cherry blossoms all around
the colour pink paints our world
you take my hand
smile at me
ask me to run with you
like kids we chase the nothingness of the world
then i trip
and you stop
come back for me
kneel down
reach out your hand
and suddenly the pain of falling is gone

What if children are actually the wisest beings on the planet?

And the state in which we call "the development period" before they learn to talk is when they are trying their best to convey all of the secrets of life and death to you?

All children can justifiably do this because their "innocence" as we perceive it is actually the profound wisdom to come of living an entire lifetime that still exists within them. Hence, they have left the troubles of this world behind and still remember passing images and details of what happens after this.

When they figure out they can't actually speak to you for some reason, they then begin to act in the most candid manner to demonstrate their knowledge. And because perhaps, you too have experienced another life or even multiple lives before the one that you're living, you catch on to bits and pieces of what they are demonstrating and appreciate that.

Then, since these little ethereal beings are learning to be human again and you're the first people they meet and spend the most time with, they want to identify with you.

So the beginnings of what we call "personality" are really just the congenial memories to the secrets of the universe shared between parents and children. And eventually, the child grows up and.forgets all their secrets, only to remember them as they live life once again. There's gotta be something to that adage where people refer to the elderly reverting back to their childlike selves, after all!

Inspired by the purity and innocence of a child who could not speak trying to get her mother to dance and play at the Barber shop
Ezzah Saleem Jan 12

She was still breathing,
Her eyes had fear,
Her vision was blurred,
Her head was heavy,
She was afraid of herself,
And tired of her life,
She was suffocating.
She had little hopes,
She was drunk from hate,
Her thoughts were killing her,
And she was falling apart,
Anxiety was her thing, only she knew it,
She couldn't help herself up
for her burden weighted more than her body,
People used her, they took her for granted
She fell over and over into the sea of betrayal because of her eyes,
She got lost over and over in the land of madness because of her mind,
For her heart had nothing but  innocence that killed her.
She loved too much, trusted too much
That one day her own fate stabbed her.
That was her story, her identity.

Neha Bhatia Jan 11

Snow outside the window glass
And deadly silence in the class
All of a sudden through the neck
A cloud comes in my nose
And sit at the back
I hold it tight
To wait till the teacher is gone
Then teacher asks me to read the paragraph along
As I open my mouth to read, the cloud bursts
And I sneeze, sneeze, sneeze for long
Water in my eyes and my nose goes red
Then I roll my eyes
To watch around is anything wrong
The class watches me as I take out my hanky
Then read the paragraph all along
The cloud in my nose
Ah-choo! was so difficult to get along.

My childhood experience
Emm Jan 3

Bright and lovely
and exciting!
Then time passes
and the colours seemingly lose their excitements
all done and licked
tried and tempted
What's new?
Then some are darker than others,
all shadowing and dull
Then you'd wonder are they the true colours
But, they're not
Shine and polish
your mind
the colours are the same
Just pick up your stained glass from your pocket
and you'll see the colours you choose
Bright, colourful, ... and excited!
As they once were to you
As they have always been...

You stole my innocence
It meant nothing to you
You had no regrets
And now I don’t know what to do
Because I think about your lips
The way your hands framed my waist
The way you touched me at night
And the smile on your face

It is easy
For me to give my body
Even when you don’t want it

For some reason
I am able to give you
Everything I’ve held sacred

You capture my mind
Your hands leave marks
And your words fill me with joy

So I easily gave up
The one thing I held dear
And now you’re gone

little lion Jan 1

my innocence.
stolen away...
twelve years old and desperate for
the love of a boy,
too naïve to know
the difference between

my first kiss,
taken from me by a
who filled my throat with
drugs and
his lips coaxing shivers of pleasure
out of my twelve year old body,
mistaking my whimpers of terror
as pleas
for more.

he took me upstairs,
for my legs no longer worked,
amputated by the drugs he filled me with,
my brain was numb
to his touch,
and it was over
before my mind had even begun
to process the
that should have filled my body
in place of his

it’s gone,
from my mind and my body.
the drugs rid me of the memories
but left behind the ghost
of his touch
to come and play
in the night.

nobody will ever know what he did. I can’t even remember who he was.

Let's be honest- we were
Actually going to make to adulthood
We weren't about to let our age be our limit, so we let fate decide. We said, we're never going to give it up now.

We wouldn't make it to 21, but not because of fate,
But foolishness-
Not when we poisoned ourselves daily with infatuation and steadily increased the dosage.
Not when we drank moonshine under the burning hot sun and died from seven different varieties of cancer.
Not when we tried the drug of procrastination, addicted to failure until our lifeless dreams mourned.
Not when our throats were slit with the knives of others' words and we lay in the scarlet-tinged puddle of self-pity.
Certainly not when we burned by our own arson of the flimsy cardboard castles of our lives.
Inevitable, but pointless, I thought.

I was a trivial sinner in the sewage of apathy and my skin crawled at the thought of
our parasites.
We had a destiny not drawn in the divinity of the sky, but in the vile humanity of the sludge beneath our feet, where our ancestors or past lives or whatever
Begged in infrasonic whispers for us not to repeat their transgressions.
But we grew up deaf
even to snow falling because of a pair of noise-cancelling earmuffs-
A welcome gift from society.
We fried on thousands of volts of empty hope. We careened off the high points of our biorhythms into nothingness. We stabbed ourselves on the sword of injustice and threatened to sue.
We were not monsters,
not devils,
not fiends risen in darkest night.
We could be worse.
We never clawed away our eyes to the evil we saw, only tore away our brains for the evil we thought.
We let our eyes stay closed.

We had dying to do, and dying can be done morally blinded.
We could have deprived ourselves of necessary sustenance with a birthday cake tied behind our back.
We could have collapsed in the sweat of cutthroat education, flayed down to our muscle.
We could have leaped off of the joyous energy of misery
Or jumped off of the precipice of determination-
And for the sole purpose of ridding the world another warm and happy soul.
Inevitable, and pointless.
The curtains will draw soon, and I believe I've painted too many portraits and tunneled to too many possibilities.
I abandon this state with simply an apology and a request:
Miss me if you would,
Forget me if you could,
Dream of me if you should.
I would ever so gladly appreciate it if you'd do that. But,
I'll be right here if you need me.

A spoken word poem.
Andrew Minter Dec 2017

Speckled shells lay shattered
Upon the verdant green grass

The robins ruffle their feathers
Feeling warm wind for the first time under the yellow sun.

Bravely hopping from the nest
A quick fright before they take flight

Black shadows soaring swiftly
Over the verdant green grass.


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