The words fall short
of their meaning
the one beyond the read

The lines weaken
and leave the reader
with a sense of boredom

The heartbeat
only in that cage
and fails to bleed
on pages

The papers
become satiated
with empty ink
lacking quality

The poet
loses him/her/them self/ves
in that limbo
between
head
and heart
running on a treadmill
trying to catch the fleeting muses

The poet dilutes
in reality
his/her/their greatest
fear
for that is
what they
try to escape
in every
poem

Pragya Bhagat's Poem:
this poem isn’t an answer
it’s a question
how do we become the stories we tell ourselves
how do we become the stories we tell
how do we become the stories
how do we become
how do we
how

My response:
Answer Can Be

Or rather the stories become us
Perhaps no becoming
Perhaps they just are
As they wait for expression
Hidden beyond sight

stars burn effortlessly
while poets scrabble
plucking words like agates
from the mind’s pebbled shore

they have in common
the pleasure of those who bask
in simple outputs
of mysterious affairs

all we have in common
are kindred thoughts
sifted from every scrap we’ve read
as we seek ideas to explain us

adopt them, call them our own, tell others;
we're ripe and designed to spread
through an inky vector
or letters, anyway  

if you do it well enough you get a piece of paper that says
you’re qualified
but one can partake au naturel
and still have a good time

this is my compliment to you:
i'll show you the worst of me
and you’ll feel perfect
in comparison

if i were a better friend, i’d practice
become a learned artist
to sing the best of you
barring that, i could cheat

you want to be a pebble,
i know the way
come down here
and i'll feed you something from my garden

it will probably make you sick
you'll use words like rustic or pastoral
when you mean shabby and feral
woozy from the earthiness of it all

you’ll be charmed into mistaking seduction
for enlightenment
a tragic folly
like warming oneself with spent nuclear fuel

but enough about my dissipation
let us laugh instead
a wink between old friends
that is nothing and everything

for this is my compliment to you:
remember you are devastating
even when an echo
is the only applause you hear

washing away the grimes of time

hot shower, no visible need,
yet, find myself, feeling covered,
by the grime of another wastrel day,
the excuses, the rationales of the
United States of Rationalization,
in a civil war, my reflection accepts
the ****** casualties, pieces of me,
could not deny, my-they-my-responsibility's

all cry out explain how and why,
we came into existence, and deferring,
told them, read my poetry

My essence written down on paper
Ever so eloquently described,
Feelings I can always read later,
Written there forever this time.

A constant reminder of the love you once felt,
I can always go back and feel it,
Rereading them continues to make my heart melt,
But my soul knows this isn't realistic.

Ever so deeply that you were in love
But now you cannot feel the same,
I felt it, I'm READING it, I'll take all the blame!
Please,
             Come back to me again

Love.
A force unyielding,
The strongest of all,
It lifts us high, never lets us fall,
Proudly it stands,
Yet, why do some people see it as a weakness?
Is it truly a strength, or a delicate veil?

I strongly believe love to be the most powerful,
The closest thing to magic.
A spell that binds us, unbreakable.
Yet, why do some people choose ambition over love?
When someone is ready to devote their all,
How do you deny the call?

"Long distance is hard"
NO. It is not,
Not for me,
Not for hearts which can truly beat as one,
Those who know the depths,
I will give up my soul to be with you,
To be near you, to hold you so close,
Just let me love you,
Let me love you.

I will stand by you through storm and calm,
I will be your warmth on the coldest nights,
I will be your epiphany in moments of doubt,
To show you love is never weak,
But the strongest of all,
Just let me be,
Let me be.