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Joel K Jul 11
Unfulfilling love.
A lingering feeling so strong
its power engulfed my body.

Sensations coursing blood through and from my body
Baiting us to fall ill to our temptations and temptors.

All I see is a deep blue
imitating the flame of desire prancing around my room.

On my bed, there is nothing but that color I see.
It’s deep yet it fades—
Both the color and the feeling.
The feeling of a serpent gone & nearby.
- This poem describes what it feels like when you are falling for guilty pleasures/ temptation.
I use Biblical imagery like a serpent to represent the impulsiveness.
Andrew Feb 24
Fingers press ivory, soft at first,
whispers of something too big for words.
The melody sways between sorrow and longing,
between joy and the things I can’t explain—
but no one ever asks—
it’s just a song, just the keys, just a hobby.

The low notes ground me, steady and sure,
a place to rest when the world is too loud.
The high notes lift me, weightless and free,
each chord a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

They hear music, not meaning.
They hum along, never knowing
that every note is a reason, a refuge,
that the crescendo is my pulse, my purpose,
rising and falling like a heartbeat.

And when the last note lingers,
hanging in the quiet like a final exhale,
I close the lid,
not because I am finished,
but because I know—
the music will always be waiting.
George Krokos Aug 2023
Garden flowers are
colorful needless to say
with care some are grown
___
Written in 2020.
Elkhan Asgar Jan 2022
Maşa birincidədir,
Nə gözəl forması var!
Nişastalı önlüyün
Dik qoysan, dik də qalar.
        *   *   *
Önlüyü qırçın-qırçın,
Paltarısa büzməli.
Qiyməti də “5” olsa
Olar tam səliqəli!
The translated version of  the poem Первоклассница (First-grader) by Агния Барто (Agniya Barto)
Bugi Aug 2021
Something that I’m passionate about is art. Whenever I’m stuck on a feeling, a thought, a memory, or even a conversation that makes me upset, I draw. I let my feelings flow through my pen or brush. It airs out all the gunk inside myself. Sometimes its just intense scribbles that tear up the page, or a bright painting, or maybe a crying clown. Its how I express myself. Its how I speak my truth. Its just how I relax, it’s calming, comforting, safe.
This is a poem I wrote in English class and thought it was good enough to post here.
Elliott G Jun 2021
The Ukulele string snaps
a small stream of blood from your ring finger,
but it's not gloom or sorrow
but contorted contentment...
When you fill your cup
up to the brim with cream
and it doesn't go over
the edge.
When you peek around
the corner and see your
favorite store open,
with that one book inside
you've been waiting to grab
for years now, but you never did.
When you walk through the woods
when the scenery secludes you
from civilization;
the temptation to give into
the nightingale's melody which
slices the silence with its melancholy tune.
You breathe in the air
on top of the dune; sandcastles, sandhills
childish screams as you yell 'seek!'
giggles and yelps of excitement.
A newborn baby cradled closely,
the warmth spreads through your body
like when you finish a book, not a series;
a novel of great adventure;
the sigh of great relief.
On a cold autumn night,
when you wrap the blanket around you,
trinkets on your nightstand,
the pleasure of closeness' embrace,
the comfort of a lovers touch,
intertwined between each seam of your covers.
As the rain paints your windows crystal
your watercolors touch the canvas,
your jewel, Cupid's arrow through your heart
but it's not love, as defined in dictionaries, legends, or myths.
The breeze moves the window drapes
paint drips on your jeans and you laugh;
why not paint the walls crimson or azure!
Why not travel the world in a broke-down Van,
stopping every thirty miles for another can
of gas or root beer or what have you?
Why not get seven cats and name each one
after your favorite deserts?
What if you paint the sky orange?
What if you grew fins and sprung into the blue ocean?
What if trees were purple not green?
What if the Library of Alexandria was still here?
Swinging round and round;
the melody from the record player
grabs your arms and makes you fly
to the moon and back,
your laughs heard around the world...
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