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Shie 1d
Uneven breathing rhythm
Serene becomes luxurious
One's mind now went unconscious
Fallen into a mayhem
This was for a literature class assessment. This type of poetry is called "Tanaga".
Poetry is ******.
And literature *****.
Nothing I write ever feels as though I tell you
Anything true,
Fraudulent living.

My pen spills its ink
But never empties me.
Head still pounding, swirling
Swimming in black waters.

You all tell me words will set me free,
Yet I know now you were mocking me,
To read my agony
In my own blood must be a pleasure to you.
Do you see yourself in me?
I can’t connect
You’re out of reach to me, reader-
Hands grasping at air.

Writers are perverse.
Big sepulchres by the zealots cathedral;
Scribed all over, the living kneel outside in praise,
But the writer sees itself for what it is;
A tomb filled with nothing but death and decay.

Poetry is dumb.
The burden of feelings
Circle around the sink
But never drain.
So I will have to write again,
Hostage to language.
I’m back and bitter as ever ; )
Stressing up the nerves
Where they have some levels
Where pride will fall off
And the righteous always lose

There were many wrongs
To be corrected, to be proven
Neither they will nor us will learn
From the deeds we have entertained.
Life of man

Is like a flaming candle b’neath rivers



A ****** paradox


If solitude be joy, it is the hermit’s verdict,

Man could be the beast he wishes to be

And the very angel we yearn to see.

What treaty has man with futile predictions,

Ghost promises, stillborn prophesies?

And if there is a *** to presage our destiny

Shouldn’t it be Man’s inner trinity?

Thus; I call faith, courage and fortitude.

Yet, No star, nor deity

kings our fate but wholly Thee;

Who governs the fine empyreal above.

B’hind the bridge of weariness and age

Is death―a boundless tributary

From life each man comes along with a Skiff

For some time in life rents a ferry

B’hind the bridge, each departs in a skiff

Into a wooden jeep, moving nowhere where we must be.

Here I am, an Educator, new-formed
And on the verge of ideas and thoughts
That I’m told are too lofty, too grand, for their
Purposes of having students graduate at Funding’s Earliest
Convenience. Administrative charms
Have already told me not to display
Myself and my passions with honesty. I must teach
Like I am greater than them,
Like I approach our stories each
Day with a very very serious
Focus on structure and style and each
Incredibly important
Comma. But I know the Truth.
The Truth is that the richest
I’ve ever felt was when my educational harvest
Had received its lowest return. I first thought, “How shall
I punish? How shall I repay
Your bad behavior's damage with more damage? Your
Misbehavior doesn’t deserve my toil;
Your disrespect was just as bad as their
Records said it would be!” But then my reason
For anger crumbled, and I let love strengthen
My tired and trodden heart, as
I decided to speak to my students with the honesty their
Lives often lack from authority. Intentionality, Honesty, Truth. No amount of years
Will change what I’ve learned in Year Zero: to let love increase.
Arianna Dec 2
'Twas but a moment:
The Law of a Moment
In all its force




     In a moment, and not

                                     A moment more.
A short tribute to the element of immediacy characteristic of tragedy, the sudden finality which at once sows the deep-seated anguish of tragic experience, and facilitates the catharsis necessary for triumph over suffering, "having learned not the meaning of suffering but what it means to experience it truly and unexpectedly for the first, though not the last, time".

(In quotes: excerpt from a fantastic book/collection of essays called "The Tragic Abyss", editor Glenn Arbery)
Jing Xi Lau Nov 21
We're all dying to feel alive,
Are we the living dead?
We hate to love
But we fall in love anyway.
We wander just to get lost,
But we want to be found.
We spend our nights together,
But we feel more alone than ever.
We cover our ears,
Shout across horizons.
What's this sound?
Deafening silence.
Piercing through the noise of the world.
Fallert Nov 12
Literature brings me a power,
I forever fail to describe.
As I push my glasses up my nose,
It's my own voice I inscribe.
Emmanuella Nov 12
"I can’t figure it out.” She said.
“I like cigars,
and pretty dresses and crossing my legs.”
She paused,
then continued,
“And I like smoking cigars in pretty dresses while crossing my legs.”
She uncrossed them,
then crossed them again.
One smooth limb over the other.
Just like that.

“But I never seem to have a lighter on hand.
Could you— sir,
please light my cigar?”
“You see, I have no pockets to hold such things and my purse…
You’ve confiscated that, haven’t you?”

“Thanks.” She breathed,
and inhaled,
and exhaled;
Sluggish wisps of smoke dissipating into the air.
Just. like .that.

“I didn’t know L'homme was into women who smoke cigars in pretty dresses while crossing their legs", She said.
“I mean, how was I to know?
I only noticed him noticing me.
It was probably the way my hair was pinned up like so,
Or the way my lipstick was a deep, dangerous rogue,
Or the way I sipped my champagne…
That made him walk over.”

“But I never asked him to light my cigar
Or comment on my dress…
Or ****** my legs.
So when I whacked him up top over the head with my glass,
I bet he never expected it to shatter and split his skull like so.
He dropped so sudden, sir. I…”
Another ringlet of smoke, a sigh, an uncrossing and crossing of legs again.
“I had no clue,
what else to do,
But to sit still in my pretty dress, with my legs crossed, smoking my cigar trying to figure out...
Just how I'd committed ******.”
"She's a dangerous woman...
Who can ****,
Just with her *** appeal".
Brynn S Nov 12
What has literature become?
Mockery of the new age
They spit on the graves of former writers
They take their names and drag it through mud
Disgrace, distaste
Nothing fuels the flame
The elusive spark as died
We all try to grasp at fame
Only few may succeed
In comparison we falter
We are the ****** ones
left to pray at the alter
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