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Whenever I try to write about her
I feel like I don't have enough space on my paper
How can I define her? 
When I myself originated from her definition
How can I restrict her within a few lines? 
When my entire words are enslaved before her
How can I portray her life in a poem? 
When my own life is indebted to her...

And even if she herself asks to write her down
Then also, a tale for her won't be enough
Even if to summarise her down
I'd need to write a novel or two
And if she asks to be drawn down
Then nothing would be tougher than this
'Cause a canvas won't be able to hold her entire explosion of colours
And to counter that, I'd only be left with a single option... 
To build an art castle in a space not less than the sun!

Can u write down ur mum?
Brett Jan 2022
Faint(adjective)- (of a sight, smell, chance, or sound) barely perceptible,
Like the beating of a broken heart being drowned out by
Screaming behind closed doors. The redness that circles
Around the crying eyes you use concealer to hide behind.
Faint as the sun shimmering over your receding silhouette
As you pass just beyond the horizon line, away from me.
Faint chances of survival, when fifty yellow-gold and black
Rosary beads hang free around the necks of those who surround you.
The tinge of iron you smell as your blood pools in your mouth, but
The will to never faint, as in fall to the ground in front of thirsty crowds.
Faint thoughts of happiness that arrive like butterflies, though
They never land long enough to wrap your arms around.
A faint pulse after chasing a feeling through a needle.
Faint, like the beauty of life being burned away. Ever faint
Are the screams of smoldering redwood trees.
The faint spinning of the globe, balanced on an invisible finger.
Keli Oct 2021

ZACK GRAM Aug 2021
Packs an Rovers
**** corona
No chance our whole lives

I love when sticks hit my lips marijuana cigarettes I stay high

If it's not from covid I'm dead, locked away, or passed from natural reasons

The odds are no there
The odds have me dead
The odds have me homeless starved or locked in the penetentary

It's a gift and blessing I might defy God and fullfil my destiny

"This my Grammy
My Oscar
My Emmy
This my Nobel Prize
My cover of Forbes
My Medal of Honor"
The Odds
Suki G Apr 2021
They call me a good girl
and so, I’ve always tried
but somehow, I can’t seem to find
the shining white pearl inside
and so, I always try
to find the good in others around
and hope that in some way, somehow,
it rights all my wrongs.
They call me a good girl —
I think I’m too good even for that.
They’ve walked over me,
stepped on my feet,
crushed down my throat,
trampled across my chest,
pinned my hands and legs,
clipped my very wings,
and for it all, they simply say
that I am a good girl.
I wonder if I’d still be good
if I shake my mane and roar
and thunder claps at my voice
and the earth trembles below
as I trade my wings for talons
and claw my way out
and soar a thousand feet high
and take back what’s rightfully mine.
But what does it matter?
They may call me names,
but I know mine:
I’m a good girl.
NaPoWriMo 2021 (April 14) Prompt: Write a poem delving into the meaning of your first/last name.
Suki G Apr 2021
Stretched wide across mountains and valleys,
clusters of hills and springs of rivers,
a soft brown veil dusted with gold.
Take a long nail, pry it aside,
come, see what’s within for a modest fine.
My flesh, a soft pink for a childhood much missed,
my blood, a loud red for all the shocks I’m full of,
my bone, I’m not too sure for none have travelled far
but if you pressed me hard enough, you’d feel it -
scrolls of poems written and yet to be,
my tongue a ribbon binding them all,
my teeth an ivory chest to contain them,
and sweet lips carefully locking them for now.
A treasure trove awaits those
of my blood and water,
presented on a silver platter under
a soft brown veil dusted with gold
stretched wide across mountains and valleys,
clusters of hills and springs of rivers.
annh Mar 2021
Peace abides in the gentle velvet folds of patient time;

When industry is forgotten and rigid right angles

Give way to soft currents of inspiration;

Lacking definition, judgement or expectation

My yardstick shrinks and disintegrates into nothingness...

Inadequate to the task of measuring infinity.

‘Where is beauty to be found? In great things that, like everything else, are doomed to die, or in small things that aspire to nothing, yet know how to set a jewel of infinity in a single moment?’
- Muriel Barbery, The Elegance of the Hedgehog
Grey Feb 2021
“What is a poem?”
My English teacher asks,
then barely pauses before answering his own question.
Lists of rules and reasons
spill from his mouth,
so many that he’s cut off by the bell.

I refrain from raising my hand
and telling him that anything can be a poem
if you want it to be.

The painting on the wall,
the fleeting peace that comes
from looking at the moon,
the little boy whose hands are already rough
and calloused with use.

Nothing makes a poem
but our minds and thoughts and wishes
for “poem” is just a word
but what it gives us is ours to decide.

Maybe even this is a poem,
though my English teacher would disagree.
Felt like trying something new.
I Stanislavski my way through life
I am and I am not
a piece of *****
I put myself in situations
scenarios racing through my head
and try to imagine
exactly what it would feel like
to be dead

my inner theatrical sense of self
the activeness of an energetic personality
how sad to know
that this is not
nor will it ever be my faculty
"Hi my names Suzan, I work at Applebee's."
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