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Feels like I won’t fit anywhere,
not in rooms, not in hearts, not even in air.
Like I was born out of place,
a wrong note in a song no one dares to play.

Feels like I am not worth anything,
not a glance, not a second, not a kind word.
Just a shadow walking through noise,
an empty chair no one remembers to miss.

Feels like I’m a burden,
a silent load they carry with gritted teeth.
Their kindness feels like mercy,
not love. Just tolerance. Just time ticking.

Feels like God made a mistake
when He placed me in my mother’s womb.
Like He flinched when He saw me forming,
like He whispered, “Not her,” but it was too late.

Feels like He regrets it every day,
watching me stumble in a skin that never fit,
watching me ache for meaning
in a world that turns away from my voice.

Feels like I should end it myself,
not to escape, but to give peace to them.
To stop being the sigh in their silence,
the tear they hide, the guilt they carry.

Feels like if I leave,
the sun might shine softer,
the room might feel lighter,
and no one would have to pretend anymore.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 6
nope.
an amalgmator, consolidator, a sifter,
a synthesizer, combinator, employer
of words

collect, analyze, repair, modify,
discern the overlapping, intersecting rhythms, the tools,

Drip from my lips, fall from of my grip, from my eyes, salty drip,
and I nail them to my bones,


herein lies my originality....
The millions upon millions of permutations combinations and iterations
That resolved themselves from the madness of my mind, are then attached to my living bones, inseparable, and my living mark of once existence
Avril
31😉  ~May
2025
Poetoftheway May 30
I am not a creator:

nope.
an amalgamator,
consolidator, a sifter,
a synthesizer, combinator,
employer of words

collect, analyze, repair, modify,
discern the overlapping, intersecting rhythms, the tools,

Drip from my lips, fall from of my grip, from my eyes, salty drip,
and I nail them to my bones,


herein lies my originality....

The millions upon millions of permutations combinations and iterations
That resolved themselves from the madness of my mind, are then attached to my living bones, inseparable, and my living mark of once existence
april / -may 2025
Carlo C Gomez May 26
We are fragile figures. Our pillows at the outskirts of paradise. Befriended by dreams, the mind begins to process the day in Kodachrome. Once it starts, there's no turning off the pictures. She lies beside me. She's reached paradoxical sleep. I'm still on the outside looking in.

Take me there. Beyond the eyelids, where the mind wanders each night. To where the seeds of disturbance must be resolved within us. Some are strengthened. Others desolve as mist. This is how we survive. Chemical fires burn, become tides of memory. Pass the torch of preservation. Keeping them warm and remembered.

A miraculous routine. Live together. Dream alone. Desolate. Magnificent. My eyes are at the moment the apparitions are shut away. My mind in this place, a stretched fabric. Yet, it's far from alone. In the cataloging of miles and years, I sense an odd fellowship cresting without limit. I thought I saw her smile in agreement from her side of sleep.
From the 'Checklist Before Commencing on a Dream.'

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4793791/checklist-before-commencing-on-a-dream/
Carlo C Gomez Apr 25
Late October,
and they have assuredly returned.

A canopy of clusters.

At second glance
the leaves on the trees are wings.

Whisper into the dreamscape
for they sense your voice.

Revive them with your breath.

Hold out your hand
like you hold out hope.

The warm sound of flutterings.

Circadian clocks in their antennae,
a sense of where they've been
and where they are going.

The gift from their Creator
moves them in the right direction.
Forgotten traces of a pencil – I’ve been built
by words; public reputation is the means of
being good at your own public relations.
As love’s repetition is loving those you’ve
fallen in love with, off the pages of life rather
than the scripts of perfected fiction.

And to believe your love is perfect is to rival
God's – where you become your own judge;
biased as much, for the flesh desires to feed
only itself; the flesh isn’t the perfection of love.

For everyday of life is the day for all equal dogs,
moral or uncouth,  posterity rests its favour –
Still a dog must know not to bite the hand that
feeds it; as it seeks the hand’s favour – wouldn’t
we all like to find favour in the hands of our Creator,

What are dogs to their Creator?
Gideon Mar 8
Art is a lesson for both its creator and those who admire it.
With every soft brushstroke, carefully selected synonym,
or drawn out note, the artist learns a new way to create,
a new way to evoke emotion from others by ripping it
straight out of their own chest. An artist can do this with
a graceful combination of ease and effort. Those who see
the canvas, read the pages, or listen to the melody, are only
able to grasp the pieces of the pain that are reflected within
their own souls. Inside, we are all fragments of the same
shattered mirror. Its glass once reflected only the face of God,
but now it reflects parts of us. Does it still show God’s visage?

Are we God’s art? Were we a lesson for the all-knowing? Does
even our creator learn from our mistakes, flaws, imperfections?
JAMIL HUSSAIN Dec 2024
In the garden where the earth’s soft sighs meet the sky’s eternal gaze,
Ladybirds, small as dreams, flutter through the tender haze.
Their wings, delicate as the soul’s first awakening,
Carry whispers from the Divine, silently, unshaken.

And butterflies, like thoughts that pass through the heart’s door,
Glide upon the winds, seeking the sacred shore.
Their wings, a tapestry of fleeting grace,
A reflection of the Light that guides our place.

O’ seeker, do you measure the Infinite by what your eyes behold?
Do you seek the Divine in the vast, the bright, the bold?
The Lord is found in the humblest of forms,
In the ladybird’s flight, in the butterfly’s storms.

What is size, if not an illusion born of the dust?
In every flutter, in every breath, there is trust.
For the Eternal is hidden in the smallest of things,
In the tiniest creature, the light that sings.

Look not for God in places far or high,
He is the flutter of wings, the tear in the eye.
He is in the moment, in the breath of the leaf,
In the fleeting joy, in the quiet grief.

In every ladybird, in every butterfly,
The Divine stirs and spreads its wings to fly.
O’ heart, know this—size means naught to the One,
For in the smallest breath, the Universe is spun.

So let the dance of the ladybird be your guide,
And the butterfly’s flight, your spirit’s stride.
For the Divine is not measured, not caught by the eye—
He is the breath of the soul, the wings that fly.
Tiny Ladybirds and Butterflies 20/12/2024 © All Rights Reserved by Jamil Hussain
There’s a novel in which I’ve been caught
But my storyline’s tied in a knot
Come villain or lover
I’m drawn to discover
The author who penciled my plot
Before I go,
Let me express my last gratitude
To those who enjoyed my company
And those who were always true
Before I go,
Let me share my laughter
To all those jokes that we shared
For us to entertain one another
Before I go,
Let me embrace you for the last time
Let the warmth of my body
Get us through these cold nights
Before I go,
Let me pray to my creator
To seek forgiveness for my sins
And mercy for what comes later
Something I have pondered about
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