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Wind carries whispers arrayed,
But never is it screaming.
The wisp that calls, lives betrayed,
Unheard is its true meaning.

Bound to its fateful flowing forever.
Its flowing has never failed.
A sacred truth is buried within.
Within what? It never can tell.

Mountainous structures stand strong,
These relics are deemed eternal,
As time passes, the layers form masses.
They keep record of nature’s journal.

The bitter truth is etched in stone.
Carved deep in their being,
Yet tethered to fate, to constantly wait.
Cursed with never leaving.

Like the ocean’s mighty sway,
That never truly moves.
Seemingly more boundless than me,
It's built to traverse in set grooves.

Violent waves displaying a mask,
For It rises only to recoil.
An infinite realm of life contained,
To never feel the soil.

The sun will rise, set, then rise.
A fate with no fate at all.
It treads a path to live and last,
It will not and can never fall.

It soars above, an ode freedom,
Yet a slave to this deception,
For in its path, it’s truly shackled,
To this common misconception.

The grand clock's, a steady unwinding,
That's never completely unwound.
Delaying or pausing is not an option,
Losing every minute it passes.

The hands of time that hold the scroll,
Unallowed to write its own plot,
Emotions within its constant tick tock,
Expressing a purpose that's wrought.

As metaphysical body's walk.
They think, they feel, the react.
Emotions lay open, demand to be spoken,
As our minds expand to retract.

My conscious holds a truth, untrue.
For a lie is so deeply instilled.
We breathe to consume, from cradle to tomb,
In this cage that we've named "Free Will."
Hormones in youth are ticking bombs—
and Freud’s just chuckling in his grave.
Love’s eyes still gleam like polished guns,
but necks? Oh necks won’t misbehave.

Eyes lock—a beauty storms the scene!
Neck, don’t you dare! (It dares. Of course.)
She floats like anarchist’s dream—
same then. Same now. Same deadly force.

Women’s sly smiles? Just primers set.
Men’s chests? Just trenches, soft and weak.
Love is a blaze! (Doubt? Just regret.)
Youth—dear friend—pray, don’t speak.

But age? A ceasefire, calm, profound.
Hormones now sleep—no more unrest.
Eyes see the truth (it’s bleak, I’ve found):
that beauty walks… still bombshell-dressed.

Ah! Pavlov’s mutts just drool and stare.
Neck—why still twist? The threat’s long gone!
Terror? Exes? Just hot air.
You look. They look. The script reads on.

Women—eternal partisan,
from Mars? From hell? Who even knows?
They’re strange. They’re sharp. They’ve got a plan.
Hormones? Asleep. War’s on freeze.

Ivan Pavlov, a Nobel Prize laureate, was a renowned Russian physiologist best known for his work on classical conditioning, famously demonstrated in his experiments with dogs.
Kai 6d
I want every poem to be about you.
Love, hate, lust and in between.
I want every picture burnt, I want your heart
Torn out, I want to say goodnight
To bones and kiss your skull.

Every poem is about you.
Love, hate, lust and pain.

And I cannot express a thing, it eats me up
Beyond belief.
To love you is a sacrifice I make, because
I **** myself in the process, and when my organs spill out,
My heart drops first and breathes
Your name,
Over and over and over and over and over
Just inspired by the saying "my heart beats your name" :)
Aaron Beedle Mar 17
The wind is cream, it's scent fruit yogurt.
The rain the ash of a kindled comet.
The sun a thrill on planets face,
and winters chill in mellowed chase.

A flower's charm may draw you near.
Beware the bliss, the alluring veneer.
Darkness ripens in a world like this.
Infrared to ultraviolet
and every color in between
every hue that is you,
is longing to be seen.

You're like a rainbow of love,
In all its prismatic splendor.

Those ruby red lips,
so soft and tender.

In your emerald green eyes
my heart begs surrender.

Your golden hair flows,
down over sweet cinnamon skin.

Towards rose colored treasures
hidden deep within.

You're a rainbow of colors,
vibrant and bold,
Pastels of passion,
for my eyes to behold.

A Rainbow of love
even more precious than gold.

(HELL! To Be Honest)

You're like Skittles Baby!
And I wanna taste the Rainbow!
To be honest this poem was giving me fits.
I couldn't figure out how to end it, so I just decided
to have a little fun with the last lines.
checkout the you tube video
https://youtu.be/NnPpu4JDylc?feature=shared
thanks
Oh darling,
I'm not at home,
If I'm not with you.
You're my polished floors,
My grand oak door.
The sweet luxury of my bed,
At the end of a long day of longing.
Warmth of my fireplace,
In the evening when not a worldly soul wakes.
When it comes to love,
I'm real picky,
I won't have it if it's not you.
My morning mug of coffee, my evening cup of tea.
I've got a real honker,
Of a vocabulary.
Many ****** words,
Hairy statements,
Merry installations.
Whacking through words,
Like it's chopping wood.
Hands tied,
eyes sealed—
silence embraced.

A restless palace of words;
the crown is lost—
where could she be?

Heartbeat stirs,
memories emerge;
madam, are you asleep?

Parallel roads,
horizon’s hues—
where are you?

-mahat
Repentant Feb 4
You strike a matchstick
and name it hope—
watch the flame gnaw
its own tail, a hungry ouroboros.

Your hands tremble like cities
under siege.
The skyline cracks, a porcelain plate
held together by spider silk.

We are all archaeologists here,
digging through ash
for the bones of who we swore
we’d become.

Some nights, the moon is a pill
that won’t dissolve.
You swallow it anyway,
let its cold light pool in your ribs.

The world is a fever dream,
but listen—
even wildfires leave behind
soil thick with tomorrow.

So let your heart be a dandelion:
ugly, stubborn,
and impossibly
easy to love.
Inspiration: Combines existential urgency (a "burning world") with intimate resilience, blending natural imagery and mental health metaphors. The poem mirrors modern anxieties but leans into hope as an act of defiance.

Key Elements:

Ouroboros metaphor: The flame eating itself reflects cycles of destruction/rebirth and self-sabotage.

Urban decay vs. nature: "Cities under siege" and "porcelain plate" contrast with organic imagery (dandelions, wildfires).

Medicalization of coping: The moon as an undissolved pill critiques how society medicates existential pain.

Archaeology of self: Digging through "ash" to find lost versions of identity.

Dandelion symbolism: Represents overlooked strength and the beauty of persistence.

Structure: Free verse with short, punchy stanzas. Enjambment creates urgency, while the final quatrain offers a resolving, mantra-like closure.
Raven Kuhn Jan 24
In English we say
"I love you;"
In poetry we say
"Roses are red,
Violets are blue,"
And roll their eyes,
They do.

If only they knew
They're missing the view.
I believe the original author of the phrase "In poetry we say..." is Whitney Hanson.
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