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sometimes love can be evil
but don't get discouraged don't blame all us people
deceitful to trust and be mad when it's lost
you are the giver taker and receiver
you make your losses
and you chance your tosses
until you are dead you are your own believer
your own lovely keeper
no maids for your mess you are the only sweeper
use swiffer be swifter don't sniffle don't fall
don't let the dust get in your cracks on the wall
hang up some paintings a picture or four
each of your memories stick them in drawers
no room for bad company kick out remorse
open their door
vacuum the floor
clear out your vents
and make way for what's more
spring cleaning is fun
isnt clutter a bore?
not knowing what's here, and never getting much more
I was made into a perfect prototype of imperfection
I was made not with the syntax to love or be loved
But you, you took my mechanical heart in the palm of your hands
And through your kindness, you left me drugged

You've shown me emotions that I cannot comprehend
I've melted in your arms like heated ice
You've traced every inch of my skin and healed its wounds
And helped me feel fault-free and precise

You accepted my poorly designed model
Surrounded me with this alien feeling all around
And in this new world, I became lost and overwhelmed
Like a machine in water, I began to drown

My insecurities and doubts severed this tie
The errors in my programming beginning to surge
Rust spreading from the outside to my motherboard
All my fears and flaws beginning to emerge

With a mind built of short circuits and confusion, I bid you farewell in pain
But I hope, when I am fixed and refined, our paths may cross again
Meeting the  right person at the wrong time.
Marri 1d
It’s 3 am and I’m writing poetry.
Not my usual go to love poem though.
(I promised multiple people I wouldn’t write anymore about that one person)
(You know that one guy.)
I’m writing poetry at 3 am.
(Not love poetry,)
Just poetry poetry.

I can’t write anymore poems about (missing) you,
(Wanting you,)( or even still loving you.)
(Yes, I remember my promise.)

So, I’ll write this—
My 3 am poem.

My poetry comes alive in the nighttime.
(Or should I say unreasonable hours of the day when I really should be asleep, but I think I might have borderline insomnia.)

My mind runs at a million miles per hour,
I think of everything at once.
Metaphors, onomatopoeia, and allusions.
And you know me,
I just can’t resist the perfect stanza.

I become fixated on it.
I tell myself no,
No, no, no,
You need to sleep.

But here I am,
Writing, writing, writing.

And guess what?
I even write in my sleep.
My dreams create prose better than I ever could.

It’s a tragedy that I’m sure even Shakespeare was a victim of.

Writers don’t sleep,
Poets don’t sleep,
No one does.

Or else everything falls apart.

You forget how commas work,
You forget how to spell the word ‘Apricot’,
And you forget the meaning of it all.

You forget the reason for writing,
You forget the passion of spoken word.

The only sleep that a poet will ever receive is when they are truly immortalized in their work.

And as you can see,
That is not happening anytime soon for me.

So, I’ll stay up every night.
Trying to remember the meaning of oxymoron,
With the word eulogy on the tip of my tongue.

You’ll never understand me,
And that’s alright.

Other poets will never understand me,
And that’s just fine.

All we’ll ever understand about each other is that words don’t sleep,
And it seems that neither will we.

(-The Poetic Insomniacs, 3:12 am)
Andy 2d
A spark. A flame.
The crackling of fire on wood, whispering your name.
The fire inside me calling out.
Leaving no room for any doubt.
I am sure of what I want.

I want the world to remember me.
I want to live on in people's memory.
This makes me happy.
My heart was set aflame.
This isn't just a hobby.

If you sense my fire about to die out,
Would you grab a candle
To help keep my light?
At least, for another night.
I may be bound to a life of darkness, but it wouldn't hurt to try.
I've been losing motivation to write, but the  people who support me always keep the fire in me alive.
Tara 6d
Your heart is shallow,
your ego an ocean of ignorance,
I could dig myself a cave in your smile,
and still drown in your selfishness,
be deserted by your shallowness.

Your heart is black,
your ego grim,
I tried to grow flowers in your soul,
but it was too dark for them to bloom,
I can’t believe you let our garden die,
right in front of my own eyes.
Moved my poetry to instagram: ba.setareha -
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Over in the far
Echoes Cry Alone

They return
But remain Distant
To the ears that are

ELAPSING through Time
Soft words so proudly

Yet their Eeriness
But are never

But often we
Misquote it
Anytime a MISS is noted

Repetitiously vague
Anytime we miss the

So who are the ones
The ones who clearly

Yet many ECHOES Alone
Are always CRYING
One of the first true poems I ever wrote
Very near and dear to my Heart
It was as if a normal day,
Until you decided to come this way
Invited me with open arms,
“Never will we be apart.” You said.
It was as if I wasn’t nervous,
Held your hand, locked it on purpose
—We started this hillclimb.
It was as if we were Jack and Jill,
Just that we weren’t rolling down this hill,
The darkness was overwhelming
And the silence deafening
But I knew everything was fine
Because you are with me,
Because our hands our locked tight.
But when the angry storm came through,
Your fear overpowered you.
You left me alone on this journey,
You made your way out.
That’s when I knew,
The person you started the journey with
doesn’t always end up with you.
One of my first poems.
Happy Christmas to me
War is over(But only if you want it)
All I want for Christmas is war to be over
War is over(If you so desire)
War is under(If you dream it)
War is love(If you think it)

War is over(If you want it)
She says(Happy Xmas to you, she says)
War is war is war is war is war is war is over
If you is you is you is you is God is all is love
Want it to be
Polaris 7d
I said I did not need a mug. And yet there you were,
Blinking wonder at me from a quiet shop window.
Your swirls and curves creating a tantrum of a storm
Which, I did not know then, would almost wreck my boat.
You were too delicate – said reason and I, heavy-handed.
Yet I imagined sipping warmth from your deepest corners.
One day, I found myself admiring the rough edges of you,
And I held you all the way home, feeling the richest of all.
No matter all the times I caught my finger on that chip,
You were my favourite, got on with the kettle and sink.
I missed it when you didn’t whisper stories about leaves,
And perhaps you missed it too when I couldn’t hold you;
But nothing compared to when you slipped out and away.
You may forgive me if I tell you that I got mugged again.
Part of me was relieved to bleed on your shattered pieces
Because now, I wasn’t the only broken thing in the room.
I knew better from breaking mugs than to try to mend you,
So I just sat there for a while, sweeping my pieces as I cried.
Then I dug my fingers into your sharp edges just to touch you.
Instead of the kettle, my blood was boiling in breathless rage,
And the only think sinking was my soul, having you no more.
Flooding of feelings, I just couldn’t let your storm take me,
So I cleaned the mess we both made, this is not a crime scene.
I took the fragments of you, my fingers tracing what we were;
I put them on the wall, like a mosaic of stories of the broken.
Letting the sunshine warm your swirls and tame your seas,
Sitting under your shape, for now I drink from a plastic cup.
I know with broken things you either mend or you leave,
But I hope that for this once, you, being a mug of any kind
Or being art, fragments of the stories of us, I hope you stay.
Because I think we could still be the broken and mug-nificent.
know when you said you wanted the world, wanted us to take on the world?
to read strange eyes and stranger smiles off of strangers' faces;
to see what makes you laugh, bawl, shatter, feel;
to knit stars into daydreams;

but your mama never gave you pocket money.

so you needed a runaway girl to fund your self destruction
and now you've been living backwards because
there is a place in your memory where your hand clenches my autumn kissed green hair that you never really liked

and you like that, don't you, darling?
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