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We drank coffee and smoked cigarettes as the sun rose.
We spoke in philosophical rhymes, unaware of the passage of time.
I realize now that the love we had is lost.
You reach for me, but I am a phantom. Long ago, I stopped reaching back.
Still, what we had—the raw and unearthly attraction, the bond forged between our two souls—is unlike anything I’ve ever known.
I will be alone until love strikes my heart like it once did.
I want a love that burns me to ash and then resurrects itself from the remnants.
I want a love that bleeds, gives, and never makes me question my worth.
If I can’t have that, I am content with nothing at all.

-Rhia Clay
alex May 20
I’m bored now.
I don’t want the calm before the storm
I want the storm,
right now.

break me,
burn me,
do whatever,
I’m ready.
I crave the storm that makes me feel alive again
I S A A C May 19
you make me gush like a wound
i am enough in your room
playing tunes, always smooth
i kiss your lies and your truths
i am tough enough to spoon
you remind me of rare jewels
smooth and sharp, hardened heart
i fold under the weight of rules
you make me gush like a wound
i need to touch you soon
my burning desires consuming this roof
Artis May 5
My love, I'm never going to be,
That perfect fire,
That you want me to be.
I'm going to push and pull—
Burn you from the inside out,
Until all that's left—
Are ashes,
Of a once burning fire.

The haunting screams of a scorching,
Burn—I burn it all.
You looked at me
Like you had the sun in your eyes,
Until the sun didn’t shine anymore.
You loved the flame I had—
Until it burnt you.
I told you: I burn—
You touched me
With your bare hands,
Then blamed me for the—

Scorching scars.

Never looked at me the same again.
Put out my fire—
Still let everything burn to ash.
Burn, burn and burn it all! 🔥🥀
Ken Pepiton Apr 16
Ai say, receiving via bluetooth,
oh, say, this must be our sign, soon...

On some curve of life function rectifiers,
we have believers who make reasons
for all individual inflamed,
proud local flesh
or agreement clusters
of our kind.

Should you have decided
this is the day,
I heard,
at your I level you hear
this is the day.

Your part, your role, react in part

We have been called.
Out from the shadows mellow,
no dramatics, satisfaction granted,
taken, rest and recuperate, hate later…

listen, this, in its word flow,
is part of time words exist in,
after being read once, right made,

this dabar is said
to use the pen
of a ready writer, eh what better effort,
effectually adapting
to our instant constant

in prayer, believe is a verb,
on your side.

We believe
we know how faith must
function using our faculties
for sensing needs, which are keyed
to homeostasis, relative balance
of the chemistry and mechanics
of life
in motion.

We can do this with no hate at all, wisdom
fruits entreated with in bubbles of war,
for some certainly ****** reasons,
we can infect your wished real,
reasons to beg for bread, real,
humility costs that gnosis,
and so do many religious
ties to late spring around here.
Amen, an intro on a 137 page conversation, a monk I know compiled/
Lucas Stone Apr 11
i hold my pen like a molten iron
searing burning
heat kinda like a voice buried too long
it bleeds in fire and ink
lines crack through the bed of a once-living thing

the river has run dry
kinda like soft sighs over stones
a ribbon of silvered dead dreams
now it’s a mouth gaping and thirsty
craving the taste of anything but dirt

the trees lean in rusted branches
roots reaching for raindrops in dust
the fish are gone
their ghosts swim there now
ugly beasts swimming in my brain now

i write more so not to remember but to file a grievance
the pen brands truths into the paper’s flesh
dry cracked parchment i dare to call river
each word my funeral
each pause my drought
but i can’t get the heat to lift so i write


💭
Two candles, side by side,
Arms of thread—their aid—
Wrapped around as they hug,
Gracious flames of burning shrug.

Two candles, side by side,
They burned and radiated light.
Hesitance grew as they stood;
They burned their thread—passionate mood.

One cried, the other raged.
Flames engulfed the fabric red.
Two candles, side by side—
A burning heart, in between, laid.

Smaller the candles grew,
Glory to the light they drew.
One burning, the other hides—
Two candles, held side by side.
Mica Wood Feb 8
Mangonadas for dinner,
or maybe just a snack.
Cooking isn’t my forte—
an unfortunate skill to lack.

But when I was a child,
my brother caught on fire.
He leaned against the stove
as if it were his pyre.

Falling to the floor,
he stopped and dropped and rolled—
and luckily for him
the fire was controlled.

I ran upstairs in terror!
I screamed and I cried!
I thought I’d lost my brother—
I thought that he would die.

Lifting up his shirt,
he showed his big, black scar—
Such a drastic contrast
I could see it from afar.

Anxiety came in,
and never did I learn
to cook myself dinner—
too afraid to burn…
A true account of my first memory with fire.
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