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On this losing streak
Has to turn around
Strive so hard but cannot escape
Failure to which I am bound

Until starting positive changes
Disappointment will remain on your face
Day after day promise to improve
Clear to see that's not the case

Gone are effortless exchanges
Excited words once eagerly shared
Sitting on sheets together
For a relationship was unprepared

In blink of an eye you lifted my world
A little closer towards the sun
Leaving each trace of regret beneath my feet
No idea what we had begun

All the moments spent since
I've discovered in your company
Collected and shown on display inside
Like antique coins or paintings in an art gallery

Done proclaiming pathetic excuses
Instead of trying my best
You deserve someone who would die in order
To protect treasure buried in your chest
Because your heart is inside a treasure chest
minisha 4d
I asked my better halves
how they desire to lie,
once their hearts stop beating,
and breath bids a last goodbye.

Whether they want the stars to
sculpt their constellation, or
the wind to whisper their
cacophonic tales.
Whether they want the earth
to devour their cadaver, or
the skies to weep and
wash away their existence.

The guitarist stated he'll despise grief
as his memories are being relived,
of who he was and who he remains,
as his guitar sleeps in the arms of its heir.

And maybe, the perished strings of an old guitar
don't have to be mourned over,
but applauded for the melodies
that once kindled a ripple of delight.

My dearest across the border
wishes to be nestled beside a mosque
to be enwreathed by The Divine
and lullabied by the Azaan.

And maybe, the eternal slumber is a charade,
and the past still echoes
within the mute boughs or
streets alive with familiar voices.

My junior casts an absurd wish —
to be submerged in cocoa's caress
and be tossed to the lesbian zombies,
who hunger, not for flesh, but for a passion, so savage and insatiable.

And hence, I believe, the hilarity will haunt forever,
but so will my adoration for her,
and perhaps, the craved fervour will
find its form in me.

Then, another writer wove it in her own syllables —
she urges to sink beneath the dismissed waves,
flicker among starlight, like undying thoughts.
She wants her bones to dissolve, ink for Gods,
and her heart to rest beneath a willow.

She wishes to slip into silence,
like laughter scattered over dreamy vinyl,
breath scattered over moonlit stars,
and a page torn mid-sentence.

And lastly, if you enquire of me,
I wish my corpse to be a legacy beyond self
and be gifted to time and science.

But if coerced to be cremated,
I wish to reincarnate as a litchi tree.
With my arms extended in a welcoming warmth,
I will embrace the excluded,
my shadow will shelter the weary,
and my fruits will sate the starving.

All of which I was never offered
in the frigidity of my bloodline,
but was abundantly endowed with,
in the refuge of my closest mates.
Sophie Jun 9
I see some kids heading home from school,
bent over from the weight on their backpack.
In Palestine, children bear the politician’s schemes on their backs.
And bend further down,
grieving their parents’ lifeless forms.
Children, who used to be whole,
have their limbs torn off,
skin hanging from their faces and hands.

On my visit to the shop,
I see a kid throwing a tantrum over not getting sweets.
In Palestine, children hear cries of the wounded,
screaming for help.
While the world stands silent, aid delayed.
Red capes, a stone in their hands and a imaginary knife in their
teeth, they die as martyrs.

Politicians, no way you’d wield ruthless might,
If they were white children in your sight.
Piyush Jun 4
Sometimes,
to **** someone
is kindness.
Yet none understand
the character’s blindness.

They laugh.
They abuse.
They always refuse
to stay another day.

And that's how
she walked away.

Only you know
how you stayed low—
how much you cried,
how hard you tried,
how deep you died.

But it doesn't matter.

Who the **** listens?
Who is up there?
What does He do?

Gave you life,
gave you a home,
yet you cry
just 'cause you didn’t
get your first phone.

Yeah, that's how it feels
when everything's locked inside.
Why do you look for light?
Live in the dark.
Live inside.

The home you got,
these walls,
stay here.

Why go there,
where you can’t even talk?
Why do you want to stalk
a beauty never yours?
Yet still,
you walk
near her block.

You idiot.
You fool.

Go say something.
Make her laugh.
Click her photographs.
Save them—
and cry
till you die.
Keep everything inside,
While you die outside.
Maria May 16
Don’t touch the soul! It is alive!
It can remember a great deal!
Its memories are like a hive.
Don’t touch the soul! It is too leal!

Don’t worm into the soul rudely
Like in a thicket, breaking twigs.
Just listen, how it's drawly groaning!
Attend to its so silent pleas!

The soul is tortured! Please, don't touch it!
If you can’t love, just pass it by!
Don’t touch the soul! I pray, don’t break it!
The soul hurts! Don’t let it die!
Thank you very much for reading this poem! 🙏💖
Piyush May 14
The beauty of sky
Lives within a lie.
The beauty of love
Is touched with gloves.
The beauty of truth
Isn’t found in fruit.
The beauty of goodbye
Is wrapped in a lie.
The beauty of lie,
Sleeps inside a die.
duck Apr 13
i say i want to die
but i'm a fake suicidal maniac
just a small fry
who never fights back
can i use a neck tie?
or is there a hack?
i ask 'em questions
yet never doing 'em.
Jayden Apr 2
By the good grace of the gods, those who have dared to taint my face with a welt, shall receive divine punishment - and not by those who are deemed mighty high above or the denounced who dwell at a plane below mantle and core. But by me, solely me, without maledictions or the intangible, me. Smote by my might. I am not a dictator, nor a man filled with ill-intent, though my words will be carved upon stone and actions dignified in blood. For me to be assaulted in such a haphazardly manner. As a conclusion to you actions know that death is your prometheus, death to your people, death to your land, death to your cattle. My violence exceeds the confines of your cranium, in a similar fashion my anguish extends across the lands; it will agonisingly, crucifying in arduity, mundane if it has to chase and chastise you to the proverbial end of the world. So, to whatever omnipotence you pray to (or do not), it is futile, you will be reprimanded and dealt with promptly, death to all those you love, death to the vermin you shelter in your home by the vignette oil-lit-lamp and the capacious pillow you so pompously lay your head. -

death to you.
Oms i'll get them.
A M Ryder Apr 17
Those beautiful animals
Were born
They grew and
They were used
For chariot racing
Then suddenly
They died and
Here we are
2000 years later
Marveling at their skeletons
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