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Äŧül Feb 2017
An accident I suffered gave me amnesia,
Not she did suffer any internal brain injuries,
Tasked with loving her forever I was,
Especially sweet seemed her young ego,
Roses fell into my mind as she kisses me,
Offered I to her a promise of forevermore,
Generous she was to reflect the promise,
Rightly she knew everything about me,
Assumed by me it was too likewise,
Doctoring me in her fantasies to recovery,
Enriched by her love and my poetry our love.

Atul lost his identity for Mystery,
Muster I did every last bit of loyalty,
Networking my way to Amritsar,
Especially so for meeting her,
Sipped through her lips I did,
Into her soul, I struck a string,
A*las, it was all an illusion of mine.
Yet another secondary acrostic poem.

My first concrete acrostic poem.

I really like the way it has turned out

Anterograde Amnesia (Short-term memory loss) apart from my principles in part restricted me from loving her as she desired.

She wanted an open relationship of sorts, but I am a traditional conventional lover of sorts.

Even now I wish to propose her the day I get a good job and I think that the day I desire and deserve is not far away.

Our future children will have a story to get inspired by and I will be writing a book about the two of us very soon after my M.Tech gets completed and I win her back.

My HP Poem #1424
©Atul Kaushal
Sibyl Apr 2015
Misery has no chance of overwhelming you.

Lenient are thy limbs and causing pain you refrain to do.

Surrounded by gold, your life is all splendid and sweet.

Reminded not of the world below, full of pain and deceit.

Flaws, one cannot find in you, you are perfection

yet unseen by you still, this beauty in your conception

A face conjured from that of great goddesses –

merely known to many, a face of broken promises.

without seeking the depths, one cannot know you well

He shall adjure to tear the walls and break the spell.

And when all arises, you will be liberated from your own hell.
An Acrostic
Jonathan Sawyer Mar 2014
In the mixing bowl
thou hast perfected praise.
Conforming to your mould,
your flaky crust begins to rise.

Steamy and buttery out of the oven,
you make my life chill,
when the morsel of butter enters the
    blueberry canyon
to have its fill

Chemically inducing nirvana,
a world in the eye of God,
blueberry bursts of epic epicness
down my throat you trod.

In my stomach you swim, my friend.
"It is not good for muffin to be alone,"
pop goes the cherry muffin to join you,
and in swims a blueberry clone.

Nom nom nom.
19 March 2014

— The End —