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Emir 3d
pieces of my puzzle are aligning
trauma and enlightenment go well together
it seems as though once you've hit rock bottom
the very top feels like heaven

a walking contradiction
how do you go from wanting to die
to living your life with authenticity

pieces fitting in shapes never seen before
pieces shifting sizes finishing the next assignment

a life on hold
holds very little to me

finishing my next task is today
but what is for tomorrow?
craving more isn't selfish
it's fulfilling
questions make me contemplative
unable to sleep at night
thoughts running for more
the adrenaline keeping me alive

pieces of my puzzle can break apart
pieces deceive me and don't actually fit
it is a lesson to look more closely

a piece has appeared
it's unclear where it goes
where it starts
where it ends
it will belong in due time
hello, it has been a long while since I published anything publicly. I've made one or two works this whole year in private but not a whole lot. poetry is relieving for me when I fall into depressive states not so much when I'm stable. But I am starting a new chapter in my life.
Oh, you swamp me with charm - get out of my head.
There’s something about you - a warmth - like the comfort of home - that pulls at me.

I study your landscape of attractive surfaces like a star chart - logging my weaknesses - to strengthen my emotional firewall. I WANT you but my “wants” just seem untrustworthy after recent deprivations.

To be honest - I can’t afford you - not now. You’re a delicious pastry - with strings - and I need to cut all my strings.

You’re something younger me would have wanted - before the pandemic, when scandalous thinking was uncomplicated and freedoms taken for granted.

Last year simplified my reality.

Over time, boredom melted me like wax but a new me crossed some threshold of certainty - that to flourish - no, just to survive - I must become more than I am, or find I’m less than I hoped.

In 2019 goals seemed way, way someday things - far off reference points to seek out - like an inchworm. Social details occupied me like an unfocused dementia - there was an unacceptable level of childish thinking.

But now I’m an escapee on the run who won’t be taken back alive. Old attachments must be stripped down and the old world made disposable - if I’m to achieve escape velocity.
2021 - my year for post-pandemic escape  =]
I've grown rusty and unused to summoning words from a blank page - but FINALLY - there's something new to describe. School (11th grade) is over - at last - and... more.

There's a party tonight - a REAL, honest-to-God, in person, PARTY - for about 30 of us. Yes, vaccinations are documented. Life seems to be beginning again.

I'm eager, like a boxer before the bell or a racehorse at the starting gate. I'm an animal, long constrained, who knows it's about to be set free.

I'm as disorientated as an awakened dreamer and I find myself laughing, drunk with possibilities as I try on clothes for preliminary impressions.

It's hard to quash tremors of impatience.

I'm sick of helpless, indifferent, pandemic necessity.

I'm SO tired of boredom, circling me like a vulture, in my panopticon palace - that I opted for a respite of pure terror - I'm SO clever.

I'm skipping my senior year of high school and heading off to university. I'd rather die than risk spending another year in my room(s) - I almost went crazy.

There's a paper on my desk, white as a bride. It says "ACCEPTED for fall term 2021."

I’m trying not to let on that I’m afraid. Is desire always a tangle of impossible, contradictory impulses?

I've decided that my life is my only real possession - my own, small, life-or-death riddle to solve.

I want to live with intent, like I'm aimed at something and I'm going to chase happiness like it could be caught.

My luggage is open - like alligator jaws. I stare into those tan, Ghurka depths - rigid with anxiety.

My sister (home on vacation from her surgical residency) sees me eyeing the empty bags.
"Are you worried?” She says, “You look worried."

I normally find the sister-teacher-coach vibe irritating, but now, somehow, it seems reassuring.

"No," I lie - then - "A bit," I admit, close-lipped.

But that's a later worry =]
There are some changes in my world - at last
MARS May 25
The young lad
Studies through the dawn.
Sifting through pages
across the morning yawn

Wearily, he gazes through his glasses.
He tumbles somehow through the day
Trying, to understand the
Kinetic Theory of Gases.

When, oh when? Will it end?
His onerous rite of waking up
And studying, despite
Being worn out on the inside,

Keeps him afloat among the wreck.
When the world is sinking
Into an abyss
He is happy to just, be.

Yes he is,
To be on the verge of sanity,
To barely hold on to humanity,
To wake up, every morning.

For the situation outside is far worse.
While men lose their loved ones and
Moan in grief,
Happy he is; to study, and sleep.
This poem was written by MARS taking into consideration the pains of a student, who studies without knowing whether his exams would be held or not, who takes infinite pains to memorize the dreaded formulae just so he can score well, and set himself up in life. This is to all the students out there.
xavier thomas May 15
Now as we sit, sip while smoke swisher sweets
Let me take you back in time
When I met my cherry plum with private benefit privileges
My college chick, cute Laos, do anything for me
Everyday we stay on campus, she made a house key for me
Drive me home after school to work, very supportive to me
Gave cash, ran my bath, clean clothes, a lot of love to me
Even tell her folks she at her girlfriend’s, when she staying with me
Jealous when another lady around, highly clingy under me
She a cutie, very ambitious, trying to be my “Mrs.”
Cooking bacon & eggs Saturday morning in my kitchen
Not to say I wouldn’t claim her as “Mrs.”, she deserve a chance
Her love for me is above me now, that’s out of my hands

                                                                                             Just saying
210 college credits...
5 years of understanding physics concepts...
and 9 months of math problems...
makes me still freshman.
Jeanmarie May 2
Life’s Next Chapter

Sometimes life pulls us away
From the ones who help us get through the tough days
The thought of being without them pains me to say
A part of me wants to give up my dreams to go away to school to stay.

I am worried that I won’t make friends
I’ll be lonely in this new place,
On my own and not knowing my way
The thought of leaving behind my loved ones
Terrifies me more than I’d like to say
A part of me wants to give up my dreams to go away to school to stay.

I am worried that making the move
Might end up being a horrible mistake
I’m not sure if I’m mentally ready
For what life may throw my way
The wonders of the unknown concerns me
I want my life to be on track without delays.

A part of me wants to give up my dreams to go away to school to stay.
Ahmad Attr Apr 25
I’m travelling back
Back to where it all began
From one home to another
Back on the train
a domestic bird like me isn’t ready yet
I am too tamed
But deep within me lies a secret part of me
That awakens once I’m sent to the wild
Like a phoenix or an exotic bird,
Rising from my ashes
My ruffled, dusty feathers shed
And the clean, pristine ones arises
I wonder how he does it
Conquering, thriving
Living life as though it is actually exciting
My heart is racing faster than the train I’m riding
I pass through towns and mounts
Rivers brown and blue
What am I going to do when I reach my other home?
O! other me you know better than I do
How long are you going to sleep?
I need you now more than ever before
I can’t wait to be you
Daniel Cuzzo Apr 24
Grammarly is usually the editor
I never have for fiction.
As long as I don't get fancy,
I can work with the AI in essays.

For poetry, it's mom's backseat driving.
Every end of a line is driving off a cliff,
unusual capitalizations questioned,
diction UNDER FIRE.

"Even well-read people don't understand,
so you should choose a more familiar word."
Well, Grammarly, this one is self-explanatory,
and IF they pick up a dictionary: it's loaded.

I've long since passed the college days
playing with Microsoft Word thesaurus.
Microsoft Word says I didn't pay: but I did.
Too tired to take it up to good-old Bill Gates.

AS SOON as Microsoft became a subscription
I WAS WARNED by customer support: not worth it.
They said, "try Grammarly Plus," so here I am:
dealing with my mom's backseat driving.

In the end, I'm still subscribing.
Now, I HAVE no formatting tools.
I have NO IDEA where they save my files.
Yet, I find this transaction amusing.

Like mom can be annoying, helpful, and cute,
I wake at 2 a.m., and Grammarly's AI is there.
I don't have to wait a week for feedback
and I'm getting better with "the human touch."

Now, I'm pretentious like that unfamiliar word,
but maybe there's a reason for that too.
Writing has been Very solitary & Very public:
each poet must find balance in the enigmatic.

Other writers scoff at the separation:
poets are people who laugh at grammar.
This is correct but also incomplete:
we laugh at rules working "all the time."

Yes, I make MANY unintentional mistakes,
(which is why I have my mom & Grammarly)
but we all love the written word uniquely
and cannot help but express it in SOME way.

It's a sign of my immaturity, perhaps.
When I finish writing poetry: I still rhyme.
I handed in an essay Freshman year that did:
pretty sure the TA gave me an A-.

But even in my Senior year, a clear opinion
accumulated across my studies in New York.
Each Professor proclaimed the ability
to tell when a Poet wrote prose.

This was NOT ALWAYS an insult:
it was always, partially, praise.
After ALL, professors pick the books
& there are fewer ***** looks at textbooks.

Here's a bolder claim: THINK of the possibilities!
I can tell if a Poet wrote Legalese.
Legally binding on several different levels,
moving, symbolic, AND aesthetically pleasing!

I had a dream to be like Homer.
I realized the market didn't want that.
Here's to 2021 with no word-program
and a 3 a.m. artificial editor that's like my mom.
I haven't been posting here lately, but this poem seemed appropriate for other poets.  Most recently, you can find me if you search Dan J Cuzzo on Medium.
Juliana Apr 19
.1. Grey which shines
like the light
of a thousand stars.

The stress of schoolwork
spreads through my veins
like a rollercoaster,
the classroom a carnival.

A ceramic dog resting
atop the microwave.

Say hello.
His name is Gerald.
He watches over us.

A minor god the only thing
getting us through our majors.

2. 256 unmade rocket ships.
A castle made of bare bears.
A tower only reached
by the dwindling of time.

3. Bones held together
in a garland, our guards,
warding off the evil spirits,
our fortress safe
from goblins and ghouls.

4. Memories marinated,
pretty polaroids posted peculiarly.
Traded the white squares
for red packets.

Ketchup displayed,
hoping for plates of fries;
enough to feed an army.

5. You bite them,
and they’ll bite back.

Tropical tastiness tattooed
just under 800 times.

On pillows and placards,
lamps and lights,
dressers and drawstrings.

6. A secular resistance,
screaming with pride
and holiday cheer,
specific holiday undecided.

The forest in which the bunny
came and laid his eggs upon;
plastic snowballs among them.

The star a sign from God:
a backwards babe dangling,
marron and gold streaming down,
hands holding us up,
willing us to awake another day,
to add another holiday to the tree,
to get to June, the *** of gold
at the end of the rainbow.

7. Twinking in another time.
Multicolored lights
souring every which way.

As bright as us,
sometimes more.

8. Peppa Pig and her porky pals.
Resting on the windowsill
outside their houses and
play structures.

Perfectly posed as we
ponder profusely.

9. Spheres of fine fur,
floating and sinking
like waves to the tide.

Alive yet not quite sentient.
Bubbles popping
as they reach the surface.

Richard: the plant hastily named.

Third, the one which longs
for elsewhere, its potential
breaking as it reaches the ground.

10. Seven seats. A pair of twins,
studious rocking at their desks,
tucked in, patting their head
as I scratch mine.

The lost triplet, tucked away
near the door, perpetual time-out
for a deed never dedicated.

A hidden fourth,
lost and forgotten,
unneeded and unnamed.

The fifth, the blue moon,
the favorite, the one
never picked last.

A sixth, the found friend.
A grandmother who wheels around,
baking. Bertha is beautiful.

The last, a grey futon.
Permanently perched
is a student, laptop chugging,
these words written
as they’re read to you.
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