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my dreams
being blown away
up in smoke,
just trying to get
some feelings stirred,
but my heart looks away
without staying broke.
Still, I ramble on...
Veritia Venandi Mar 2021
Something tugs at me from the veil of the ether,
Calling me to my real home!

In the faint twinkling of a dying star,
In the wilted petal of a bright flower,
In the melted wax of a long dead candle,
My mind searches for memories of a place so familiar
Yet whose existence maybe was only a lucid dream... !

Why this utter urge in my soul to dissolve like fine mist into the air?
Why this nagging sensation to mix with the soil and the sands?

I had lived my life too short for answers
But way too long to ask  questions
That I always look into myself to remember the one reason as to not being able to call this bewilderingly beautiful walls-
"My home...!"
Scribbled something after a long, long time... Hope all of you are doing fine, my dearest poets ! ❤✨
Ileana Amara Mar 2021
find yourself in the seams of my musings;
a tale of young love, a tale of sweet tragedy,
a warm hug of belonging, a cold release of parting,
such restless heart wanders, high hopes as remedy.

IA
03.21.21.| "you see nothing ever truly ends, because everything is transitory."
fray narte Mar 2021
maybe some types of chaos do not have to make sense or unveil some semblance of an epiphany. some types of chaos, you just have to feel. some types of chaos, you just have to lie through.
Stalwart Dull Mar 2021
I talk to the moon when
I find myself alone
Start writing with my pen
And throw myself a stone

I talk to the moon when
I start thinking of you
As I count one to ten
What am I supposed to do?

I talk to the moon when
I feel I'm losing my mind
Fight for it when I still can
Cause I don't want a rewind

I talk to the moon when
I felt true happiness
Feels like in a coffin
Releasing loneliness

Now I talk to the moon when
I have a story to tell.
fray narte Mar 2021
rip my chest the way you would an ugly sight of flowers. take everything away. i have no need for this much aching. i have no need for this much consuming anguish — this much self-violence barely restrained by my ribs. rip my chest and leave me empty of breaths and prayers for saints who don't know my name. leave me clean, and numb, and brand new — without memory and without any trace of all agony i ever kept between the lines of my poems. this isn't one — this isn't one anymore.

rip my chest and take everything away. rip my chest, i beg you, and take away all of my violence. take away all of my pain. take away all that i ever was, now just hurting — now, just lying around in waste.

rip my chest and take away all that i am.

rip my chest.

leave nothing behind
Luisa Mar 2021
Maybe I grasped the wrong notion
A site meant for poetry in motion
Random musings are easy to find
One sentence isn’t a poem in my mind!

Not all poems have to rhyme
But some of your writings are a crime
A felony against art and words that wield power
These low effort attempts, hundreds each hour

I bet Sylvia Plath turns in her grave
At these pathetic bids some of you gave
Where is the rhapsody, where is the verse?
Your words should be in the back of a hearse

Where is the structure or composition?
Posting your crap was a poor decision
You might hate my words, though they are true
In my opinion, you have some work to do!
Who else is fed up of a single sentence being coined as a poem? Or something akin to a motivational quote being passed off as one?
Get rid of the low grade efforts! Post your **** on a blog instead!
Eli Mar 2021
I've mistaken
words for cliffs

Obstacles abound

Climbing above,
going around.

The view isn't
from the top-down

I'm on the ground.
The sentence "I've mistaken these words for cliffs" arrived in my mind seemingly without any context once.  I felt an urge to write it down, and when I did I realized I could write about obstacles, specifically obstacles in the form of disapproving words from others and ourselves.
Pagan Paul Feb 2021
.
Poems are plush curtains,
of words,
pulled together
to hide the world
from the raw emotion
that flows
out of a writer
casting pearls.



© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)
.
Chris Feb 2021
Why does no one ask the darkness..
"Are you ok?"

Fools wander whilst being unmade..
They wonder where agony sleeps..

Within a Silent Mirror is genesis of pain..
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