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leeaaun 18h
He claimed we were perfect rhymes, you see,
But he forgot, even in rhymes, there are categories.
In the sonnet of love, our lines entwined,
Yet labeled different, destinies maligned.

In the ballad of us, a melancholy refrain,
He missed the nuances, the subtlest pain.
Perfect rhymes, he said, a symphony sweet,
Yet our verses diverged, in sorrow's heartbeat.

As if in a villanelle, repeating our theme,
But the echoes of love weren't as they seemed.
Labeled apart, in the poetry of fate,
A somber truth, our love couldn't abate.

In the rhyme scheme of life, a dissonant chord,
Our love, once harmonious, now ignored.
He said we were perfect, a poetic crime,
Yet in reality, we were running out of rhyme.
What a time capsules mission was,
was ours as well, as our lives,
measured going in,
mind state measured going out, measured coming back,
once we opened your will to wonder what we say the mission is, was it…
measured growing old, mentally augmented since the laying on of hands.

Some body believed, they burned all the crutches and wheel chairs,
we all heard the stories of those strangers healed and walked away,

by and by, we grow a knowing kind of religious net, we import miracles,
we make words come to self fulfilling prophetical perfect sense, until,

the incompetence of a particular kind of literalist, literature as real lessons,
learned on levels deeper than the silver screen can command,
as one reads Psalm 15 and the parable of the talents with the same angel.
hide, and watch, words,
live in tiny bubbles, times and seasons take scale,
powers of ten,
and then again a billion times a second
in four billion breaths in
and four billion breaths out, all in cadence, mortal coil chorus of average.

We the people, current idiom,
we the earthling sapient word and number users;

Brainstorms tickle our will to undermine liars, calling life impossible
to enjoy as much as many nobodies do.
Or did before my grave was opened.
An empty bottle, a sense of sublime timing tapping sources below my pre heart attack series of flat lines, I heard about, later, and sort of remember, most mornings, it is a good jump start on doing something enjoyable as breathing.
Vallery Oct 22
i wish i could die,
and no, i promise i wont try...
at least not for now, not tonight...

but sometimes
i wish i could just die,
or fall asleep and never open my eyes...

buried in my head, deep in my minds eye
is the hope that barely keeps me alive...
but oh, how i still wish i could die...

just dont fret, no, please dont cry,
trust me when i say "i promise I won't die,"
i promise ill be fine, at least just for tonight...

but still, i wish that i could die,
but i promise i wont try
at least not now, at least not tonight...

at least tonight
I'll try to stay alive...
ChinHooi Ng Oct 21
The bracing raindrops
onto the wooden trellis
then hitting the stone table
i happened to have just woke up
when dusk is brewing quietly
outside the windowpanes
vestigial sleepiness dissipating
just as gradually
the fluorescent light that's turned on
stings my sense of taste for a second
and i hear the sounds of a busy kitchen
the summer heat is gone for now
i kept myself occupied all afternoon
checking and reading on my phone
if time could stand still
I'd actually like it to stay
like this
people are in a smooth
peaceful mood
it seems
like they were years ago
it also seems perhaps
it will happen again
like years from now.
irinia Jul 23
Dear HP community, my friends, I've been thinking about this for a while and now is the time to act and propose you a challenge :)
I would love to hear from you about this: what does it meen to you to be human? It might not be an easy question but let's give it a try.
In the face of virtual worlds, AI, in the dazzling speed of our world, in the face of our severing ourselves from nature, I find the topic relevant. I hope you do too.
Please feel free to address the challenge any way you like, with depth or shallowness, with fun, humour or depth of thought, with your felt sense or otherwise. As you wish, in comments bellow or maybe in a piece of writing. I hope to hear from you and I won't be offended if I don't. Maybe we can write a collective poem, who knows?
yāsha Jun 20
i crave for loneliness to brush my hair,
mother me tenderly to sleep
as you did when i had carvings
on my left wrist at twelve years old
—a braille i fondled with every day,
                   i. don't want. to be. here.

somehow, my nightly hiccups
never drove me to my end.
i am still gentle because
you follow me wherever i go;
visiting me at the right moments
especially when i am accompanied
by my own ***** and the cold bathroom floor—
          and then you stay quiet the whole hour
          to give me some time to grieve.

i wear you like a protective charm now,
for you are the only love i've ever known.
yāsha Jun 19
i think i exist only to love
but never experience,
a pretentious bag of bones like me
will only stir your feelings
     —you will wallow in it for some time
     and then you will forget about me
like a cup of coffee that has gone cold.

but if i must admit,
it's because i do stunt my own growth:
in life, in love, but strangely enough,
                                           not in death.
an odd number of reasons
aid my tendencies;
they get glued together to form
a paper-maché of well-composed farewells
—a craft i have mastered in my years of longing.

i think i exist only to love,
but never experience—
yet here i am, still longing
until i get a hand to hold.
Kelsey Jan 3
My mind was made of moonlight and fresh strawberries
Of a sunset kissing the perfect G chord
The interweavings of dreams and earth
A push and pull kind of mentality
Suspended in air
Until the last breath falls
My words are glass,
Sleek and breakable but
Strong against the wind
I dont forget a face
Or a mental illness
My songs are a life of their own
My stories, a world incongruous with reality
I've been sewn together with slivers of ocean foam
I've been given eyes of the first winter breeze
I am incomplete
I hold the world in a box buried in my chest
Beating away
Steve Page Oct 2022
I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
Can I stop you for a moment
cos I think you need to hear this

I can work with a little discord
I can dance with juxtaposition 
I'm even sometimes partial to
suggestion by omission 

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
I've got a mouthful of metaphor
and little time to chew it

I get giggly with similes 
and silly with alliteration 
I'm warning you now
I'm devoted to proper diction

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
So give me some extra space
cos I think I'm going to lose it

I'm in love with eloquence
and I fawn for fluency 
I can't get near enough
of off-beat rhymic lunacy 

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
But I use it for the good
and avoid the call for nasty

I'm tired of hearing hate
bred from agressive bitterness
I'm looking to collaborate
with writers with forgiveness 

I've got a licence to be poetic
and I'm not afraid to use it
So let's sit down to talk
cos I think you need to hear this
To mark national poetry day here in the UK
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