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Amidst the daisies,
all I could see,
was you.

Just us alone,
beneath blue sky.

You beside me, eyes closed,
wind tracing its fingers
through your hair,
bathed in sunlight,
your soft smile lingering.

Oh, how I envy them—
for giving you a peace
I can only dream of.
If only she could be....
Piyush 3h
The wound is at her heart,
Her world is apart,
Trying to reach her,
Yet I can't speak with her.

Why is it so tough?
Whenever I see her,
I just stand there,
Frozen in the cold, with just a cough.

Is it my fault?
That I never stood by her,
Or is it her fault?
That she tried others?

I reach for words,
But they never stay,
They slip through my fingers
And fade away.

The day feels different,
But she wouldn’t know,
Once, I was there—
Now, I watch from the shadow.

If I had spoken,
Would things be the same?
Or was I meant to
Lose this game?

Today should be special,
Like the days we once knew,
But time has spoken—
And so, I stay silent too.
Today is her birthday, and I can't wish her,
So I wrote this as a gift to her.
Time dreams to able heal,
wounds feel open & peel,
sleep stubborn spider crawling
brittle bones munch & mauling.

This is the church
in a photograph
I took with pride,
see the entrance's
heavy door
when its open wides,
starry eyes enchanted
to see the wonders
likes within,
beauty of art-works
etched on windows
as you see.

Walk inside,
Wonder at
architecture,
built by brain-washed
slaves,
fired by a polished
sweet gun.
A dream to die,
Are you merrily
dancing square center?

Time eagerly spins the wheel,
wounds amateur stitched
can dream to be sealed,
but dead can't be healed
skin like paper, rapidly draws,
empty keg that bar-maid pours.

This is the school photograph
where I'm smiling,
third grade second row
third to left drowning
in a sea of happiness
and broken promises,
scarring away
as no peers
or teachers notices.

Wandering,
School built
looks like prison,
the clicking of
firmly held pens,
exclaims ignored
by teachers
irrational student
detention was built
by hell-sent
hiss at never...

I continue,
to love her
Burn Eden's Garden
Its a reminder,
gentlest touch
from heaven.
No church or school,
could ever contain,
and a fountain's dew
could only  spray
chaotic waste-ful days.
Dianali 2d
I know a way to alter space and time—
Open a portal between our worlds.
It’s a simple eight-word code:
‘Hey, I miss you, how have you been?’
Creating an alternate timeline
Kritika 2d
Close your eyes and ponder
When was the last time you ever let yourself wonder?
When was the last time you asked and inquired of things;
that rekindled in your heart that fire?

When was the last time you let yourself roam free?
When was the last time you let yourself dance in the rain with nothing but pure bliss on your face?
When was the last time you ran barefoot on a beach; the last time you let the sand cover your every inch?
When was the last time you chased fireflies at dusk or the last time you skipped stones across the lake?
Why did you make it your last and let it all fade?

When was the last time you saw the sun melt into the sea?
Or the last time you climbed a tree just to touch the sky?
The last time you lay on the grass looking up to the clouds in the sky…
Why did you make it your last? Why?

You never knew it’d be your last; your last time chasing fireflies or your last time skipping stones.
You never knew it’d be your last time touching the sky and letting some warmth get to your bones.
If you never knew it’d be your last then why did you stop?
Why did you stop letting the rain wash your face? Why did you stop skipping stones across the lake?

Open your eyes.
Who said it needed to be your last?
Go out there, do it all over again.
Run barefoot on the beach, let yourself roam free.
Go and climb another tree and see the sun melt into the sea.
Be as carefree as you used to be;
Because who was it really?
Who said that it needed to be your last?
Sometimes, flipping through old verses
Feels like opening a dusty window—
A gust of forgotten air
Rushing into my lungs.

A lost thought lingers in my throat,
Like a sneeze that never comes.
The past, like a cold,
Stays with me for days.

I once thought time was a magician,
Pulling endless moments from a hat.
Now I see—
It’s just a tired juggler,
Tossing the same tricks,
As we pretend to be surprised.

Some poems are wrapped in silence,
Pressed between pages like dried leaves.
They were never meant to be seen—
She feared someone would recognize her in them.
But I wonder, if I set them free,
Would she recognize herself now?

I cough,
As old words scratch against my breath.

Old poems carry the scent
Of blankets left out in the sun—
Memories aired out,
Dreams wiped clean.

Yet, some stains remain.
Some echoes refuse to fade.

And just before the past settles,
A sneeze always lingers—
An allergy to old verses.
Brian 2d
It's now been years,
moments frozen behind glass.
with our fingers interlaced,
like lattices of coloured paper,
neatly folded into swans.
Bold, elegant, proud.
a small army of comfort,
in the small battlefield.
with rows of paper flowers,
all blue, lavender and crimson.
once alive with our laughter.

squares of paper,
left strewn across the floor.
torn, ripped and split.
now burnt with hate,
burnt with ruined passion.
leaving a charred memory,
scattered among the ashes,
drifting away, gently.

Like the swans you used to fold.
My first poem!!!!!!!!
Marching on a field of white
lines striping the way.
Piping on my clarinet-
marching band back in the day.

Drilled through the heat - harsh light,
sets perfected by the night.
Playing solo’d make me fly
but together we can cry.

Move as one, hitting dots, our bodies spoke music,
the songs we once knew, now distant and elusive.
Reeds left unopened, my mind's gone acoustic-
echoes remaining from memory once lucid.
something a little different---
i used to be in my high school's marching band when I was little (16) nd it feels so long ago now
I’ve tasted the echoes of a flame; inhaling silhouettes of the night’s
smoke; wasting time under the clouds of downhill voices, speaking
low on my worth.Where I recall my mother’s voice as the sturdy
cane of discipline – as we read about disciples who were just
ordinary men; we were orderly raised, where being scolded a
third time about coming to bath at five, was just a part of our
ordinary days. My most trusted companions where the imaginary
friends I made up – who knew they'd get me in trouble, if I was
found talking to myself while I play.

And I don’t feel that old, but nostalgia has been resting on my soul;
the better parts of it, and also the worst – where I grew up with the
biggest fear around girls. Though part of that fear still remains, only
we changed the fear of girls, to a fear of falling in love with the
wrong girl. “But I love her though,” by that statement I'll know
I’ve definitely fallen underneath the floor.

I hardly questioned my flaws; until I grew a little order and started
to be so aware of them all – then I grew a little older, to soon realize
they’re all just a part of us all. And I don’t feel that old, even when
the wisdom I get isn’t always the same wisdom the youth can own –
still I hope their purpose is the one thing they can own.

I have to keep a piece of self-worth in my silver thoughts, interlaced
like a plait – even when I think up a few corny bars; I still see
myself as platinum. Signed here... a Platinum baby.
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