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Bugi Aug 25
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.
I write poetry
On HelloPoetry it's free
Masterpiece I don't write
I belong to an ordinary tribe
I write in my spare time
It's a hobby of all time
I express my feelings and views
Phew phew phew...
I lighten my heart
I am not a professional writer or a poet
Of the calibre it's required
To earn handsomely
Lead a decent life
Blessed one can full time read and write
Flourish or survive
Rest find it difficult
To meet both ends meet
People least interested to read
Audios, videos, Instagram, memes
They're interested indeed
Most write in their leisure time
It's a hobby of a kind
Expressing feelings and views
Phew phew phew...
To lighten their hearts
With their talent
Maybe they impact the society
At large
Elliott G Jun 13
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...
kiran goswami Jan 18
Her job always has had an inflated demand
and ironically surplus production too.

The men’s job, I wonder if
it is their hobby or job.
So, the men’s job has demand amongst themselves
and production too.

Hers is a common and a well-reputed career,
until it is achieved.

The men or at least a man
might choose not to opt
for this career.

She, however, has no choice, as always.

So, she looks at her ancestors,
Her great grandmother who was a wife.
Her grandmother who was a wife.
Her mother who was a wife.
Now, she too has chosen this job.

There is no other choice, of course.

This job has not been her job
since history began.
This job has been her job
since her-story began.

Her job does not require
travelling nations and crossing borders.

Her job requires
staying.
Confined, caged, in-home.

That’s home for him,
not home for her.

That’s her experimental laboratory,
She conducts experiments.
That’s her cricket field,
She plays.
That’s her hospital,
She cures and treats.
That’s her restaurant,
She cooks.
That’s her engineering workshop,
She creates and invents.
That’s her writing room,
She writes.

And that’s her prison too.

And in this prison,
she is her own jailer.

Her job requires only
a few tasks to be taken care of.
Tasks assigned to her sound easy and self-fulfilling.
But she must do them dutifully.
For she, is a wife now.

Nothing more,
Nothing less,
a wife.

But her husband,
is not just a husband.
He is a man.
The man.
A child.
An experimenter,
A cricketer,
A doctor,
A chef,
An engineer,
A writer,

A politician and A king.

And his kingdom,
belongs only to him.

In this highly reputed job,
this only job that she is supposed to have,
and stay loyal to,
with her body and soul,
she is expected; expected of a lot
but never supposed to expect from
and express to.

So, she is expected to not wish.
Because wish leads to worry or somehow even vanity.
Wish kills her work
and that is her tagged happiness.

Thus, she must work,
so, she is called happy.

She must be a wife,
so, she has something worth living.

Her job is the one that requires
her to reach nirvana,
before she starts living.

It is not forced upon her
to choose this job.
It is bought to her
in a jewellery box,
as a necklace,
that she continues to wear
even after it hides the tattoo of her personality,
carved on her neck;
chokes her every time she tries to speak
and eats her words before she births them.

She still, however, continues to wear this necklace
because she has been conditioned
“Beauty is pain, Pain has beauty.”

Songs like “beloved wife” and “my wife”,
make her love her job, but hate herself.
So, she listens to them over and over again.

She avoids reading the newspaper or watching the news
because she knows that if she reads them,
no husband, not even her own,
would be able to look at her in the eye.
And she will not be able to look at them without crying (or killing).

In her job, a resignation letter is the same
as being expelled.
So, it is made sure
that if she takes such a step,
she is not capable of moving anymore.

But out of all these, what makes her job the funniest
is the irony within.
Like she has freedom
but should not be free for her freedom.
Like she is protected but from others
in danger of her own self.
Like she has all the happiness
but she shouldn’t smile too much or make any noise when she laughs.
Like she is a wife
but she is not loved and has done nothing to deserve that love.

What was her mistake that she should not be loved, you ask.
Well, nothing and perhaps everything.

Sometimes, when she is tired and exhausted of her job,
and you go ahead to ask her
“what is more difficult, to be a wife or to be a mother”
She would look at you, for not more than 10 seconds,
and say,
“to be a woman”.

If there is something, she needs to be wary of,
It is people and words.
Because there are certain words,
that if used for her,
would disrobe her in a public square,
where her husband
would be a witness
or perhaps a member of the disrobers.

So, all she should be wanting
to be called
is a word or a name,
to get disrobed by just him
or disrobe herself only for him.
There is much scope in that.

In her job,
she is expected not to wish.
But she does.
She wishes too much sometimes
and on somedays,
just one thing.

She wishes not to be his wife
or ‘a wife’ at all.

But she does nothing more than to wish.
She cannot do anything more.
Because her job always has had an inflated demand
and ironically surplus production too.
maria Jan 9
love/
a hobby
I'm not good at it
written on January 5, 2021
© ,Maria
Thekingspen Oct 2020
This is my park,
It's in between the pages of a paper
Where I write in large to pour out my heart
The place my peace is found
This is my park, and it's my diary
For every human there's a thing or place we find our inner peace or solace, for me it's writing and my diary is my place of peace.
Akriti Sep 2020
Some days I want to paint,
some times I want to be painted.

Some days I want to write,
some times I want to be written.

Some days I want to read,
some times I want to be read.

Some days I want to be a gardener,
some times I want to be the flower of that garden.

Some days I want to live,
some times I want to breathe in peace.
chang cosido Aug 2020
you cant always make pain leave.
it knows its directions.
it knows how to follow you home.
pain knows its way to your sheets.
it knows which side of the pillow is colder.
if it ever visits you tonight
just let it in,
lead it to the blank pages
of a notebook.
there,
it will stay.
between these lines,
this is where it stays.
Alexa Pishtey Aug 2020
Beauty does not come so easily.
Hours and hours of masking her flaws.
Days waiting for the paint to dry.
Building her slender body took quite some time.

After she amazed our eyes,
It was time to take to the skies.
All she needed was to Ignite,
And how smoothly she could fly.

Sometimes the shock was just too much.
She snapped apart, again and again,
But at least we always got her back.

All she needed was to have her strings crocheted.
The blast would still undo the chain,
But at least she always returned.

He tightened her leash,
But she was still pretty.
The shorter the chord,
The closer to being whole she was.

It worked almost as smooth as she flew.
She loved to kiss the sky, again and again.
Her beauty lasted and amazed,
But only until the sky never saw her again.

I waited for hours, as he searched through every field.
When he returned he held her body, and I cheered,
Until I realized, "It's not all here".

"Why did she break,
Where did she fall?"
The chain was crocheted,
But it still snapped from her body.
He returned without her head.
What came back was dead.
Her nose was lost.
Her dreams were gone.

She was the beauty that he made.
She suffered a tragic ending,
But she will never be forgotten by my family.
Remember, she was Legacy.
Andy May 2020
A spark. A flame.
The crackling of fire on wood, whispering your name.
The fire inside me calling out.
Leaving no room for any doubt.
I am sure of what I want.

I want the world to remember me.
I want to live on in people's memory.
This makes me happy.
My heart was set aflame.
This isn't just a hobby.

If you sense my fire about to die out,
Would you grab a candle
To help keep my light?
At least, for another night.
I may be bound to a life of darkness, but it wouldn't hurt to try.
I've been losing motivation to write, but the  people who support me always keep the fire in me alive.
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