send my warm regards
to san francisco
tell them the art
they export is beautiful
ask them what it was like
on those sixties summer nights
oh how i wish
that i'd been there

scope out a spot for me
in tokyo
tell me where
the spots are i should go
will it remind me
of inherited memories?
then say hello
to my extended family

if you stop
in new orleans
tell them i've already been
there within my dreams
i've heard so much about them
on momma's old records
i'll be there to visit
when i travel the world

carry my words
wherever you go
my message in a bottle
will be my warm hello
i cannot be there
at least not today
so let these words suffice
to send the pain away
can't afford a real ticket, so poetry will have to do for now
Meera 12h
He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come
That's how true poetry comes into existence
Calling out dead poets
as sexists or rapists or users
is the opposite of woke enlightenment.
The poet’s job is not to censor
his experiences or his madness
for sanitized comforts.
The poet’s truth is his gift
of insight, a naked wisdom
of hard love and difficult choices.
Narrow fools so often absorb
this sweat and blood poured onto the page.
After their souls are satisfied,
that’s when the fools unsheath
the long sword of ignorance
and thrust the blade square
in the poet’s back.
Read more. PittsburghPoet.com
Boy, if only you knew, the perfection within you... and your chestnut brown eyes.

As the light hits, your now golden eyes, once deep and doomed, now brightens the room. Takes over the world, and all that's within. All that's left to do is wish. Wish to catch your intelligent glance, that chestnut bliss.

Of all the eyes, green, hazel, and blue, yours wins by far, the perfect chaos, as though in safe arms.

Your deep, thoughtful gaze, could stop time. Your dark, warm look, keeps one thinking for days.

Not enough credit, your eyes are given, the perfection trumped by none.

If only you knew, my words to be true, your warm chestnut gaze.

As the light hits your eyes, the dark, shimmering glow, I think it is important for you to know, the effect of your perfect brown eyes...
Jay 1d
The universe
and all its stars
are nothing
compared to the joy
you bring me

I wish I could make you understand
I wish I could make you see,
how happy you make me
and
I wish I could make you happy as well
I know I can't
But please let me try
-I love you, so smile
Jay 1d
A petal for every word of hate,
for every mark of pain,
for every drop of blood you shed,
and for every broken promise
because you deserve all the happiness in the world
and you should have
grown up so loved
and so protected
DCgirl 2d
A haiku is
Just a fancy way of
Giving zero shits
Read the poem and then the title
Within the common (all purpose room)
     at highland manor apartments aye
daily encounter, one bewitchingly dreaded
     fiendishly horrible, jeeringly loopy,

     nap noopy, pugnaciously ravenous, talon
     viciously wizened, xenophobic yeti, zapping
     zeroing zillion zippers,
     zoned Zuckerman alley bye

barred doors fate helplessly jury-rigged
     sealed with with plaintive cry
no escape known to this man caught
     in a deadly voodoo clutch,

     thus doomed to die
ugly cannibalistic, frightful,
     heathen rumors myopic eyes espy
alarmed at feeling trapped

     akin to a wingless fly
tapping reserves of scape goat
     coping techniques ingenuity,
     which earned me moniker "fall guy"

where accursed cruel destined exit
     from getting husked, issued
     jagged lance like mandibles "hi
there unknown weekly reader", I

pray for super leftist
     write hand man/woman to extricate
     (via whipping up literary poetic fabrication),
     then joining me to sing jai

(let victory prevail against killer odds)
     perhaps summoning division
     of British shiver rights phalanx,
     hood reply with Hackneyed "oh kai"

springing surprise rescue,
     sans swooping inside
     this hermetically faux prison,
     where Matthew Scott Harris doth lie,

yet realistic to accept my
demise without putting up
     a good fight well nigh
but... if luck finds

     thee plucking this bard
     (out maws of death) be treated to custom
     ye will be rewarded with pie
ala mode enjoying a Quai
yet moment...yeah...fading hope...sigh!
Constantly hidden by an altered mind.

Medicated to numb this monster I try so hard to hide.

Isolate myself before you have a chance to see

who I really am on the inside.
I should have known to never trust a poet,
cause they know what makes the human heart tick best.
I should have known to never kiss a poet,
cause they leave the sweetest aftertaste.
I should have known to never save a poet,
cause they all rather bleed and brawl.
I should have resist myself becoming a poet,
cause we can never do the math.
I should have...
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