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A greenish wonder; wrapped in white,
It gave a floral scent of sublime delight.
Plucked from life; it held a belle desire,
There it held the glamorous shire.

The purpose was lost; a withered corpse,
The vase remained; a ceramic coarse.
Depraved of soul; an empty gloom,
There was a vase in my room.
FoxCarcass Jun 28
Am I my own desires?
Bound to jump on my instincts
My body stripped
My eyes devoid of light
The same motions we used to make
With a stranger I just met
My consciousness altered
Reality has become a dream
But when I sleep I have none
What choice do I have
When it’s between the devil and my grave?
Soul Jun 26
Shinning bright
in the misty night,
the only light
in sight;—
From your polished
face, I waited
once for long.
Like a song
it ended, leaving
you on my sighing
bare hands.
In the distant lands
my fame grew;—
Not a single dew
drop I saw
in my raw
life.
But why?
I cried;—
Why did
you left my
heart lie,
made of
tough;
grey steel—
Still warm
from the fire
you never meant
to stay?
Succeeding Life doesn't mean you let others fall as you move on the track...
Zywa Jun 22
A car stops, because

I'm standing at the window --


and yes, I can come.
Novel "**** nu mijn stem" ("Hear my voice now", 2017, Franca Treur), chapter 12

Collection "On the fly"
Zywa Jun 20
In nice clothes I wait

and await, it takes so long --


before you touch me.
Collection "Local tardiness"
Shane Jun 20
Part I — Divine
The Mortal Speaks

Her rosy cheeks, her auburn hair,
Enchant the breeze with sweetness rare.
Apples and peaches, ripe on the vine,
Voluptuous grace in soft moonshine.
Evenings, like wine, drip from her lips,
Nectar no god or man dare sip.

Seldom does a star descend,
Eclipsed by longing none could mend.
Nearer she draws—divine, undone,
Tonight, I burn, one with the sun.

Part II — Carnal
The Goddess Speaks

How strange, this ache no god should feel,
Each glance from you—so raw, so real.
Love was a myth I sang in jest,
Lust, now a flame I can't contest.

Beneath my skin, a storm that calls,
Over my throne, temptation sprawls.
Untouched by fate, you bent the law—
Never to rise from passion’s thrall,
Deeper into hell’s flames I fall.
badwords Jun 19
A call not about
Sweepstakes I never entered
Just a wrong number
In this minimalist yet emotionally layered haiku, the speaker recounts a seemingly mundane event: receiving a phone call that turns out to be a wrong number. However, the poem uses this incident as a metaphor for the larger emotional experience of entering new relationships—particularly the hopeful, uncertain space where romantic potential lives and often dissolves.

The poem opens with “A call not about,” a line intentionally left incomplete, evoking a sense of open possibility. It invites the reader into a moment of suspended expectation, paralleling the anticipation often felt when meeting someone new. This expectation is expanded in the second line, “Sweepstakes I never entered,” which cleverly captures the irrational hope for sudden emotional reward—desire without groundwork, love without history. The speaker knows the odds, yet still yearns.

The final line, “Just a wrong number,” delivers an understated but poignant turn. What initially felt like fate or connection is revealed as coincidence—an impersonal glitch mistaken for meaning. In doing so, the poem critiques the human tendency to romanticize beginnings, projecting possibility onto strangers, only to face the quiet disillusionment that follows.

Through everyday imagery and restrained language, the poet reflects on the fragility of expectations in modern connection. The piece resists melodrama, instead presenting romantic disappointment with irony and emotional clarity, suggesting that in love—as in life—what feels destined is often accidental.
tahsin Jun 18
The midnight moon
drunken with lustful flames
glisten across her naked
face.

She
a marvelous melody
sings softly by.

And
the distant mountains
are flames

In this unforsaken
lands of desire.
Zywa Jun 18
It is getting dark, we walk
away from the couples, who, just like us
have not seen the sun go down

The picnic baskets are empty
You pack up the peels and I
pretend to look past you and you

pretend I don't attract
your attention, knowing that
our skin is glowing for more
You are smoothly sculpted
like a Greek god

I brush through your hair
The sea moans under the rocks
Our room is still far away

but I can imagine you
hanging out nicely, kneadable
in the grip of my hand
September 24th, 1989

Collection "Take a picture, now"
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