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I wouldn't have changed
Variegated cloaks birth after birth
If I weren't born
The population of the world
Would've been less by one
If I weren't born
An engineer would've been less
If I weren't born
One son would've been less
One husband would've been less
One father would've been less
One brother would've been less
One brother-in-law would've been less
And of course one petty poet on HelloPoetry would've been less
If I weren't born
Would it have been of any consequence?
In this world of 7.9 billion population
Surely of no consequence for them
In the journey of eternal quest of mankind
For me it would've been of infinitely huge consequence
All Is would've been I
I would've been God!
If I weren't born
Cut the limbs
off a boundary

of trees,
and the police come running.

He was more supported--
there was evidence--

twisted branches
on the ground--

video of it
in action.

It took three days
to go from comfort

to sorrow--
she who freed me

also made me
a ghost.

My i

blood on all
my four walls.

I'm still
the only one

who sees red.
His wife doesn't seem to care.

She can always deny

and stick her head
in another book.
Aŧül Apr 12
I wanna reach somewhere else,
For I do not belong here,
Listen to the silence of my panic.

I scream at the top of my voice,
Still, no one listens there,
Maybe I'm an alien here by choice.

I need a panacea for my ills,
A cure for my SADness,
Maybe then I won't get chills.

******-Affective Disorder,
Its SADness destroys me,
Maybe I lack love in my life.

I really need a loving wife,
Who values me enough,
Maybe such a Naari is imaginary.

I am very hopeless in life,
SAD, but not suicidal,
Maybe I have a bigger destiny.

I carry the burden of my past,
Still, I need some love,
Maybe happiness seeks me too.

I am unaware of a true lover,
Who can love me more,
Maybe she exists only in my desires.

I hear that everybody deserves joy,
But I don't know why, but
Maybe my Karma is a bad accountant.
My HP Poem #1923
©Atul Kaushal

Naari is a Hindi synonym for woman.
You must have known.
That day I held your hand and you held my gaze
And the air was thick with smoke and unspoken words and tiresome clichés.
Your eyes crinkled softly like they always do.
Always, always in the pretentious books I would pour over for hours as I try to envision myself right there,
Comforting myself with the idea that someone, one day, will dance with me to the sound of nothing but two hearts beating in unison.
There is something desperately intimate about oxygenation.
Always in these silly, profound books, they describe their darling’s eyes with every hue known to man.
Deep, aquamarine, sparkling crystal orbs that you would be so happy to drown in.
Entrancing and stormy forests.
Pools of warm honey with gold flecks in them, sweet as dandelion wine.

I will not condescend to compare your eyes to saccharine.
Or bodies of water, for that matter, or trees.
I will not waste time equalizing them to shades of the rainbow.
What are eyes, really,
Other than a means to see?
All that is beautiful and all that is clean.
I hold my own eyes in higher esteem than yours, dear,
Because they allow me to revel in the way yours light up when you smile.
How the skin underneath creases and wrinkles in all the most endearing ways
Like the infinite pages of a book in some foreign language
That only I can understand.
The ability to do so is a prerogative of the infatuated.

I wonder if you’ll let me read this book more often now that we’re here, two forgotten souls grinning stupidly at each other in the dark.
You must have known, then, that I would spend every day of the rest of my life reading this book if you only allowed me to do so.
Embedded in my mind was the way the corners of your mouth shot up towards the heavens.
I did not have to trace it to know that it was there.
You must have known.
There was not a crumb of my being you did not hold in the callused palm of your hand.
All of the streetlights were doused by the blanket of the night and it was truly not a movie-worthy moment because there were no stars and the moon was out of sight and there were stray cats padding around in the neglected garbage dumpster and I could not even remember why we were laughing so hard and I loved you.
God's Oracle Apr 1
Eradication within a hollow abyss of such instinct... callibrating an insourmantable animallistic realization of a deeper defiled reconciled underlined evil lurking within...dominance of my debilitating disease...temptation to succumb to this numbing feeling...As if it all dissapears while I indulge into feeding my own agonizing addiction....something I keep feeding...tired of always fleeing not facing Life secluded within a snared trap of a battle am exausted from alliviating my feelings. I want to recuperate my sobreity, yet keep getting intoxicated to deal with inner dealings. Envelopped in tranquilizing my own self with destructive substances to hide this pain am living...slowly killing myself just to think am living.

As I contemplate at deconstructing my past...where did I go wrong my Life even worth living?
The experiences I attain am NOT finding enjoyment at completing...
How the **** do I recover from this deep sadness am feeling?
Despair await me as my thoughts form this sentences am speaking
I ask myself the harshes questions...Is my Life to someone out there hold meaning?
Lord free me from this inprisonement am feeling...
Undersiedged and captivated am losing focus on how I ought to be living...
withstanding the problems I face with ******* toxins I keep utilizing when I desire to be quitting.
Rehab many say is the answer they keep pleading...yet cannot fully shut the door where old habits keep creeping...
Alone, conflicted and left when am dope feeding...
Is me, myself and I...who I ought to be healing...
In time...this will also dissapear
I just ask of thee Lord, let me make it out alive
Out crawl from this ticking time death-bomb I keep re-living.
Addiction Vs. Self
Mark Wanless Feb 8
full oblivion
and absence of consciousness
i am i am
The world is not perfect, nor is it kind; with each progressive step forward, we leave more behind.

The rich give a copper piece, while they take ten gold. Has your charity forgotten the old man and boy, who harvest your coal? What merit is there in giving, if one takes more?

It's interesting, that humans have made "humanity" a show; kindness, compassion, fun, how many do you know?

For a world that's global warming, the hottest summer days feel so... cold.

Perhaps it is a global warning, to let the others knows, that most of us have a house... but too few, a home.

This house is a prison, its cells are polished purple heart, behind which I am truly alone; I am the person who admires this "purple" heart, though I loathe my own.

I am a whisper, reaching far and wide, through this phone. To most my words are beautiful poems; to few they are more; something that their hearts can hold, and have some warmth amidst the cold.
What need be there for notes, when all the words that I sought to speak, I have spoke? Some of you might experience contemplation and inspiration, and those hurting, some hope.
I would like to be a beautiful memory
Then a forgettable past
And in order to achieve this
I leave people before they have a chance
julius Jan 28
i cant
        get myself to breathe.
god what id do to see her
              i see twin pansies
       10. is just a number
but it means everything
at least letters are improving
            slowly climbing
                   up an endless hill
      my role model is suicidal
so maybe
            he isn't one at all
his writing speaks mouth to ear
     to lungs to heart
             i read it all
over the course of a little while
about the time
      we were fused
at the wrist
sighing we fold
      i don't care anymore
      mysteries because
i haven't seen her eyes
       truly felt her skin her hand
              ankles bend and
break with the weight of this
digital desire and
              they are not entirely
related no matter what
my parents say
      i know how my father feels
            the violence of him.
windswept beaches
      of bodies
                 i lay among the dead
when your false lover lives a thousand miles away and your father smacks your wrist every time you speak of her, every time you make a mistake
lack of sleep, food, i can feel myself slowly decay
alas i press on
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