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the well is dry
i cannot collect water
i cannot sustain life

the river is swollen with toxic mud
i cannot cross to the other side
i cannot escape this

the grasslands have not seen rain in many years
the smallest spark could destroy this place
and i am awash in static

i sit under a long dead tree
and try to rest
and try to remain still

for to move is to cause a cataclysm
yet to remain stagnant is to cause my own demise

the wildlife that did not flee the drought have perished
the scavengers that came to pick apart the carcasses are gone as well

only i remain
the monarch of nothing
but bones and barren earth
David Beltran Feb 27
I found myself aboard a midnight train,
I left Salerno for Milan
listening to Her for Five Minutes,
Simon used to sing this song.
Come si chaima?
She asked as a drug's side effect,
Soft grin and all she may not have spoken French, Spanish,
nor English but music is the universal language after all.

Love in retrospect like a butterfly effect,
Sua, Cinque Minuti.
a quiet smile,
between laughter and silence
filled her face.
She came from Verona, to visit family,
I came to see the city where God met the Sea.
Lui dice, l'amore che non ti aspetti?
Her voice, a dream complete,
the universal language in tones and  beats.
Galileo of Galilei finally free,
my heart a quivering seat.

I expected to fall asleep,
but mistakes you don't regret,
an angel's voice inside your head.
errori di cui non ti sei pentito, è amore, non è vero?
She said, as rain translated words obsolete.
love is something you don't regret.
I don't know her name,
but all I need is five minutes,
to feel her voice in my imbibition,
a reminder of a midnight train precognition.
Thank you to Simon and Victor of Her, dedicated to the memory of Simon for his amazing work on his short time here. To Victor for your incredible voice on your Colors rendition, helping create a moment on a train. To Isa a beautiful reminder of experience when you venture out to seek discomfort.
stillhuman Jan 11
My eyes sting.
Today is one of those days
where my voice trembles
my hands are sweaty
and cold
and while I stay quiet
my mind is yelling at me,
the sound of static
makes it hard to answer
people's questions
and I tumble on my words
heavy step by heavy step
in this conversation
and a voice says
"You're pathetic".
It sounds familiar
It is mine afterall,
but it's not angry
It's sad
humiliated
tired
and for some reason
scared.
Shannon Soeganda Dec 2020
You dismantled my ego like how she broke my heart.

You,

your boundaries,

and your strong sense of self.

Allow me to detach from us.
It's never pleasant to work on our unhealed, anxious attachment style. I truly detest my irrational fear of abandonment. But at least I'm facing it now, and not running away from it.
Beth Dec 2020
I'm sorry that you are uncomfortable
with the rage in my body
that makes my hands shake
and my vision blur;
I didn't realize
that my emotions
made you uncomfortable.
Slime-God Sep 2020
The morning is cold.
Last night’s chill hangs everywhere.
How unwelcoming...
Ankita Dash Jun 2020
You scroll through your social media where people have sworn not to show what they feel like so their 'profiles' can be aesthetic to look at.
You look at dog videos and swear not to think about your dead dog with whom you never got to cuddle one last time.
You walk through streets you've never been to hoping that it'll lead to a story.
You kiss boys and girls you don't really like and pretend you're waiting for the three-days-later call. You constantly listen to Cardi B because you can't take another Bon Iver song.
You fake a smile, an ******, a brave face.
You look at where you're staying and pretend not to long for that one little park in Paris where  you could spend your entire life.
You unblock the ones you lost and feel a fleeting sense of comfort in knowing that they're not happy either and block them again, to feel 'powerful'.
You look back at your journey and sigh because you haven't done enough. You curl into your uncomfortable bed.


And then you realise you're not done.


You realise your journey is just starting. There's so much left for you to say and do and teach and feel. You realise that the best part about yourself is that you're hopeful, despite it all. You realise that despite all the bad that has gotten to you, there's still good, and you can create it. You realise that you've places to go and people to fall for. You've learnt to become your own teacher and your own pupil. You realise that the sky is not the limit for you. You think people calling themselves a work in progress is a cliché, but you know you're one yourself. You're not magnificent. But you will be.


So you light up a cheap cigarette and play the Bon Iver song. And you wait.
This is obviously not a poem, but prose. I just wanted it to be up here.
Carlo C Gomez Apr 2020
Vague,
the expression of response
in a relentless jade,
conjuring up primevals
risen from her house arrest.
She lives through the days of tension
by her own fortitude,
clutching to her privacy
as if a means of escape
to which she can be locked within.
Mendacious moments,
walking towards a primrose path,
allude her to try and smile.
But she knows she need not pretend,
for just as her hair falls casually
over her face,
she winces her pain
into a controlled tremble.
Proposed to glide under
freshly minted skies,
in words filled with undertone
and in serenades
softly played by calendar
chimes.
Written back in 1989.
Sydney V Jan 2020
Sometimes,  
I feel like, I’m drowning.  
This feeling–  
a never-ending rush,  
of water, that cascades
throughout
my body,
my veins,
leaving me submerged
from the inside.  
This feeling–  
a longing for the mundane
when I could wake
to the sound of a 6:00am bell
and not,
have it be answered
by a throb
from within my skull.  
Today,  
my mind,  
sags, like telephone wires
swaying tirelessly  
in summer heat.
My bones,  
ache.  
These feelings–  
a second self  
carried
through this tired will
of conduct, I call mine
much like the nails
on my fingers  
and the hair,  
upon my scalp.
A poem for my pains.
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