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rig Jan 1
my posture is terrible, the desk too low.
the letters at my fingertips create words from…

well, i’m not really sure.
feels like nothing but probably isn’t nothing.

but i don’t know where they’re from,
where they went to school and university,

if at all, what lovers they had in the past,
what they look for, what they want to do

with their lives, where they see themselves in five,
ten, twenty years. we’re strangers and yet

we become intimate quite often.
funny, isn’t it? or sad. one of the two.

i don’t know why i think they're from nothing
but i’ve always made myself feel this way about all this.

and if nothing is not forever, well, then
there must be somethings out there to discover. right?
Naveen Malhotra Dec 2020
My spirit  present on the horizon
Receive love of an old origin
She arrived as a spirit guide
Few seconds and she materialised
She was an original beauty
Without make up
She was a cutie
I attempted to hug her
Lip kiss her
But in the air
For I was present as spirit
My body lay in a cozy bed
Tied by the lazy thread
It was a dream
That didn't materialize
Love you, love you
I call
Tell me why indigenous
seems so obsolete?
Thoughts in the genius
whose sense is up so late

Why originality
seem so fake?
And off-reality
is worth the take?

It might not seem its best
nor have the Sauce
Not in Vogue as the rest
But it's the source


-Pastorlee
I choose #originality
#indigenousSombodi
your #LocalBoy

#ipoet
Carlo C Gomez Nov 2020
There is no middle ground
This taking sides again

It's Adam or Eve
She, deceived
He, the willful one

Once naked
Now ashamed
And misconnected

Within an
Inauguration of leaves

Sleeping upon
Thorns and thistles

The genetic defect their own
To carry forth
Children of sin and death

In the shadow
Of something now
Unattainable

It was never
About appetite

It was always
About sovereignty
Blind Pathos Sep 2020
Van Gogh’s ear sings tales all night
Soulful moaning over mind’s eye sight

Antagonize the heart and turn the eye
A visitor to the heart or passing by

From this spring that we all drink
What whispers all the thoughts we think

Lunatic genius with eyes turned in
Tell me where my mind has been

A freighting tether is shelter and cage
Where the writer’s pen touches page

Ink’s fossil trail bleeding from my pen
A history of where my heart has been

To go and not say in doing so
Beyond this point no words can go

With feet of clay and hand to chalk
I’ve come to hear Van Gogh’s ear talk
There is a moment just before an idea, it's origin. The magic of the written word is a spark that comes before the writing, up stream, unknown, untamed, shear new. I would follow the path to the origin and bring back great treasures. I have been lost many times, but what else is there to do?
Carlo C Gomez Aug 2020
Broken flight

They went down somewhere
in the trees

The sky is sad
and full of remorse

But never Calliope

Broadway and 52

God knows
they got to you

She sings songs
of their misfortune

Decidely the muse and
mother of importune
Andrew Layman Aug 2020
In a sacred garden
where no one treads,
the wildness claims all;
overrun, overgrown
none can observe
nothing is known.

There is no friend here for you
once trust is betrayed
no paradise to be shown
the path is blocked
no way to return to home.

Yet, I---
here I remain, here I become,
for all seasons that come and go;
a living epithet of past Adam and Eve
I am the angel
who holds the withered branch
with a story none shall believe.
farhan Jul 2020
Sometimes I think,
Whether Satan is an impostor of God.
Johnson Oyeniran Jul 2020
Water remains a mysterious
Substance that forever will
Puzzle the mind of the wise
Since her debut, when
She was but a wild and
Chaotic nuisance upon
The formless face of
Earth.

Intertwined with life and woven
Into our routine, though you
Are without taste, thy fluid
Free from side effects, prolongs
Our days upon this rock that we
May keep praising the
Works of thy
Fingers.
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