They tell me
I write okayish.

I smile and greet them
as the sun greets
the minarets in the desert,
without a purpose.

Why don't you write something on love,
they say,
something about a terrible broken past,
it sells,they love it.
they relate to it.

I tell him,
I don't get the vibes out of it,
love sometimes feels like
eating leftover chips at
a mediocre burger joint.

I prefer watching dogs
playing in the rain.

atleast they never pretend.

Imagine a world,
Void of peace,
Empty of life,
No longer free.

Imagine a world,
Where trust is forgotten,
Lies come to reign,
Truth is corrupted.

Imagine a world,
Where hearts are empty,
Hands are needed,
But no one is lending.

Imagine a world,
When time comes to pass,
Clocks are reversed,
People become mad.

Imagine a world,
Where ash is the air,
Humans breathe fire,
But nobody cares.

Imagine a world,
Where love is forgotten,
Peace is envied,
Yet people are rotten.

Imagine a world,
Where crying is normal,
Tears are everywhere,
Nobody's formal.

Imagine a world,
Where corners aren't safe,
People spit fire,
Leaders breathe hate.

Imagine a world,
Where rain is no more,
Embers are everywhere,
Down to earth’s core.

Imagine a world,
Where sorry is lost,
Can't find its way,
Through all the wrongs.

Hoping these will stay dreams...

everyone who reads this please write a line in the comments and continue the poem, it not necessarily needs to rhyme please!
it is a beach sea water themed

these r lines by other poets I have compiled and it's beautiful, submission r still open in the comments.... please do continue


I wander along the sea shore,.....
Unsure what it is I search for,
Walking wondering across the sand as I'm,
Does someone wait on another shore,
wind and water salty spray...
The roar of the ocean speaking in Nature’s tongue...
my feet sinking in sand marking my way,
With two feet beating the waves kiss the undertow,

I have taken lines from other poets from a  different site, and it's starting beautifully, please do continue it, the same poets may offer more lines to the poem..
I 7d
Lie

I feel so high.
And in my dreams,
I feel so high.
Like my own spirit is haunting me.
I'm intoxicated,
cosumed,
by the fumes.  
I feel so high.
Physically.
I don't belong in this world.
Because I'm not a body.
I'm a risen mind.
Fogged out, high.
Eyes rolling back.
Black.
Bottom.
Drop.

V Jan 14

I love my morning coffee,
It is hot and strong,
Like a firm handshake or a warm hug first thing in the morning,
It gives me the masculine strength to start the day and venture into the life of a parent raising a son.

The aroma is familiar and friendly,
One that takes me back to my days at university – the first round I mean.
When time was flexible, and it was ok to live on porridge and rice for five days, and then smoked salmon and cadbury’s chocolate on when I got paid, because there was always someone to buy the next beer.
In that four bedroom shared house, with guests every night, I drank my coffee black, because the milk was always out. Come to think of it, the toilet paper was often out too… so I kept a secret stash.

These days, I add a dollop of thick cream to my coffee in the morning for richness and indulgence,
It whisks me off to a place of my dreams – Pari
Where I imagine myself in flowing skirts, and bright red lipstick
As I laugh loudly to jokes spoken in beautiful sexy French by tall handsome men,
Here I can speak French, laugh in French, make love in French and I am honoured as the beautiful Aussie goddess I am.

I’m not sure where said 8 year old is whilst I am in France … I guess he is there riding his bike with the locals and whatever 8 year olds do… but he is not sipping my coffee.

I drink my morning coffee from a great big mug with painted dragon flys on it,
The dragon flys reminds me, everyday is new beginnings,
A chance to transform what was before,
To sore high and far,
And that nothing is ever stuck in one place.

As I towards the end of my cup,
I swirl the coffee and the cream back together,
The temperature has dropped,
The taste is not as strong,
But the impact on my day is for ever, as I return to my place and my life to hear the words ‘mum, what’s for breakfast’.

I love my morning coffee.

Onomatopiyya Jan 13

Yes
It's Cold

Still covering myself
In a thick blanket

A mug of
Hot chocolate would be nice

Having you
Next to me would have been better

I wondered
Have you ever think of
Me at this kind of moment

Touching your skin
Gives me comfort

Having you close
Makes my heart feels ease

Looking at your smile
Never been better

Most of the time
I'm scared

Can't even imagine
How's my days

Without you
In it

Another day goes by
as my temple of verses rests desolated,
with her laments succinct.

this curfew of imagination,
keeps the pilgrims (of thoughts)
sobering behind closed doors.

The valley is being robbed
of its flowers and fervor.

We both are dying slowly
but not as we once dreamed,
In winter,when it rains saffron
instead of snow.

I keep hiding my words from the pages I write,
there is this fear of what goes on in my head may be interpreted differently than what it was never meant to be to begin with,
the anxiety builds upon itself,
manufacturing "could be's" and "what if's,"
when all I want to know is if someone is safe,
I regard myself to high standards but know that I can become a victim to my own open flaws,
like all open targets my heart sits open to public view which is alright to me,
I'd rather let the heart bleed than tend to the wounds others have made on it,
I am more than a collection of patches sewn on by lovers who thought my heart was saved,
I have a mind and body that holds scares and lacerations much harder to see,
for a longer explanation refer to my thoughts,
waiting to be written,
waiting to be found,
waiting to be understood,
on this ramble I'll simplify it by saying that you and I are so much alike,
and that is all,
our differences come from the experiences telling me how we are not like the other,
here I am still confused,
trying to understand why I am so different from those who I know,
why they don't express themselves the same as I,
it seems that answer is already known,
yet with this loose cannon brain taking shots at itself,
I forget easily,
that I am growing or fluctuating,
finding a balance that may appease the gods staring back at me,
there will be a day when all of our scattered thoughts combine,
I will finally be able to speak the words that you will understand.

Sometimes while sleeping
I greet the twin sisters.

Subtle faceless apparitions,
that love to giggle
while skipping the ropes to reality.

coalesced dreams, some call them
Without an end or beginning.

in a state of drunken stupor,
set by feasting on the flesh of stars
they drive me back to the black lake
where we once buried the moon

effigies of time, burn on the shores,
the lake soaking its ashes.
does the time ever weep?
for what it has lost,
even in the interconnected dreams

an undecipherable hymn now,
colludes with my stupor
as the faceless twin sisters smile.

I shall remember nothing
except for their holy unison
and the figments of thread
sewing their thumbs together

Trying to describe the interconnected dreams that recur to me in sleep.
mythie Jan 1

The people talked to you again today.
You said they made fun of your body.
The only thing in your eyes was humiliation.
You told me they make you feel ugly.

But baby, I know you don't see what I do.
Because anything that is beautiful.
People want to break.
Unfortunately, you are beautiful.

You told me that you're ashamed of your body.
They said you're disgusting.
They told you that you were fat and unworthy.
But I'll love you no matter what form you take.

But baby, I know you don't see what I do.
Because anything that is beautiful.
People want to break.
Unfortunately, you are beautiful.

You need to realise one of these days.
The body you have.
Is the perfect one to me.
You are beautiful.

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