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muizz 3d
I wish I am the chosen one,
the one that is so essential,
can I be better in the future?
I can’t even answer that.

Like a mirrorball suspended in a dimly lit room,
I will only say, “yes!”,
“you can have that” “you can do that”,
I would never say no,
I don’t dare to,
fret that I’ll hurt their feelings,
but did they think the same way?
this time, the answer is yes.

Sometimes, I wish I knew everything,
the scent of uncertainty lingering in the air,
sometimes, I wish I knew nothing,
the taste of regret like bitter coffee on my tongue,
either way, I’m a mirrorball
the one that’s just there,
the gentle hum of unnoticed existence,
no one even notices it,
until they need it.

Like a mirrorball, when it’s break
it’s shattered into a million pieces,
the sound of splintering glass echoing in the silence,
but that’s what makes it shine,
the dazzling light refracting through the shards,
that’s what gives it attention.
life of a people-pleaser
Emery Feine Oct 5
You're like a vampire, and you drained me to the core
And when you **** my blood, I don't give up a fight
But I see how happy you look when I'm dying
And that's why I continue to come out at night
this is my 117th poem, written on 8/8/24
Malvika Jul 9
the scent that lingers
after my lips blow the flame of a candle is my favorite
I’ve always held on to the end of the moment a little too long.
savored the last bite ‘til it was cloyingly sweet
I have never learned
how to let go,
even after the smoke clears.
Jonathan Black Jan 2021
On tabletops and in bathroom stalls, his audience he does
astound
A dazzling show for one and all, his talents know no
bound.

They call him Pierrot
He himself he does not know.

Toss him your rotted fruit; he graciously will
eat
Sickness but paltry price; to grovel at your
feet.

They call him Pierrot
He himself wish it were not so.


For your gold and silver, earnestly not he
plead
To bathe solely in your veneration, gladly he’d
bleed.

They call him Pierrot
He himself pulled undertow.


A shield of alabaster betrays a scarlet
face
A gleaming retort to innermost dis-
grace.

They call him Pierrot
He himself no arrow nor bow.

His grossest corruption, that which he does
imbibe
For one more day, to lucifer, he offers a
bribe.

They call him Pierrot
He himself fodder for the crow.

In the Abby his copper chalice he does
fill
Desperate panhandler imploring of you good
will.

They call him Pierrot
He himself unrisen dough.


Oh to drink and guzzle your sympathy, such
chance
For taste of your tepid affection, evermore he’ll
dance.

They call him Pierrot
He himself a blemish in snow.


But when the poison seeps from his
head
And those of conscience sleep soundly in
bed
He will look upon the mirror with bated
breath
And to the man he recognises not wish for
death

The call him Pierrot
He himself pleads you: ‘Don’t go’.

— The End —