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Andrew Jun 2
I no longer relive them
Now
I live with them
You constantly wander the path of angelic walks, as if you secretly suspect that a child's face is looking back at you from the crooked depths of mirrors, which seems to never age, yet you often think of it as an old man. The uncertain future is also an increasingly crippled ladder, because you lie to yourself when you think you can still fix or change anything.

The fever curve of your willful pride seems to be deliberately shot through in the morning by a stray arrow of conscious doubts; gurgling noises secretly terrify you, in case they might disturb you or harm you even more; the Present dissolves instantly, even if you are not willing to take care of it, apart from your skin that wants to peel, you still speak with broken Apocryphal signs, but only those who accept it completely and as a whole can understand it.

Halfway between swaying rows of walls, you are forced to stumble like the occasional drunkard, because you are afraid to know the one-essence; perhaps only the great Nirvana-nothing can await you with more complete loyalty, without giving itself away. Yet, in the rocky depths of your knowable soul, the eternal child who you have always been envelops itself in swirling silence! Memory and humility purr within you, perhaps only until you recognize the One-Beloved again, who will accompany you for a lifetime!
Sarayu Jun 2
I wish I could be your watch - gently clasped around your wrist, feeling every heartbeat, every silent rhythm that sings the story of your soul.

I wish I could be the path beneath your feet - softly shielding your feet from every thorn,  steadying your steps through every storm, just to make your journey gentler.

I wish I could be your Diary - holding close the words you never say, treasuring your unspoken thoughts like delicate whispers of the soul cherished in silence, wrapped in love.

I wish I could be your pen - translating your emotions into words, sketching your silence into beauty.

I wish I could be your smile - lighting up your face like the first golden rays of dawn, warming even the coldest and loneliest corners of your world.

I wish I could be your tears - born from your sorrow, falling gently to ease the weight of your heart, sharing your pain so you never have to carry it alone.

I wish I could be the breeze that wraps softly around you - soothing every worry, brushing away your worries with invisible hands.

I wish I could be the doll in your room - watching over you in the quiet darkness, finding endless peace just by being near you.

Maybe this lifetime kept me away from you.
Our souls are out of reach, tangled in fate’s cruel weave.
But in the next life, I will return - one of these silent fragments of your world, your comfort, your unseen shadow.
Because some bonds run deeper than time and space.

When that moment finally arrives,
I won’t hesitate.
I will find you in every breath, every heartbeat, every whisper of the wind.
And I will be completely yours - no doubts, no distance, no goodbyes.

For us love is..
It is the quiet promise beneath the stars.
The gentle pull of destiny’s thread.
The fire that burns softly.

No matter where life leads us.
No matter how many lifetimes pass.
My heart, without pause or will always find its way back to you… and choose you, again and again.
Ken Pepiton Jun 2
you passed understanding. You got an A

It is so boring, that's all, it's like, what do I think about,
while a' drive a' used boring machine man extention,
used to cost five mill then, haps to cost more used,
right, tight military coded respect, cost to develop,
- it's no secret its just ignorance of our shields
- Mars's musta blown away
- no deep life or no life, Elon,
- here after whatever happened to Mars
- Earth might breed survivors, remember
- the ages of Ice and stories so old as that
- whole mountains of red mud, so deep sky
- boilt'steem esteemed so
- hot
but theres these lava flows, miles thick lava rivers,
we bet we suggest it to elon, like the whole world does,
choices are melon of felon, no Elon, as stories shall
say elon, can we use won of your boring machines
to drill into lava miles wide and deep, so inside,
it would feel like Mars, same from Suns rays deep…
safe, eventually selfsupporting colonies of Dunbar sized
bubble in the lava, Boring Company can do it now,
somebody who knows who can do the drill,
you know,
the drill, how did you pass

Here's to all the Turing Loops through A.E. Wilder-Smith,
and his version of Von Neuman…
as a model old friend I hope never to offend, but, the logic,
post public knowledge unbeknownst to my ghosts, the idea,
smith wild dancer archery champion, here we hap
around activated memorial day memes…

we think like each other for decades,
we watch the same telos controlled licensed advertised art,
we all did not have tele vision, we all had radio,

and our grandaddy knew how to tune in to the whole world,
when the weather was so perfect it would seem impossible,

but you can see Saturn, from my front porch, using
this very same attention ******* mindset gritting my teeth.





All ye, according
to print traditions
all Þorny hang ups
from Þose traditional
clips
of hippiegnoshit growing
that summer, same people,
valley inland this far just fine as
on Big Sur now,
at my age, I can rage
about the power
art's sake authentic ideals
AI assisting intelligence, help me
message
in the medium,

sounds remind gel jello, ok, so far

boom read this…
Google translation
- intervened to assume all guilt
- should such an integrated post
- lose its link to the point
- THIS IS WHO CAN THINK WHAT NOW
FREE the truth makes used just now
- in this context adsorbed in ai just then

real life online reach out inter
acting ai\autonomic mode, re thunk
consistently channeling dream waste

through the grease trap behind the old
church they talk about on TV like,
sit closer imagine ursala le guin,
this century, she survives, as we the old
k
once sat and listent to code in the radio
or in the movies, it was 1954, see, we had
SOI and SOP and certain ritual each shift did

told tales
of broken vows and rigid faith,
- in what, eh
that nobody remembers GE makes diamonds,

fracture
on a fragile edge
of visited sanity, good

definite shape an infine
refined to what brought us
used muses tuned to war re
workworktuned to peace past understanding
Mark Mork Pooka tuned and tested

basically some time, nine thousand hours, Keil,
estimated minimum one on one reading hours
to praying hours ever eventful ones sure thing
to say we believed Jesus was coming SOON.

Sun Yung Moon Sansara Hamartia, pay attention,
we account for all our idle words, we dump
wu wei too easy whole world making peace thing

free mind granted access to all my poetry,
reader and writer side, is globally copy
pasteable peaceably in 197 Languages today
Þorny issues grafts get new roots, we fixt it
most citrus has thorns, we can say Þorn, that's it
many smile
jest assured, hooks took, we got
an appreciation of the ideas, those live

right, maybe today my dopamine's
humming with my noises, making me think

wow, we can write global verse in this universe

If this offends or whatever, say so, and I can just say
The idea I found hooked me, in some kind of we think

true, you judge you and you say if I could say how good
the translation made me feel
about guilt for never learning.
Spanish
for Quixote's claim, it is not key ** tic. okeh
- but you think quick so tic, tic, tic
- what happens in the dios ausenciaaaah
- magic pens with motors assumumption

if the press were free, I sing,
I would, if words may, I sing free  is a Þorny issue,
ifery and reification  we I may reify a disneyification…

in the future we read all Wikipedian tongues, easy,
as the news in olden days, on a weekly press, mailed…

but here is today's feature Spanish Poet, me and my ai we
add some like think what yo se

Mario Benedetti
Ausencia de dios
Digamos que te alejas definitivamente

From <https://hellopoetry.com/>

Mario wrote it we read it and said that
was easy, the act of thinking ai read Spanish

okay
on Hello Poetry Original easy link think
oh you do it we think it easy, from here

Absence of god, the id os id need to go on
no
that's the title
Ausencia de dios -in this medium- go on there's space
--- this is that in English, now free press function
--- this is the Spanish default local Ai translation
--- gwan message massage the empty hole

Ausencia de dios
Let's say you're finally moving away
toward the pit of oblivion you prefer,
but the best part of your space,
in reality the only constant of your space,
will remain forever in me, grieving,
persuaded, frustrated, silent,
your inert and substantial heart will remain in me,
your heart of a unique promise
in me who am entirely alone
surviving you.

After that round and effective pain,
patiently bitter, of invincible tenderness,
it no longer matters that I use your unbearable absence
or that I dare to ask if you fit
as always in a word.

The truth is that now you are no longer in my night
heartbreakingly identical to the others
that I repeated searching for you, surrounding you.
There is only an irremediable echo
of my voice as a child, the one I didn't know.

Now what useless fear, what shame
not having a prayer to bite,
not having faith to dig my nails into,
not having anything but the night,
knowing that God is dying, slipping away,
that God retreats with closed arms,
with closed lips, with the fog,
like a bell tower horribly in ruins
unraveling centuries of ash.

It's late. Yet I would give
all the oaths and the rains,
the walls with insults and pampering,
the winter windows, the sea sometimes,
not to have your heart in me,
your inevitable and painful heart
in me who am entirely alone
surviving you.
---------------------------------

I did it this way, with cause, surviving,
is how we continue the access to used tools,
old books elites taught soldiers with,
for centuries, lead us to Gunga Din,
who reappeared as Dr. Zorba,
in a chalk talk Ben Casey intro,
featuring a very hairy brain surgeon.

Mork was hairy, sneeze
godblessuyesewas, sneeze distracts me

I met another survivor, in weform reading we
not even the same tongue, no talk of lisps

and then, I had the rest of my day to think about that
because I took part in an experiment in random code
retention, wu tension total wu way, too, five letter groups

with a neutron to focus on this medium can read any… sigh
but that's an if, as confusing force makes life too hard… yet
if we read this far we are letting this mind be, so real.

I read it a bunch of times, and each time, I hoped
curiosity has some readers think one point…
Þis or Þat or Þose or these Þose suppose…

is this taboo to get caught up at the surviving you hook
Þorny issue for many who once sold rosy glasses.

Along the back wall, see it third time through

dorkinhere as mr toad's ohnognoshit though
ghuckingtough to get traction without true grit…

as a digestion suggestions from the chickens
who lived to rule the table, who sits on your board.

We got, there he is Think and Grow Rich, thunk
a bout a *** dred or so, years, miles, whose measure?
Free press, who would not take that with a satisfied mind and all the time in the world, granted a  life after three paddle flashes what was that one each word, 11/11/2023... a life remains
Who am I?

I think I was best

I was most secular

I think I was Noble

I think I was warrior

I think I was failer

I think I can rule

I think I have mininum role

I think I the child of god.

I think I was evil & bad

Who am I?

I'm replica of society.
Piyush Jun 1
Some desire it.
Some fear it.
Ironic, isn’t it?

You shattered her quiet.
Yes — you did.
You burned through her patience,
Bit by bit.
You said you wanted her…
But got the child she tried to forget.

Her friendship — a sin.
To make her smile — a win.
Now only silence
Lives within.

Silence to write her.
Silence to invite her
Into a place
Outside this human race.

A slow space,
Grey and uninteresting —
No joy, no light,
Just quiet resting.

It moves with time,
Yet stays out of reach.
You want to write more?
Silence, please.
The Golden Horse of the Present cannot be collected by man these days; he would rather let his own selfish footprint, which could have at least testified to his having lived and existed here, be lost and lost in the silent Times. His dry soul is simultaneously squeezed by the bittersweet tears of sorrow that rise from the depths of his gut, which he has always shed for Someone, and never for himself.

He knows about himself: the freshly cut green blade of grass will sooner or later bury anyone, even if he is careful. Where have the cheap, petty plans of the day after tomorrow's scheming gone?!

Desire was a deliberately shortened vanity, just like the instinct instilled in biology, because life itself had become increasingly complicated, and the appearance of tolerance, which we wished to possess by right of birth, could hardly be endured, because it would be good to tattoo question marks into the window of the vile blind mind, so that there would be light in the brainwashed Gorgon heads.

The footprints of those leaving and those arriving - I fear - cannot even meet halfway; it seems as if man himself, as an idle observer, were constantly postponing the unexpected landing, which would still be left from his shallow lifestyle. Because the painted parody of the future, nicknamed the future, seemed to have long since nested itself in the mud of possible tomorrows!
Piyush May 31
You see that line,
soft and hollow,
where skies turn gold
then fade to yellow.
The light grows thin,
but don’t be scared—
I go there when
I’m unprepared.
When noise is sharp
and pain is near,
I walk alone
to disappear.
The world feels cold,
my heart feels small,
so I just leave
away from all.
No voices call,
no eyes can see
the quiet place
that waits for me.
Where shadows stretch
and thoughts grow deep,
and even sorrow
falls asleep.
No one looks back,
no words are given—
I’m finally home.
That’s the edge of heaven.
Calvin Graves May 31
“Be a man.”
Not just a voice—
a chorus.
Television scripts, locker room laughs,
teachers with sharp smiles,
uncles at funerals.
The world said it over and over
until it echoed in my chest
louder than my heartbeat.

Toughen up.
Men don’t cry.
Grow a spine.
Don’t be weak.

They called it growing up.
I called it disappearing.

So I swallowed softness,
one emotion at a time—
compassion, fear,
grief, joy.
Tied them in a knot
and buried them behind my ribs
where no one could see.

Pain was a private ritual.
Shame, a second skin.
I learned to laugh when it hurt.
To bleed in silence.
To treat vulnerability
like a sickness I couldn’t afford to show.

They told me I was strong.
And I am—
but at what cost?

There are days
I touch my own reflection
and feel nothing.
There are nights
when I want to scream,
but all that comes out
is a breath
too tired to be heard.

This is what boys are made of:
wires where nerves should be,
mirrors that never show weakness,
and fists
clenched so long
we forgot how to hold anything gently.

I survived.
I adapted.
I became the man they wanted.

But sometimes,
when it’s quiet,
I ask myself—

what did I lose to become him?
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