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Asuka 1d
They don’t just describe emotions—
They dissect them.
Make you wonder
Why you feel,
And how much.

Some let their pens speak,
Others carry verses within—
Written on the walls of their minds,
Etched into the pulse of their hearts.

Poets are powerful.
They paint sorrow with beauty,
And make joy even more delightful.
They show us the world
Through an entirely different lens.

They can dress poverty in poetry,
And make wealth seem vainly stunning.
They stir our emotions,
Make us love deeply—
And hate just as fiercely.

We’re all born with a poet inside us.
Most just forget to listen.
To feel deeply is to write, even when no ink is spilled
irinia 5d
this intensity: I rediscover
the edge of falling into oneself,
reinventing reality,
pain, blind feathers, sharp teeth, limits
this deficit  of whispering
thoughts can see their end,  their imaginary double
the roots of words translucent
their feedom released
they dismantle non words,
half-truths or nontruth
birds are free to be birds
or dreams of the air
hunger for connection is a hunger for creation
this feeling a vital movement, an undercurrent hallucinating forests
a delicate complexity of vulnerability and necessary innocence
the forgetting is colourless, as a matter of fact
there is no true forgetting, but nature itself invented
a God of mercy
Breann 6d
I am full of life,
a burst of color spilling into quiet corners,
a voice that fills the empty spaces,
a presence that reaches out—
not to take, but to give,
not to demand, but to share.

And yet,
they pull away,
not because they don’t love me,
not because I am too much,
but because they need the quiet
the way I need the noise.

Still, the silence stings.
It whispers lies—
that I have said too much,
felt too deeply,
loved too hard.
That I am the burden
they do not want to carry.

But that’s not the truth.

The truth is,
they step back because they must,
and I stay, arms open,
learning that love is not measured
by presence alone,
but by the space we allow each other to breathe.

So I sit with the quiet,
not as an enemy,
but as a lesson,
learning that I, too,
can be whole in the waiting,
worthy in the stillness,
enough—
even when I am alone.
This was written for me to express my struggles of being an extrovert with introverted friends but I hope it speaks to you however you perceive.
simmer 7d
Your name brings me comfort
All these year later
I say it to myself when I feel most alone

For then another presence enters the desolate space between my ears
Warmth and familiarity replace lack there of
And just for a moment, in a time where I am lost
I am reminded of when every aspect of my being felt fully known
B Mar 29
I will come back to you
A little taller than before
You will never know what's true
How my legs and arms tore
I really hate the summer
The breeze makes me sad
I’ll try not to be a ******
But you know I can’t make you glad
I’ve always been scared
That summer brings death
(Sticky hot and flies buzz round
Upon the roadkill on the ground)
I’ll never know if you cared
Getting close so I can feel your breath
The summer is worse than spring
In that the birds won’t sing
Anonymous Mar 23
Sometimes.
I do not wish to speak to you with words.
But rather, to see you with feeling,
Admire you through them.

For to use only words would be to limit myself.
To deceive you.
arriving to you fractured, blighted.

within every emotion that lies within me,
Lies every word  and idea I could only hope to shape for you,
Yet fail to capture.

Still, I will use them,
knowing their futility.
So you may see these emotions.
Through every ounce and aspect of my being.
And they, in turn, may touch every part of you.

And i will choose to not break free of this struggle.
The conflict of my words and emotions will only serve as a reminder of the effect you have bestowed upon me.
To live for.
And what you left for me to suffer for.
Feelings that will not reach, hear, or touch
yıldız Mar 21
Cherry blossoms, soft and bright,
Dance in spring, a fleeting sight.
Some teach us, like whispers in the breeze,
Lessons in petals, carried with ease.

Others bloom, blessings in the sun,
Filling hearts, dispelling the fun.
As they arrive, they too must part,
Leaving fragrance, a mark on the heart.

Cherish each moment, both lesson and grace,
For life’s like blossoms, a beautiful chase.
In seasons' cycle, we learn to let go,
Embracing the beauty in ebb and flow.
Julie Mar 16
How do I know what is right?
How do I know when to act
when to argue
when to stay silent
and when not to

How do I know when to do it
and when to not

How do I know
when the right time to fight is?
How do I know what is right?
Does the feeling in my gut tell me?
Or the tears in my eyes?

"It will get better," they say,
but what if it doesn't?
What if I stay like this
until the end of my days,
trying to figure out,
what I should have already known?

And when you ask me how I feel,
I just answer
"A lot"
How do you know if it is right?
Is it true,
That a man who yearns,
Becomes a man who earns?

I yearn for you,
More than anything else,
For your sweet tender lips,
Softy milky skin.

But I already earned your love,
So can I earn something for you?
I want you to feel safe,
And stop feeling sorry.
I wish I could be there for her always
What is this thing called poetry?
Is it words on paper,
Lined up nicely,
Rhymes assembled tightly?
Or is it a little deeper than that,
Is poetry a feeling?
A little flutter in your heart,
An echo in the fabric of your soul.
Maybe it's a small candle spark,
Flitting in the dark,
As you sleep peacefully.
So what is this thing we call poetry?
I believe we're all wizards and this is our magic.
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