glory

I will never forget who I once was

Such an innocent flower, just like you.

I'll smile for you with bitter insides, love.

Sincerely, this jaded, grieving nightbloom.
Blank verse and flowers. Pretty sure it's a successful combination.
My mind has always sold me one old lie:
feelings must be foes; broken hearts, loathsome.

How many woes were caused by one untruth?
––I can't remember how my own tears feel
––distraction, fear, distraction, distraction
––weeks of voluntary melancholy
––the list goes on and on and on and on.

The internet became my hiding place. Where
YouTube, Facebook, and news sites steal my seconds.


O, to feel again! O, to be alive!
To walk once more forgotten haunted streets!
Playing around with blank verse (allowing for some hiccups) whilst exploring my own avoidance behaviours.
With your last breaths you said to me, that I
must “save the world with words! A pen that sings
gives birth to forms of life that time can not!
On tips of tongues the lungs of love’s voice hides.”
Monosyllabic iambic pentameter.
Because why not?
power pose
in front of the angry men
"we're not scared of you"

but they should be
she spits fire bright
from lips she wears matte dark
she's digging the perfectly manicured claws into the palms of her hand
hands that bring incredible generosity
and incredible pain
depending on how audaciously you approach her

with your alcohol-stenched breath
and a body that takes up space
but contains nothing of substance
aside from liquor of course
an empty, angry vessel of wordy slurs and slurred words

she knows they don't deserve her tears
they should feel grateful to receive even a smirk
an ounce of her attention
in this economy
with the men who untuck their shirts after a long day's work
unaware of what the women have been up to
is priceless

you can't commodify what you can't touch

they are not beds waiting for you
to lay down on
to make your lives easier
while you weigh down upon ours

her silk sheet skin
and the comfort of knowing she will be there at 2pm and 2am

this is her home
this body is an address
it is not your residence
loiterers will be fined
she will be fine

power pose
the power grows
this is your power prose
because mama,
you will be fine
for jass
swaying across the hardwood floors
swoon, swoon, swoon
under the moon, moon, moon

your fingers dance across my spine
like piano keys
your hand tapping against my thigh
like a tambourine

a gospel choir singing
in the background of your laughter
sobriety is easy
when you're drunk in love

and you didn't even know you could dance to this
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