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A puzzle I am
You wont figure me out
A puzzle I am
You will not find all my pieces
A puzzle I am
You wont put me back together
A puzzle I am
You see the broken, tattered pieces
A puzzle I am
You did never solve
ShadowSpy Sep 5
You'll know its time to leave
If all the truths you are told
Are just twisted lies
Spoken by a masked figure
You once knew
this can apply to any relationship
They formed a wonderful trio
It was all mayo mayo
They formed a beautiful triangle
Each connecting to two
others
Giving rise to most stable figure
More than sisters they were sister-brothers
They were a wonderful trio
It was all mayo mayo
Each pair formed a side
Protecting the Apex left outside
Almighty removed one of the Apices
Taking away two sides as well
Triangle reduced to a segmental line
It was a will of the Divine
romy Jul 29
crimson roses for breakfast
glass of wine adorned with thorns
stems wrangled around my figure
scaled petals as my skin
kiran goswami Jun 21
When they look at my body,
they giggle between their teeth that are crooked but they call them curved. They perceive how curveless I look
and tell me to perform yoga
so that my curves can be defined,
so that I can shape my convexes and concaves.
I smile as bright as I can because probably those are my only visible curves.
I tell them how every time I sit to write
my pen curves on the pages
that are thumbed on the corners
so they seem curved too.
I begin by writing the first letter of the English language
and make slopes and valleys of this alphabet.
I form serpentines and swirling cyclones of my words,
I curve my 'S' to form into an infinity
so that I can hold on to him for as long.
I stretch my 'K' until the end of the earth
and make it look like a single leg shoulder stand.
And as I take all my alphabets,
I turn them from staff position to the plough position.
I make my words turn into Paschimotasna,
and my noun tries to perform Kundali.
My pronouns sit in vajrasana.
My similies stress themselves and flex,
while my metaphors curl into themselves and hide as Marichyasana.
When I am done,
my poems form themselves into Pindasana.
However,
I remain coverless,
as straight and sharp as the pen I use.
I remain 'Arjuna's' bow
so he directs me into my own self,
my own heritage
and I end up killing my Bhishma,
my self-respect.
Hence while my words perform yogasana,
I stand still in tadasana.
Philomena Jun 17
She grabs her by the neck
And I can see it unfold
She never stood a chance
Her body slams to the ground
She gasps upon impact
Blood running from her mouth red as her hair

She reaches up
Unclear if as an act of pleading or anger
But a figure dressed dark as night rips her off the ground
Only to slam her down again

This time she lets out an unearthly moan
She spits blood onto the pavement
It glistens in the sun
A puddle of color against the blacktop

The figure grabs her again and drags her by her hair
Her lips quivering
She puts her arms below her
And as she pushes to lift herself up another blow
The dark figure kicks her in the side of the head
She falls to the ground
A sharp kick in the rips and she spits blood once again

She looks up pleading with her eyes
Scrapes cover her face with streaks of red
The tears are streaming down but she does not cry out
Another blow to the ribs and she doubles down
Using her hands over her head she attempts to protect herself

Finally relenting the dark figure stops the kicking
She lay broken and quivering unable to face it
It begins to scream
And when she turns away it grabs her face to face the lingual horrors

When I see her face next it's only a glance
But her eyes seem empty now
Glazed over and lifeless
The figure picks her up again

She makes no sound this time as she hits the ground
For a moment it seems as though she will try to rise up
The figure stands over her watching
But she doesn't move
Dez Apr 22
I cry and often for get to ask why
On some days I’m fine
But it’s times like now
That I find out
That life is just a game
And I am trying to figure out
Why I came
How ephemeral the memories now seem.
As if they truly come from a world altogether unfamiliar…

Tis but a dream
The early mornings spent on ice,
The blinding lights and gorgeous whites,
Thirsty lungs,
Tired quadriceps,
And of course bruised knees.
And all of them filled to bursting with the emphatic movements,
Gestures,
Leaps,
And lifts,
Of the bladed ballerinas
That dance across my fading dreamscapes…

The ice-dancer glides effortlessly,
But with purpose austere.
Every muscle contracted in the manner most conducive
To manifesting their artistic desire.
From fingertips
To toe-picks
Their body transfigured into an instrument of emotion —
A weapon of beauty.
From start to end each routine is a metamorphosis:
Budding and blooming along a euphonious plane
Until the artist’s full potential is revealed…
The energy released —
The raw power,
Of the jumps and spins,
Kaleidoscopic fireworks
Clashing
Against the roaring white backdrop:
Each explosion
The ignition of a chambered round;
The spiralling bullet,
The impact on target…
The artist’s winter warfare actualized.

Last night,
As such ballerinas …riveting …terrifying
Danced around the panorama of my mind’s eye
I recalled that ultimate unison between flesh and spirit;
That of the figure skater
Painting their art
On a canvas most cruel.
Flower C Sep 2019
Majestic figure,
Carved with marbles and jewels.
Painted in pure gold.
The figure is majestic indeed,
But marbles and jewels are cold stones,
And pure gold is soft, yes.
copious stories
are told about it
and it is of a floating
figure's fit

on one of them
coming into your view
it may give you a
shivering chill's preview

it can be loitering
on a dark stairway
waiting to unnerve
your very clay

dare you walk into
the old mason's yard
for there's a phantom
inside the said yard

Vincent Price can readily
evoke a scream
as his voice lends its self
to such a deem
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