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Yuz 36m
I wasn’t looking for you.
I was too tired from giving my all to someone who didn’t know how to hold it.
I thought love was always supposed to hurt —
that being “too emotional” was a flaw.

Then you showed up.
Not loud, not dramatic — just real.
You matched my vibe like we’d known each other in another life.
You made me laugh without trying. You made me feel seen without asking.

You’re pretty as hell, and I don’t just mean your looks —
though God knows you’re insanely fine.
It’s the way your presence steals the room without asking for attention.
The way your energy wraps around people like sunlight,
and your charm?
Witchcraft. Beautiful, addictive, terrifying witchcraft.

And here I am —
scared to fall again,
but somehow already falling.
Because with you, it doesn’t feel like crashing.
It feels like landing.

So if this is love —
I’m not running.
Not this time.
I saw a person in the same disguise,
looking straight into my eyes.
Strange: it wasn't me this time.
He had a fire, burying itself inside,
like a dying ember, in the forest mist.
But I recognize that shimmer in his gaze.

I saw it: I saw
My strange reflection swiftly walked closer to me,
and it whispered in a mystic way,
You were meant to burn.
A poem born from a moment of stillness — the kind of silence that speaks. It's about identity, loss, and the flicker of purpose hiding in pain. Sometimes, our reflections reveal the fire we've forgotten.
Ankush 19h
You came into my life
(If it was a dream),

I was so happy —
Now that I had someone,
(Indeed, it was a dream).

I thought, at least I deserve love now,
But you told me to wait.
You told me to put all my sadness
Back into my mouth, chew it,
And embrace.

You made me promise to never cry over you —
But
What about the things I was already holding?
Do I have to cry over them again,
Like I used to?

Maybe...
Maybe it was too much —
To feel joy
Just from the idea
Of sharing my sadness with you,
Which I never got the chance to do.

Who?
Me? That's who I’m supposed to depend on?
I’ve already tried that.

You told me to wait,
And I will.
But who do I confide in?
Poetry?

...That’s what I thought of.
Poets are emotional rockstars
causing rokkus
getting ****-drunk off of anything
that moves them
wrecking rooms
of highs after falling
grabbing the "feels"
and smashing them
on the stage of their life
fearless and loud
Now, that's adrenaline
thought you
had a good
thing goin'—

but all that's
left is
you, alone.

you spent time
finding the right one—
but the right one
never made it home.

you thought
you'd give it
one more try—

but love was
harder to chase
than fame,

and all that
remained
were fading echoes
of late-night crying.

nobody understood
you then.

nobody
understands you
now.

you think to yourself:
“when will
the next heartbreak
come around?”

you thought
you understood
modern love—

but modern love
doesn’t
understand you.
inspired by don henley’s “the boys of summer.”

this poem explores the ache of love in the modern world—

where the echoes outlast the connection.
ash Jun 5
i knew it — something was here
within me, beside me, around me.
being woken up by fire isn't so surreal.

stepped down on the floor, felt it through my bare feet,
watched the skin glisten, brighten,
turn red and burn with such an intensity.

the heat was unbearable, so were the surroundings,
and yet — yet i found myself going down the lane of memories.

the pathway, a tunnel — almost like a water slide,
bleeding with my tears.
i fell and fell,
found it impossible to reconcile

with everything and the no-longer-supposed-to-matter things of my past.
felt watched, looked around,
remembered the concept of “nazar” in the background —
someone’s always watching, always picking, always hoping
for me to fall, to go down, to enter the lows and never get back up.

i hate the color orange. it just messes me up,
reminds me of all the times i hoped it wouldn’t come true.
i stand amidst the burning flames, watch their color blaze,
see it in my own eyes, stand tall watching myself smile.

am i sleeping? why do i sense no meaning?

the embers rising from the hearth could melt gold — make it blood.
i feel it through my veins and my bones, my muscles and my soles.
the lines are blurry — so is my vision.

i intended to wake myself up, but i can't stop sleeping.
i watch her — and him — and myself — and my dreams.

the final line loops back to the same question:
was i ever awake, or was this fire the irony to hire?
was i up at stake, all this while?
i did truly forget how to smile.

but then i inhabited,
held it close, hugged it.
tiny little sparks emerged from the cacophonies.
i dreamt with meaning, slept with a feeling.
the fire was an old friend —
the memory lane one lost, but remembered quite a lot.

i found a water jug at my side table.
the floor didn’t burn or sear.
they still watched,
but i had the evil eye pressed up close —
sleeping and dreaming of lying with my only 'gold'.
it sparkled, it shimmered, it brightened, and my heart glimmered.

perhaps i was never awake.
it wasn’t no nightmare.
i’m happy where i am.
wouldn’t want to bargain —
not here or anywhere.
do you call her golden? i'd call my own so. gold. too shiny- got many, still chose me whole? eh- i do not know anymore.
Ricardo Diaz Jun 2
Once I loved a flower so much
that instead of picking it,
I left it alone.

My eyes refused to watch her leave
So my tears came to blur my vision

How am I supposed to act like I don't care,
Like you didn't just leave a hole I'm my chest.

This sinking feeling that I'll never see you again
A stranger turned to a lover and back to a stranger

Your name still echoes in the sounds of June
Like an unfinished song under the moon

We laugh like lovers, touch like the breeze
And call it friendship, just to keep the peace

In the story of my life, you're the sweetest line
With a bond like ours, even time couldn't redefine.

And so ...
I write you in poems you'll never read
Loving you softly, with a heart that bleeds.
Junubia
Estelle Jun 2
Love..
In a world filled with people in all different fonts, love is the most beautiful feeling. No matter your inner or outer form, your height or your size, whether you seek a simple life or an ambitious one—there will always be someone whose heart holds a place for you.

Love exists in many forms and feelings: a friend’s comforting embrace, a mother’s warm smile, a partner’s kiss. Everyone feels love in one of these ways. But romantic love is my downfall. I fall too quickly, and the feeling fades just as fast. It is genuine love—I know that. I can feel its warmth radiating through my body. But all it takes is a single misstep for that warmth to be swallowed by a dark chill.

I’m not blind to the fact that relationships and love are a fragile fruit—easily turned to a messy pulp if not handled with gentle hands. Yet even with that awareness, I still end up hurting those who hold me dear. Never by intention—but inevitably—I become their sorrow.

Relationships are an exchange of blood and bruises, healed only in each other’s arms. But I’m no longer willing to endure the pain of these new wounds. I am too covered in scars from those who came and went. I have been sought after, lusted for, used, and beaten. I am afraid—afraid I will never feel true love. Afraid I’ll be hurt again. Afraid my heart will once more be shattered. And if I am not the one broken—will I be the one who breaks them? That is nothing I could ever take joy in.

The love I long for is not the lust of today. I want to feel someone’s hands on my soul, not my body. To live in someone’s heart, not their bed. Still, there is one thought I hold close—a name carved into my heart forever. Never have I felt his eyes strip me bare. Never have I needed his forgiveness to be myself. If he were the ocean, I’d be a wave. If he were the wind, I’d be sea and shore.

How to describe the love I seek, or the love I find in him—there are no words. Only a faint beating in my heart. Even in the safe place that is his smile, fear seeks me out. If the day comes when I finally hold his heart, and my rough hands cause him sorrow, I will never forgive myself. How am I to ask him for trust when I cannot trust myself?

This fear slowly coils around my throat—like a thorned vine, digging into my skin until I can no longer breathe. A single phrase keeps spinning in my mind over and over again, and I am beside myself with terror at its meaning:

The abused becomes the abuser.
Critisism is always welcome
Elena Nickle Jun 1
Most girls think of boy bands.
Most girls think of heart throbbs
But they are shallow
I am not like Most girls
My crush was not with a throbbed
Or a boy singer
But with a doctor
A Most unusual
Was there something wrong with
Me
At the f**king time
I will never know.
I am not like Most girls
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