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Piyush 22h
The sun rises over a lily's field,
Early morning always brings the peace.
"Want some coffee? Add some milk,"
He wants to write—needs paper and a strong will.

The beauty of the world he knows,
Her beauty he recognises.
Yet he hides the beauty,
And always defines the pain.

"The world is hell," he says,
And somehow, he's always right.
He sees the bills,
He sees the depressed minds.

Wants some money, but
He's just a poet of the night.
How much further will he write?
How much more should he sacrifice?

Slow rain falling from her eyes,
The poet is dead inside.
He needs some rest now—
He needs a goodbye.
rk 1d
loving you
turned me into a poet
both the artist and the muse
all at once
knowing i'd sing for you
just as quickly as i'd bleed
to make your world
more beautiful

even now
i'd describe the sea
a thousand ways
just to capture
your shade of blue.
Still a teenage girl
With a frozen watch
preparing for life's exams
By the balcony in that old house

I see him coming
Smiling at me
Two eyes admire me
Two hands carrying the key of my dreams

"Yes sir" Could be heard 
From your own children
You could have been their lucky charm,
But you chose to be the curse of their seven lives
Scaping from you and fall In a deep pit,
Became their lovely habit

You could be the light on their path
But became fire that burns their days
And they look at you as a wise man,
Without knowing his children's real favors
They married and believed
No man will be an angry man status
A symbol of hellhole like their father
But they were young
No one can be the dad
Even in being the worst !

All things past and now I am here
In front of you with all I was told
You were like an old tree for me
I could lay down beneath it
Swinging from its branches
Eating its fruits , finding the truths

You were different with me
I was on the life's stage
Doing right and wrong
Trying my best

And one person stood up
Clapping , shouting "go girl"

Others are my family,
But you were my everything
The crown on my head,
The Breeze of spring,
Sun of winter,
Rain of fall,
Cold water in summer
The moment of knowing one person between all strangers

We ate lunch at that table
Not knowing that was the last meal
The water turned to wine
But you never came

I watched you on bed
your hands held
By the very people you once reject
Saying sorry to them
You thought that was too late

I was not there that night
To Hear your last breath
To Feel your last sentence
And all at once
You were flying through the skies

I have a father
But I lost my pa
Nothing will be the same,
Your sprit leads my way
And my love for you grows more and more everyday

By Yasmin.Sh🌻
(To my dear Grandpa)
a cursed cycle
the ancestral rite of passage
the last to see the sun
the first to see the fault

and ultimately suffer because of

it's a burden i've put onto my friends
the ones who show me what it would've been like
the opposite of a lonely child

the ones that undo the deafening silence of a pause screen
the ones who let me take a turn without raising their voice

they're the ones who remember what i say
and who i am
can you tell i'm a little mad
She were there
The closest—
But somehow the farthest.

Seeing Kafka in my mirror,
Sympathy clewed in the same desire.
He was lost to his father,
I am lost in not being my mother.

I try not to die between
Two walls closing in—
Those brows lined in anger
Chock me like a hanger
Crushing me,
But again, I ended up
Falling from her eyes.

Arrows from her mouth
Go straight to my heart.
Where are the shields?
I know She’s not my enemy.

Reading emotions in her eyes—
An easy job, a lovely hob_
Sitting on the hand
That tries to be kind,
Waiting for her
To be, proud.

Ashamed of who I am,
Proud of what I have
She hates who I am—
But I love all she is, and all she has.

I bite my nails
Searching for an end.
This waiting is long—
My watch is broken.

She hates my nails.
Should I cut my fingers
If it makes her happy?
But my nails—
They're the only things
That let me feel my pain.

Mom, I wait for you
To feel my mind,
To see my thoughts,
To sit by my side.

By Yasmin.Sh🌻
To my Mom
Ma plume pleure les agonies et les souffrances
De mon peuple qui se noie dans la misère.
Mon stylo stylise les lentes cadences
D’un mendiant qui s’égare au sein de la galère.

Ma voix dénonce la vaine guerre et l’injustice
Qui punissent les plus impotents de la vallée.
Un petit groupe se voit maigrement récompenser,
Quelle honte pour un monde infesté de vices!

Mon pinceau démasque l’inégalité et le déséquilibre
Qui bottinent tout un univers soi-disant libre.
Mes 'rayons laser' brûlent l’iris des aveugles
Qui voient très clair le mini-tableau de mon peuple.

Je suis le gendre du poète lâchement exécuté
Et le petit-fils du plus pauvre empereur assassiné.
J’abhorre la vanité et la mièvrerie de l’homme
Qui se croit supérieur à l’hérisson et à la pomme.

Ma plume pleure pour mon peuple
Qui boit l’absinthe comme un aveugle.
Ma voix emportée, par le vent de la liberté
Est pareille aux soupirs perçants des enfants affamés.

Copyright© 18 Mai 2010, Hebert Logerie, Tous Droits Réservés
Hébert Logerie est l’auteur de quatre recueils de poèmes.
Norbert Tasev May 17
It is becoming more and more necessary to descend into myself at every age; on the edge of the expandable Time and perhaps beyond. The tangled coils of my brain often form a Gordian knot, a lasso is tied by the consciousness of what else I need to ruin in order to develop, to learn, or just to learn from my petty, childish mistakes. From the neighbor, I hear a swarm of bee-like shouting, a childish scolding.

Two twin boys are madly in love again, wondering who can try out the newest Playstation?! In my selfish cave system, the film reels of my memories are still rolling unnoticed, addressing me; from the corners of long, winding rivers, a familiar face or two may still look back. Nothing can be a sufficiently black-and-white, silent episode in a person's life. My sickly foot stumbles halfway between spinning mosaic tiles.

I would recognize the echoing sound of my footsteps anywhere, only my Beloved is missing on one of my inner paths. Out there, in an unlivable desire to survive, they are at each other's throats, like wolves and hyenas who betray themselves at any moment, just so that they alone can be right; in my hamster-like cheek pouch, I have chewed a few Haribo gummies or a Neapolitan stringy snack, so that I never forget that I was once a child and curiously simple-minded.

Wild beasts and beasts are now raging in humanoid bodies at the same time, and one turns one's head in question: Will there never be a peaceful feeling of well-being, harmony, or development here?! Media-celebrity monkeys who are unable to articulate dictate fashion trends, while nameless-minute-humans receive millions in salaries from someone somewhere! We are increasingly unable to organize our evicted, mischievous lifestyle in a frugal manner!
Yasmin Sh May 16
That long street
With traffic of trees
Whisper my name
Greens my brain

Red Geraniums
Behind my windows
Bring blood to my veins_
Makes me out of jail

water flows in the streams
Running through my soul
Lucid my dreams
Lifts the weight I hold

People still living
Remind me of leaving
Where can I go ?
When the birds Singing
A family is like a circle
Staying with them is The Miracle

By Yasmin.sh🌻
( A family is like a miracle is a poem by O'Neil )
Aarya May 15
What happened?
When did I become my enemy?
When did I plan this betrayal?
That's aching inside me.

I didn't know it was this easy
to destroy yourself
I didn't think it was possible
I could turn the love to hate
within yourself

I never thought
I would betray myself one day
I would look down on myself one day
And I specifically didn't know
I would not be able to carry the weight of this hurt one day

Now?? What now?
Am I supposed to hate myself
The way I hate
The others who betrayed me?

Am I supposed to forgive??
But then, wouldn't it be unfair??
to those who were never
Forgiven by me
When their betrayals were
not even close to what I did to myself??
what now???
She only smokes when she’s spiraling or performing.
Usually both.
Says she loves a dramatic flourish—
exhales like a closing line,
laughs like a scratched record.

You’ll meet her at a party that’s already ending.
She'll kiss you like she’s trying to delete her own mouth,
like you’re just the eraser.
She'll leave before sunrise
because she hates how the light arrives slowly,
and can’t stand watching the world wake up
and not call her back.

If you ask what she’s looking for,
she’ll point at the exit sign and say,
“Something with the same glow.”
You’ll think she’s flirting,
but she’s actually just listening hard
for the next excuse to leave.

If you ask for her number,
she’ll give you a poem,
one with no punctuation
and a key taped to the back.
Not to her place.
To your undoing.

She tells stories like she’s double-daring
the past to contradict her.
Someone once told her
she seems like the kind of girl
who disappears mid-sentence.
She said,
“Only when the sentence forgets I started it.”

She collects promises like matchbooks:
already scorched,
still reeking of places
that almost got her to stay.

At dinner parties,
she compliments your cutlery
then slices the conversation open.
Asks what you hate most about your mother
before the bread hits the table.

You’ll want to know her real name.
She’ll say something like,
“It’s carved into a tree somewhere,”
before you realize
you’ve already said it in your sleep.

And when you find the poem she gave you
weeks later,
crumpled in your coat pocket,
you’ll swear you hear her laugh
when you read the last line out loud:
“Don’t follow. I haunt better when I’m alone.”

She’s the reason
someone, somewhere,
is learning the difference
between being worshipped
and being watched.

And when she finally leaves—
because she always does—
you’ll swear you still smell
ozone, orange blossom,
and the beginning of a very pretty ruin.

She leaves you rearranged—
not broken,
just fluent in a dead dialect
that only speaks in warning signs.

You’ll start writing things
you don’t remember feeling
and calling it healing.
But it’s just possession.
The poem wasn’t for you.
It was the door.

She doesn’t burn bridges.
She just convinces them to jump.

She never really leaves.
She just sets the room on fire
and watches who runs toward the smoke.

(And if she ever comes back—
and she will—
don’t blink.
She’s made of edits,
and she notices cuts.)
She gave him a poem instead of her number.
It didn’t end well.
Or maybe it ended exactly how she planned.
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