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Brynn S Nov 2018
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
Tina RSH Oct 2018
Old friend, we lost it all!
We went our separate ways
While rain pummeled the rooftop
and mellow autumn wind caressed a poppy's cheek.
We drove home together, but felt far apart.
As if we never knew each other..
And the bond between us severed
As the lumberjack uproots a tree,
Merciless and mandatory!
Old friend,
Although I still hear the rustling of paper from your chamber,
Your heartbeat seems to have stopped
And your congealed blood reeks of hostility.
I sit here, hiding my head in my bony hands
Which you would hold as we fell asleep.
We were children at the time
innocent and whimsical.
We were captives of our own little kingdom
Funny how our fortress tumbled down
and we chained ourselves to the ruins that remained..
This is not how our stroy should have gone.
Tell me if there's anything I can do other than cry, miss those days
or pour my heart into a poem you'll never read...
This is among the very first poems I ever wrote..
Yatma Faye Oct 2018
Deep inside of me I have a feeling
So strong and gloomy unintentionally hided since a long time

Deep inside of me I have myriad of words
words of love, words of hatred, Words of an innocent convicted for loving

Deep inside of me I have been searching
a life-lasting partnership which I never found

Deep inside of me Love means misery and
Happiness is very scarce, yet hope keeps me alive

Deep inside of me I dream to be searched as I search, to be found as I find and to be loved as I love

Deep inside of me, Deep inside of me Deep inside of me
Follow me on Instagram: @ytmfye
Raj Gomes Oct 2018
It's tough when you have no one to share your pain with,
no shoulders to lean on to.
No one to hug.
And that's when he embraces the darkness of his room
which hugs him with the same intensity
as he cries his heart out.

©rajgomes
"Men don't cry"
A lie that has been engraved in the very fabric of our society shuns the normal human feelings and puts sentimental men to shame. We are humans and we are emotional beings. It is okay to feel and to express those feelings in smiles and tears irrespective of the gender. Men too feel and should be allowed to express themselves without tags. Men cry too, and its okay.
Kim Sep 2018
Anyone can rhyme
Or hum a melody
But to lay your guts out on the table
For everyone to see
That’s what art is
That’s the soul
That's hunger, pain, and glory
As the artist tells their story
Living your truth
And telling it straight
Is what sets some apart
The secret of the greats
Stop fumbling with that metre
Don’t fret over the rhyme
Pour your soul onto the paper
Pull the tears from our eyes
Charmaine Sep 2018
you are the history of my literature. and as much as I want this story of ours to transcend generations after us. I can't. we both can't.

but you will stay to me. as the first phrases I wanna utter in all the mornings of my lifetime. as the poetry I wanna write permanently on my skin. and as the lyrics of the song I wanna spend my whole life singing.

you are the prayer I wanna shout to the universe. you are exactly the elegy I want people to give me on my death day.

you are the history of my literature. and letting you go is a painful thing I can never fully endure.
afteryourimbaud Sep 2018
no one is subscribing
to the universal affection
draining subconscious ailment
that needs no treatment
quaking with fear
shaking with revulsion
looking to prolong
an hour, a minute
stretching one second
into ten seconds
where are we going,
past the streetlights
the crossroads
the commotion
inside the canal boat
that surrounds and accompanies
this road -
will it ends one day,
sometimes, somewhere
and brings an end
to the entire's generation
guilt and disease?
Sean M O'Kane Sep 2018
“Oh you’re Irish?” he said.
“Did you learn the language much?” he said.
Honestly, what can I tell him? I was raised in the North - a ****** wasteland for such a naïve question.
Vague memories of fumbled classes where our secret history was ditched just to get straight into the basics (Cad é mar atá tú?)
No – seriously - I was not tied to it – it was anonymous to me at that age.
Forgotten like some distant echo of once visiting Coole House as a child.
Sure, we knew it was “important”, “our national language”, “heritage” etc. and we were warned it was quickly slipping into the drain of Western hegemony.
But it was baffling, unsexy and only the blunt-faced humorless IRA thugs amongst us were in any way keen.
Then it was gone, just like the faded memories of “The Children of Lir” from my primary school.

Looking back I wonder, what was the point?
A half-full measure paying lip service to our identity.
Teachers and headmasters terrified of the grand colonial reveal that the lessons might have hinted at (were they trying to stop us being Provos-in-waiting?).
And all of this against the awful shame of a common tongue that had no foe yet was slowly vanquishing from our shores.
It could have all been so different.
Rather than rushing to get something in our empty skulls, they could have given us a sense of joy, pride & belief in our own culture.
Calling on Yeats, Behan, Heaney and others to drown us in the language of our ancestors.
Telling the stories of old that only the academics & hippies were keeping from us then.
You know, it might kept us all on the same beautifully illuminated page.
We might have been comfortable in our skins and open to others,
not looking deep into our worthlessness and lashing out at them.
Language is being and language is connecting, I’ve learnt.
But that’s not something I got from my secondary school.

June-July 2018
Obviously, Teanga is the Irish word for language. "Cad é mar atá tú" is a basic phrase every Irish child would remember from the limited experience of the language that we had then - "how are you?".  I did visit Coole House around 1980 (when I was 10)  but had no idea at the time of its significance as the 'petri dish' of modern Irish culture - the home of Lady Gregory whose influence on many of our great writers was fundamental to their survival & their continuing importance today. "The Children of Lir" is an old fantastical Irish myth that was often read to very  young children during their  "story time".
afteryourimbaud Sep 2018
comb
your hair
everyday
after shower
before you head
outside.

irrelevant.
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