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uv Apr 2022
If a pen could relay all my thoughts
All those tiny speckles and threads that get often lost
My eye would like to describe the tinest details
And my hand would want to draw all its artistic tales

If my heart could realy what it thinks
All those flutters, its strongest strings
My beats would tell those feelings,to share
And my touch would make the world watch and stare.
Sourodeep Dec 2020
I have grown to be unknown
invisible like the dew
hiding behind buildings
and gliding through passages.
My charm is as un-noticed
as the workshop apprentice,
my words unheard, voice absurd
to the premeditated busy man
briskly moving through the crowd.
I myself collate my actions,
but for anyone to give a deeper glance
well I just leave that upto chance.
phoenix Dec 2019
do the words I write effect anyone?
is my staring at my screen worth it?
would it matter if I was gone?
would I be intellectually unfit?

do you feel my words are relatable?
is my effort nothing?
is my content debatable?
do you think I'm fussing?

am I annoying?
or am I wrong?
am I writing poems enjoying?
is my complaint tedious and long?

do my words ever become your song?
was I wrong all along?
is this where I belong?
because the people here make me strong.
Monisha Jul 2019
Moments of life,
Moments to explore,
Moments when I go crazy,
Moments when I need more.

Moments that are mine,
Moments that I do not own,
Moments that are heightened,
Through thoughts and no thoughts alone.

Moments penning poetry,
Moments by the sea,
Moments smelling  flowers,
And the thorns pricking me.

Exquisite Joy
and Exquisite pain,
Moments with another,
feeling his grasp on my mane.

Moments where my thoughts are in knots,
Moments of release where I see just stars and dots.

And then sweet oblivion,
And floating gently above the  tree,
Moments where I open my body and soul,
And am bound and totally free!
Right now I am happy...

I feel comfortable and I feel safe.

I feel grateful for my existence and I'm enjoying my life.

I feel a warmth envelop me a hundred times a day.

Reminding me I am alive and content and free.

Right now I am happy...

I am happy to be me.

I know I'm going the right way even though I'm not certain which way that may be.

I know this from my feelings deep down inside.

I've learned to understand me, for so long I have tried.

Right now I am happy...

It's been a journey and I've survived.

I learned the hard way, to be calm and still my pride.

I want others to learn sooner, that way they can enjoy life.

Because right now I'm happy, happy to be alive.
Moumita Mitra May 2018
If you are a tree
I would love to be your Parchayi.
If you are a rock
I would love to be your standby.
If you are a rocket
I would love to be the satellite.
If you are a sea
I would love to be the saltiness.
If you are you
I would love to be your Beloved Wife.
#IfYouAndI #poem #mythoughts
#lovepoem #love
Please note, Parchayi means Shadow.
Ashton Ard Mar 2018
Poetry for me, is a way to express my emotions, even without using big words like melancholy, or ecstatic. I prefer a simple, laid back approach to my situations, making it a more mindful, and understanding experience. I do use imagery, and symbols, but in a way a reader can understand, such as my current poems “Help me” and “Grey”. Help me is about my struggles with gender identity and sexuality, using the prison walls as a box i had put myself in, not letting myself express who I really am. In Grey, the eyes, the tears, and the clouds dancing is me letting go of my past mistakes, and indulging into unhealthy coping mechanisms. “The clouds swirling into some kind of scary dance” Is when I decided to try my first cigarette, the smoke swirling into the air like it’s dancing. The eyes are grey, mimicking a rain cloud, my eyes going from dark brown to dark grey. The tears are self explanatory, because in the poem I state “Mimicking rain”. I had written stories, and attempted poetry all my life, and writing is a simple way I express myself. Even if it’s a suicide note, to a story, It helps me feel better in the end. Just because I don’t wish to use fancy words in my poems does not mean I don’t know how to fit them in. I’ve studied and loved poetry all my life, and listened to songs that were originally poems. My poems have parts in which they rhyme, and don’t rhyme. It’s a way I help show my emotion, the non rhyming parts showing my aggression towards something. Poetry can have two different types of writing styles in it, and doesn’t just have to be rhyming, or non rhyming. As long as it has a rhythm, and conveys the ideas of what you’re trying to say, It’s fine. -Ashton
Francis Rowell Aug 2017
“And to his surprise, there were butterflies coming out of his mouth.”

--- --- --- ---

Quite literally, nothing is literal. Everything is a grain of salt in itself, and therefore no matter what we do or say or read or hear or exist, we all die of sodium poisoning. Is that a possible thing to do? Can we live, breathe, exist even if we ourselves are but a single grain of salt to be taken with other infinite grains of salt? Can a grain of salt itself die in general, let alone die of sodium poisoning?

Ah, sand, then? No, that can’t be any better. What about sugar? Absolutely not. What is everything, then, if not a grain of salt to be taken with another grain of salt, and another, and another?

An extended metaphor, maybe. How many grains of salt does it even take to create an extended metaphor, though? How does one measure such a strange volume? Would the measurements even be cubic? Volume? Area? What does an extended metaphor look like? A paragraph, I suppose, so that would be area. But how big would this paragraph be? Average? How big is the average paragraph, and how would anyone ever count the endless amount of paragraphs being written everywhere and everywhen? Further research is required.

I find myself wishing much more than I ever have, or ever should, that there existed any kind of salt-to-paragraphs conversion chart.
If I could, I would. But I can't, and never will. "Que sera sera," Said I, with my head hanging and my eyes holding back a storm. "Que sera sera."
Hi people Mar 2017
Knock knock
Who's there
Anxiety who
Anxiety that never left because it's always there no matter what

When you hear the word anxiety you think one of three things
1. Panic attacks
2. Nervous ticks, for example: nail biting, chewing on your shirt, st-st-stuttering, stumbling over, I mean, over words that are yours, I mean stumbling over your words, blushing, etc. etc. etc.
Or 3. Being nervous

For those who think about the first option:
Panic attacks are included. So are mental breakdowns, hour long crying sessions, difficulty to breathe, and hearing your heartbeat every day and night 24/7.

For those who think about the second option:
Nervous ticks are always a part of it, no matter how small they are or how noticeable it is. And yes, we are trying to stop. But saying we need to stop won't help anything because we already know. Stop wasting your breath on facts we already know.

For people who think about the third option:
Yes and no. It is being nervous and yet, it's so much more.

It's saying I'm sorry when you don't need to but you feel like you should because you think you did something wrong.

It's scratching at spots that aren't itchy but you feel your insecurities crawling over your body like fire ants and it hurts so you scratch.

It's making problems out of thin air like a magician pulls a rabbit out of an empty hat. Except there's nothing magical about it. It's terrifying and it shapes the way you think and act and feel and walk and talk and breathe and are.

It's feeling like your friends aren't your friends because you think they talk bad about you behind your back like spies among a common enemy and the common enemy is you.

You don't like being the common enemy so you ask them if you're annoying and you ask them if you're a bad person and you ask them if you did something wrong and you say you're sorry in a blizzard of words and scrambled up sentences.

For example,
When I was in 5th grade I felt my best friends drifting away and I didn't know what to do because I'm scared of being alone. As the year went on, I had this nagging feeling at the back of my mind that they were talking about me behind my back and didn't like me at all. At the end of the year, I finally gathered enough courage to ask if they were. My friend was offended and said no. All summer it bugged me. It was like another stone added to my wall of insecurities built around me in the shape of the person I wanted to be. After summer, I frantically apologized and they looked at me like I was crazy. I still feel like a monster.

Anxiety is also feeling like a monster is under your bed. But when you check it's in your closet. Then, it's behind you. Then, it's beside you. And finally you realize, it's inside you. And in a horrifying second you realize that you can't run from it because how do you run away from your mind?

I am afraid of my mom, my dad, my siblings, my friends, my teachers, my girlfriend, my principal, my vice-principle, and everyone else in my life. That includes the stranger I walk by on the sidewalk on my way to my house.

I am afraid of letting them down.  I am afraid of them hating me. I am afraid of losing them. I am afraid of them pitying me. I am afraid of needing their help. I am afraid of asking for help. I am afraid of them seeing me as weak. I am afraid of them sending me to get get help. I am afraid of them realizing that I am a monster.

I am a monster.
I feel like a monster.

That's anxiety.
Anxiety is feeling like a monster in human skin, trying to play out the part of a normal human being and failing miserably and awkwardly.

That's anxiety.
At least it is for me.
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