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There is one on some loves,
That flourish like summer flowers
And bring seemingly endless joy
To lovers entwined
And hypnotized by the notion
That this will bloom forever.
But as years pass, some flawless
In execution and mutual care,
The flower begins to fade,
As if its color and fluid are drained,
Perhaps by the force of love itself.
And, unknown to the two,
They glide apart slowly,
Like two ships on the tide,
Until one day, they reach a horizon.
Each looks out for the other
As they have done before,
And call out in hope, then despair,
But they are unseen, far away.
They may try to sail back,
Beating furiously against the tide,
And finally, admitting defeat.
They each collapses, crying, shouting,
Blaming life, fate and humanity.
After months spent on the rocky shore,
In tears or questioning why
And often getting no reply,
The memory of passion fades
As new flowers bloom
And life’s garden summers on.
I walked through life with a rude and fresh arrogance:
I was taught it when I was still a big fish in a small pond,
When I still had a can-do-it-all attitude, when the dance
Was life, and the tune was want, and the performer, fond,
Moved like anything. Anyone. Save Lethe, who dulled me,
Who pulled me under waves when I cursed the sea,
When I thought, to time immemorial, I had the energy
To do anything, go anywhere, be anything I wanted to be -
I lived off borrowed time, and borrowed fire,
And borrowed, all of my once blazing desire
Fed no one, but lost dreams - I reap the harvest now:
I should have been a doctor, and I plough
My lack of care and decision, my blind turning, and the resulting salt,
I trudge through the compost of other unfinished deeds, never to halt -
I never knew the meaning of a battery, even when it ran down;
My phone recharges at night, and I simply squint and frown,
Trying to make sense of a world sensible to girl who used to dream;
Sleeping through waking, as though nothing would be as it would seem.
I am undertaking a challenge of writing a poem a day until the 31st of September to raise some money (or at least awareness) for my mother's research group at the University of Oxford, who are trying to find the causes of Lyme Disease, ME/CFS and Long COVID, amongst other fatigue related illnesses. If you are interested, this is their page: . The poems are all going to follow themes that are typically associated with these conditions, such as despair, lost opportunity, exhaustion... Please give me advice and suggestions! I'd really appreciate your input. At the moment, I'm calling the challenge the FortnightForFatigue Challenge. I would like to thank you all for your support in advance.
Mose Sep 5
How can all the cities be filled but yet the world feel so alone?

Sometimes the desolate feelings swallow me whole. The other times I'm reminded of the vapid space between me and the feelings of meaningful connections I miss. It sometimes makes you feel unlovable - a desperate cry for recognition. To be felt in a way that says, I see you clearly. Text messages unanswered lead to late night sobs trying to remember I can't be the only one missing humanity and feeling less than here. Depression creeps over in the next room to let me know I am not alone in this. Social media has a twisted way of reminding me the world still turns even though mine has stopped spinning. Some days I just want to say I am here, maybe just existing but I am here. Ready to tell you I miss you. Ready to hold your hand; any hand that reaches back out between me and spaces of my heart that feel like an oblivion. Ready to do life in a way that says I'm happy to be here, to be with you. To be in a moment that feels like I am finally once living again. To be in a space that says your presence is felt. To be loved for the sake of just loving. I once read quote that said 60% of Americans report  feelings of loneliness... For just a second I feel a slight relief in the pressure. That I am sharing something with someone for just a moment. That selfish gratefulness is all that hangs between me and nose.

I am not alone in this even though the cities are filled and once again my apartment is empty.
Eslam Dabank Sep 3
Through the evergreen spikes and idle sun rays,
     We slipped into the shelter of a glade’s keeper.
Our chests, that morn, merged with soil in haze,
     letting lungs inhale the dust, earthly mud deeper.

We coquetted the sunbeams until they faded away,
     Greeted the old night with cuddles fake and stark,
Stole the water from the vines, and turned ash-gray,
     And towards us, lured prisms, from a lost lark.

We heard the rivers, the winds, and rains above,
     We carried rotten grass, pale tree stories and awe;
We re-lived days of damnation, miracles and love.
      Being rigid, eye-closed, and silent was the law.

Dim violet shattered light warms our skin below;
     Where I and she, between the lilies grew our days,
Between the Larkspur submitted to our eternal foe:
     Time: the long-lasting eons of gloom and craze.

In the forest’s lap, my lips are in a meek embrace,
    With her; the unrivaled goddess of fostered innocence,
Demeter, the fertile goddess of our home space,
    And O, here comes the angel of late repentance.

A divine party of lust it was, underground, unseen,
     Where the beauty of immortal euphoria lodged in,
And godly licks and temptations filled the in between.
     We tricked the forest and land, and portrayed our sin.

Under the evergreen spikes and idly languorous sun rays,
     Two humming mouths presented one last song for life,
A song of farewell, sung on a white bed of sorrowful essays,
     Chanted above rendered up necks and played by a knife.
And O, godly licks revive the remnant of us that decays.
E Sep 5
There was no regret
what you said is what I get
I wish I could forget
all these empty smiles, and yet
here I am all by myself
Eslam Dabank Sep 2
Sleep, little one with white wind casters,  
      Fold your wings, calm your impulses as thus,
Float in your serenity, under the pilasters,
      Leave all reality behind; evil and the muss.

Exhausted pigeon with indelible commotion,
      You shall never sob again in this brutal space,
You shall never again feel a gloomy emotion,
      All will be gone but heavenly restful grace.

On your wing, I see dew forming a home,  
      For the petite dust and surface it covers,
And a star is calling it, tickling its dome,
      They gyrate together, as newly-wed lovers.

Moonlight pats on the your velvet wings,
      Comforting a troubled despondent soul,
With its golden rays and strings it sings,
      an assuring lullaby; illuminating a dark hole.

If only dew of abnormal enormity saved -
      Rescued you from filthy descendant creatures.
If only it was your haven from the depraved,
      But mercy is aberrant; even in the preachers.

Little drained pigeon escaped from atrocity,
      Cherry red blood glazes its delicate feathers,
And ash on white canvases unmasks animosity,
      With them they tried to restrain amity; tethers.

In the future of mine, I see an afternoon,
       Where the sky, the ocean collide in despair,
And twirl in a round dance, creating a festoon,
       For the Earth to wear, on its weedy green hair.

A crucifixion it is, for the earth and the moon.
       And in awe, I sat on dusty sagged car to stare,
as the blues clogged time in eternal croon,
       And cracked the order, and humanity’s prayer.

Dear little pigeon, you shall never witness this,
       This; the production of corruption conceived,
And this blade petting your neck, is my final bliss,
        As promised: heavenly restful grace is received.
E Aug 17
Time is all I have,
To forget me in your eyes,
Till there's nothing left,
"My oh my" - James Smith
Mancy Aug 7
Stranded in darkness
by the hands of warmth

Wounded heart
sank so deep

Colder and colder
Alone and broken

Foolish self
never learned the lesson

Hoping for love
ascended from the hurt

Walked into the garden
where colors mask agony

Sweet little lies
Swooned the vulnerable

Fell for a rose
smiled so beautifully

Anxiety rushed in
held it tight

Stung by its thorns
cried for help

Cried all alone
colder and colder

Scars to the deep
alone and broken, again.

Vicious cycle of hope
Crippled the innocent

Again and again
nightmares and flowers

Again and again
Fancied and abandoned

Again and again
love and despair

Again and again
alone and broken.
Trevor Dowe Aug 7
I'm not who I was
never have I been who I am
My love and admiration twist
I have no confidence
because I am cognitively dissonant
raised with values too extreme for humanity
not able to shake free of them
I've done terrible things, too few I regret
and even those still echo desire in the depths of me
but I'm not going to allow myself to wake in this darkness
not going to be complacent
pain follows change, but so too does joy
I'm not yet free, not yet me
I don't know if I can break free
but I do know
I'm not done yet
growing up in a strict religious household with puritanical extremes of what is acceptable behavior and zero tolerance for worldly desires has hurt me and my ability to be a person capable of love. I'm flawed and i am trying to find beauty in myself, but I don't know if I'm strong enough.
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