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Colten Sorrells Jan 2019
zen
probably go and take a ****
that's about the size of it
I did absolutely nothing today. And it was everything I hoped it could be
Danielle Jan 2019
so might make a second account that's anon and just write the most foul **** in my mind there? is that better than posting it here-- not even up for debate actually my friends and s.o. read this **** from time to time so even though i'm pretty good at subtle imagery the most ****** up thoughts i have just can't be twisted into blooming flowers and ocean waves so.. you'll never know if its me or not but i'll definitely know if you find me.
putting this out there
Julian Revà Feb 2018
let's forget eachother - let's forget who we are
where we are going
let's forget and just remember
names and streets where we met

why did we fall in love?

where are we going?

let's forget where and why we met
where we fell in love
streets and names
let's forget ourselves
forget who we are
just remember

where we met, just remember
let's forget where we are going

why we met?

let's forget eachother
let's forget who we are
names and strets
let's forget

why did we meet?
where did we meet?
let's forget
who are we?
where are we going to?
let's forget streets and names
just remember to forget

forget remember
loving
meeting
where are we going to?
names and or streets, forget
forget what we were supposed to forget
let's forget ourselves
what? why? me? she?
let's forget what is "we"

where?
Originally, this was a dada poem.
Julian Revà Feb 2018
Beauty suits you better from far, as in an abstract painting, in some museum of a place that I can not afford the trip, in which I could not approach even an inch. And it will still be beautiful.

—To Daniela, even if you do not know
(Spanish Translation)

"La belleza se te ve mejor desde lejos, como en una pintura abstracta, en algún museo de un sitio que no puedo costear el viaje, en el cual no podría acercarme ni a un metro. Y aun así seguiría igual de bello."

—A Daniela, aunque tú no lo sepas
Julian Revà Feb 2018
Once she called me by the phone, and I answer "I cannot". I hung up without knowing she wanted to tell me "I love you". Time after, I phoned her back but there was only a busy line.
a mcvicar Feb 2018
(tw: this is really pessimistic and sad.  unfortunately i see the world this way.)

                                 ~~~

soulmates don't exist, they never have and they never will be. our currently overpopulated planet spits random people in our faces and our overcrowded, desperate, feeble minds struggle to claw at them with all the intensity in our nonexistant soul. we cling to people we see ourselves reflected in, but how can we not feel understood when every single human being is exactly the same as we are? the eternal fight to "stand out", to be "unique" acts like the devil's advocate by screaming (in our faces) that we're all identical and obnoxiously ignorant in the face of a cold, uncaring universe.

soulmates don't exist. we are desperate to feel companionship in this messed up place because we are fully aware of how lonely we really are, even if the majority of YOU choose to discard your knowledge and "follow your heart". wake up. we are specs of nothing who, by some chance, float amongst other specs of absolute nothingness. and the worst part is, we feel so entitled to a soul that we swear love and all other feelings do exist, while the person that represents our physical needs laughs and reminds us that in the end we succumb to all that is natural. natural, not like the fabricated romance or the force-imposed darkness that resides in every single one of us. the one we recognize when staring into someone else's mind. the one we choose to ignore, but kills us daily. the one we forget other people have when we project our despair and expectations created by false idols on other people, and foolishly call it love.
soulmates don't exist
22.2.18
Shane Leigh Jan 2018
This is not poetry,
and this is not heartstrings
playing sad lullabies
in the deep spaces of your mind.

This is not poetic;
this is not reading
stanza after stanza
wanting to know what's at the end.

This is not rhythmic,
nor sensual, nor smooth,
nor is it flowing like words should
from the tongues of those
that know which words to use.

This is simple.
These are words
that make sense
without peaking around corners
or hiding behind luscious similes
or over-used metaphors
and out of touch symbolism.

If this is not poetry,
then
I refuse to dub myself
a poet
and will continue on,
but write prose instead.
© Shane Leigh
Enjoy (:
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