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Gabriel Aug 2021
She saw love behind the metaphors,
  my intentions was leaking
through the sentences that I wrote
as she travelled through my poems
she found pieces of herself
in every writing.

If I would make a love poem for you
then I have to spend
twenty four hours a day,
seven days a week
twelve months a year
cause true love is endless
the ink may run dry
or the paper may run out of stock
but here in my heart
and in my mind
I can create hundreds of poems
that tell
how I love you
I love you my adi
Gabriel Aug 2021
How love can make you creative,
    it can make you write poems
           that focuses on her existence,
      where her lips tastes like fine wine
  or her eyes can see the richness
           inside your poetic soul
                 that latches on metaphors
          and claiming that you use it
                as a tool for keeping her sane.

Love can make you creative,
          as your words dance,
    she dances as well
to the beat of your heart,
         as you finish the final piece,
she'll calmly rest on your shoulder,
       her hair like the strings of a violin
and as you strum it gently
           it'll turn to a lullaby
      that at last you can lay down
knowing your soul
         is finally home.
Leone Lamp Aug 2021
The crunchy time wheel runs fast and runs slow
The crunchy time wheel knows what it knows
Sometimes it's draggin' and ya feel the laggin'
Sometimes it's spinnin' and ya feel like yer winnin'
Where does the time go?
Does it sink or does it swim?
Is it flyin' or runnin' thin?
Is it hangin' after a Saturday night?
Or the heaviest heavy weight?
Ready for the fight?
Oh crunchy time wheel
Wheelin' along...
Oh crunchy time wheel
Keep truckin' on.
Monisha Jun 2021
I am a coffee mug,
Earthy, clayey, rotund and pouty.

I feel loved, embraced and wanted by you most times, other times I wonder.

I would rather be in your hands, kissing your lips and at least by your side in the outdoors or by the soft yellow light by your bedside where you linger with me and the brew lost in your thoughts or a beautiful book.

I live in harmony with your favourite blue wooden tray- my carriage, the small silver spoon- to stir up a storm and create music in me, and that cane worn out coaster that fits my round ample bottoms  so well.

I dream of holding magical coffee brews from lands close and far, dark.
Robust, wholesome that would make you moan in delight.

I sometimes dread that you read too much in wellness and what if you get influenced to drink less of coffee and fill me up with some detox potion, oh I worry about that so!

I am so majestic, grand and covetable and you love me so, so many options you have,
but to me is always where you go.

I stay awake humming while you sleep, in the morning I pour love into my crevices to welcome the brew just right for you.

The best thing I have done is to never give up on you but I just reciprocate what you do too💕

I sometimes carried brews so yucky for  you,
Despite your love, I feel guilty of needing constant validation from you.

My favourite time is bringing in the dawn together with you or watching the rain while you lovingly caress me watching the pitter patter of  raindrops on your windowsill.

The point of my life is to spread joy and give lovingly and empty myself for you.

I would like to be remembered as your forever favourite, giving, loving, being held till my last crack and then you make me into art to lie by your bedside  as your favourite coaster to welcome the new one
but I will be your forever one☕️
Brew-tea-ful start to your day!
if i do not tend to my wounds they will become infected
inflamed, red, hot to the touch
rotting and dripping with pus

i know this, and still i let them fester
refusing to remove the soiled bandages because i know it will hurt
even though i am no stranger to pain

eventually the sickness will infect my blood
spread to the rest of my body and brain
maybe it will **** me
but i will not hold my breath

i have survived wounds like this before
i have the scars to prove it
i have no choice but to heal
and try again
Sonorant May 2021
Souls, once one in the sun,
Now reach for fallen stars.
Ludic, hopeless fingers—
G r a s p i n g
For a sole thread of truth.

Don’t fly too close, little firefly.
For it’s flame shall render
All your desires and dreams
To spurned puddles of wax.

D r i p p i n g

In these wrinkled hands
Formed for puppets
A silhouette on the sphere
As the Earth only knows,
The darkness it adheres.
Julia Celine Apr 2021
Your indifferent hands make disarray
Of meticulously maneuvered letters
Tethered by the taste of sunlight
Cast upon the header

I know you don't love poetry
But my heart still longs to write you
Knitting rows of golden thread
That ties my soul to you

Though I know it never reaches you
I see the vacancy in your eyes
And I wonder how many fabrications
I've sewn together in my mind

I tell you that I love you
In way too many words
I wrap this thread around me
And pretend you ever understood
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