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Seth H 1d
Hello Norway,

I crave your letters
the paper notes,
slipped into my cell.

the only bit of contact
I have to receive
various topics
that bring me relief

Every day
I am wishing you well
praying that your troubles
would all go to hell

I hope you find the friend
that you've been searching for
Though I kind of wish
you'd visit me
a little more
My unsent, never will be sent letter to "norway" (nickname).
Cyril Jan 17
I will never know whether it's meant as praise or disapproval when friends tell me I'm being too transparent.
Conversations over coffee leave me wondering if they’ve ever truly known love—the kind that leaves you vulnerable.

Maybe they haven't grasped how terrifying it is to be misunderstood,
To deliver the wrong message,
To drop hints, only to have them left unexplored by someone too direct to see their meaning

Have they realized how a hint of opacity can blur everything, turning what was once clear into something unrecognizable?
How a single careless moment
or a slip of the tongue can lead to loss?

Isn't it a greater shame to leave everything to fate,
To let life unfold without intention?

In their eyes, am I foolish or brave?
Nonetheless, all I know is that pride is a heavy weight.
So I tell them this;

I can only breathe when I write, when my words are laid bare,
Stripped of pretense and hesitation.
There’s something freeing in that honesty, something necessary.

I love when I love. Why hold back?
Malia Jan 14
“Thanks for asking, but 𝑰
am fine, just a little tired.
𝑪𝒂𝒏’𝒕 complain, you know?
Everybody gets a bit
stressed sometimes, what with
all that we’ve got to 𝒅𝒐.
It’s not like 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 is any different
than any other day, any other person.
𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 somewhere has it far
worse than I do, so don’t feel sorry
for me. No, 𝒔𝒂𝒗𝒆 your compassion
for a person who really needs it, not
𝒎𝒆.”
a cry for help is often hidden in plain sight. reread. relisten. you might find something you didn’t see before.
It's a nice day in Paris,
A chilly afternoon.
At a tourist cafe,
With an Italian Painter,
Chatting about the French language.
"Why would you write about Dan's Amour?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well it's Dan's thing, seems personal to him."
"No, no, I wrote about dans amour."
"Yes that's what I said, Dan's Amour!"
Sigh
Another poem painting onto the world of, "The Gray Man Of Paris," I like these little light hearted ones.
Aires Jan 3
In this busy days,
I forgotten you.
But today let me ask you something,
Do you like him?
Because I don't.
......
(Smile)
I thought, you would ask me about our whereabouts.(Silence)
I like his voice maybe eyes too,.
Maybe smile,that's all.
But, I don't like him!
(Lie).
Sometimes you love but it hard accept
That may leads to forgetting yourself.
Hannah Willker Dec 2024
I look at you
While you sleep
I can feel your peace talking to me
a very short one, but I liked how it pairs up with "falling asleep in your arms"
JAMIL HUSSAIN Dec 2024
Ah, fairest soul, thy words like balm do soothe,
A melody wrought from heaven's gentle groove.
Thine echo doth awaken ancient streams,
Where once the stars did sail in argent beams.

Thy gaze, a lantern in the dusky night,
Doth pierce the dark with tremulous delight.
In thine arms, the very winds do cease,
And all the world doth find its sweet release.

Thou art a tempest clothed in tranquil guise,
A paradox that dances 'neath the skies.
To follow thee, in thine own breath to dwell,
Is to be caught within a rapture’s spell.

The sun may set, the moon may rise,
But none can claim a truth more wise
Than what thy lips, like whispers, sing—
For thou, sweet muse, art time’s own wing.

Thus, in this dance where heart and mind do meet,
We find the world, and make it whole, complete.
Thy voice doth call, as if it were the dawn,
And in that song, my soul is ever drawn

In reverent awe of thy grace,
By this humble hand, a heart to trace.
A Shared Pulse 09/12/2024 © All Rights Reserved by Jamil Hussain
JAMIL HUSSAIN Dec 2024
Ah, how the tides of words, like wind, do sway—  
No right, no wrong, only truth in its play.  
She stirred the stillness, and I, unmade,  
Was scattered in the dance her breath portrayed.  

I spoke as a river, gentle and deep,  
Unknowing the fire she set in my sleep.  
Her youth, a tempest, fierce and bright,  
Burned with the intensity of a star’s first light.  

That morning, she rose as if the moon had wept,  
A dream untethered, from the night she had kept.  
Perhaps in the cradle of wine’s warm embrace,  
She found the secret to her restless grace.  

Her questions like arrows, sharp yet kind,  
Each one a thread that wove into my mind.  
With wisdom veiled in mystery’s song,  
She lured me in, where I belonged.  

"Open your heart," she breathed, "and let it fly,  
Together we’ll write, beneath the sky.  
Our words will echo, our rhymes will bend  
Time itself, till we are the end."
An Exchange of Breath 09/12/2024 © All Rights Reserved by Jamil Hussain
Keegan K Dec 2024
I write poetry

to have
a conversation with myself
and with God
and you

to log
everything I see
and think
and feel

to expose
the lessons I was forced to teach myself
the prayers I learned for you
the wisdom you learned for me

to give
and less so to take
and therefore not to make
something of or for myself

only inevitability can be birthed--
with all the cries and wails
that arrive in sync with newness and life--
as I traverse the capacious cavern

inside and realize
to have it is
to log it is
to expose it is

To give.
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