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Malia Feb 13
the bone-ache of wind and cold
runs up her legs as she walks through the plain
so she could rest in the earth and finally
sleep, knowing she found
something better than it was
before.

she searched the jungles once
but all she found were choking vines
still, the leaves whispered
š˜±š˜“š˜“š˜µ, š˜±š˜“š˜“š˜µ, š˜±š˜“š˜“š˜µ
but the tip of their tongues faded
into static and she thought she found
a parchment’s glass bottle washed
up onto the shore but then the sea
leapt up and stole it again.

she sat on the beach for hours
like a long-lost lover, yearning and
waiting
but one day she vanished—
not to home, there was never
home, but to a place that replaced
her new loss with the ones she’d
met before, old friends with the other half
of the story.

now, she walks with the others’
manifest destinies but hers is a
glory that they’ll never know,
no gold or God or greatness but
an answer…
brushstrokes to give definition
though the edges always bleed,
so she reincarnates to do it all
again.
before. again. before. again. once the Lascaus cave and now it is me, at 1:18am, listening to Kendrick Lamar like it’s gonna tell me something.
The doors of ancients opened,
Now broken, we can go though,
A powerful magic releasing us again,
Free to return to reign once more.

Wandering through the ages of time,
Tangible to see and feel the imaginary,
Farewell, I go far away from here,
In a world of dreams and the magical.

Now you approach me,
Come in to me and fill tonight,
Chase away the darkness within,
I ride the night by your side.

Shadows flee from the pure light,
Give me the power of the air,
Winds, hear me, call my name,
Blow into my very soul, give me hope.

As you enter my room of enchantment,
You feel my spell weaved and you fall,
Lie with me under the cover of the night,
Under the stars draped around the moon.
Free verse, About dreaming.
dead poet Feb 10
patiently, i wait -
my legs crossed,
and my heart too.
much time has passed
since the inevitable happened,
and yet, the light of a clement morn
never fails to justify the agony
of dying stars in the night sky;
or the ones too dead for even the
darkness that consumed them.
the heavens dispatch their
messenger birds to nook the
wisdom into the branches
of trees whose roots have shrewd
under the weight of logs that
outline their ascent.
such trees call upon the sages
to enlighten them,
and to warn them -
for they know too well how the
message might confound in the grips
of those who practise hedonism.
perhaps, the light has always been
too blinding for mortal eyes.

the flowers bloom all the same;
the winds usher the fragrant truth -
slowly, but surely;
and i lie in hope for the
rancid thoughts to inevitably
take on new meanings…

patiently.
Underneath the canopy where gentle breezes sway,
Forest elves flutter with elegance, a magical play.
Amidst green verdant foliage, they frolic and giggle,
The magical musical is fleeting, mere whispered riddle.

In a world where dreams and stories intertwine,
Tales spunned fantasy, recounted by mankind,
Elvish girls gowns with radiance aboudingly fair,
Among the trees, glittering sunlight in their hair.

Whispers of majestic charms spoken on the wind,
A beauty, a kind of rarity makes me tremble within,
Woods and animals hold a secret just out of sight,
Wistful hearts desire, a true nature's silent delight.

Moonbeams showers over their echoes of laughter,
Promises before the dawn of time converge ever after,
Forever serenity among animals where they lay,
As clever fairies mislead curious human away.

Legends of old remain a whisper of truth,
Only the pure ones, innocent hearts of youth,
Granted an entrance or visions fleeting glimpse,
Others succumbing under the mystical hijinks.
Word count 155. Fantasy of the faerie.
dead poet Feb 6
perilous forests
lay bare: sheer, dark, and sincere;
so many secrets.
Autisma Feb 4
Drowned out by divas
It was comfort that left us unprepared for this
This being the circuital embibement of chores and books
A choice to unentangle the moth from the web
Leaves one with typical but still misunderstood disturbances
Dad is a peadophile
We had ***
And now they're naming me a newt
A wet creature, suited especially to specific environments
A sham executed from the musical tenemants is one thing
But a crammed into trailer park is just a shame.
what makes a butterfly float, when everyone else is drowning?
The eyeish eckelecktic rom capacity can be blown away
And the attitudes of specs can thwart their own terrain
But if a pen draws blood, there's not room left for anything
So tell me the joke, esplanade yourself beyond my reach
Coke yourself up, give a scream, patent this work as your own, cherish the tub thumping
Be a cherub though rather than an angel, excrete malignantly and door slam the foreign light.
But someone must decide if the light is foreign.
Open to interpretation
dead poet Feb 1
desperation grips
the mind, hell-bent on treason;
the devil grins, proud.
Lostling Feb 1
Spooky little white lights
Dancing out at sea
Deep beneath the waves and
Underneath the breeze

Little lonely lovers
Sit under moonlight
Waters stretch between them
The other not in sight

Shattered little glass shards
Glinting on the beach
Sands of time has smoothed them
Safe enough to keep

Boats and ships a-rowing
Rocking to and fro
Lost to far horizons
Wherever they may go
Imagery practice
Malia Jan 17
delicate as snowfall brushing your cheek
and wind flowing through on an open-topped peak
but when you go home, when you go home
the warmth washes it all away.

when it captures you, raptures and
seizes your soul, you feel it take hold and
suddenly
you cannot recall
what once was cold and no longer is
but still, a silent strange feeling
lingers
until you are left with your tremors, your
trembling—
the imprint, the mark of a melody.
i hope that gave you chills
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