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Cloudisse Nov 2024
Lingering pain

I yearn for comfort, and relief; help and refuge.
But to no avail.
My pain lingers, and it hurts -- discreetly. It is unbearable.
But with time, it passes. Not in a good way. Gone and dormant for now. But will torment you again, and make you sick. A virus.
In fact, now that i've mentioned it. It's gone again.
Cloudisse Nov 2024
Cut
Essentially depending on the hour, three to four or even six in the morning, I roll down my sleeves and allow my scars to breathe.

The scars on my arms that mark and resemble emotional pain. They themselves take deep breaths, just like I.

But. No other hour I allow them to, for they must be concealed and hid from the many monsters that roam and universally rend me in particular.

Though, it's nice to know I am not alone. I love my scars, even if I cut and deliberately open them on purpose. They are almost reminiscent of a friend you know is too good for you, too kind, too selfless and too patient.

Like a wonderful friend you adore, taking the form of a cut on your arm.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2024
seethe ~ bubble up as a result of being boiled,

<>
sunrise was 714 am in nyc
this perfect fall day,
chilled to perfection,
a white wine of a day,
so imbibe,
only later does it
heat up up and onwards
to the temp where the
walkers/joggers/runner recite
hallelujahs and hosannas while
moving at their own chosen pace,
in a state of warm southern comfort,
never a racing

lest
the poems
now seething, boiling-burning
bubbling up inside
into the atmosphere explode!

all of these
early warming~warning inspirations,
now~expressed,
realized flickers of
original ex-impressions,
cannot be contained in
an open field unsupported,
these
breech babies each,
in a pediatric ICU,
demanding an
instantaneous airy concoction
to Earth’s atmospheric
literary intoxication

they use:
up hard, a dice roll,
who lives
who wilts,
that docs cannot but
obey
the fetus’s insistence,
many instructions,
push pull breathe,
must the. be given forthwith
through to our
servile waiting
uterine fingertips,
for we human are just be
~ings,
nurturers of
verbal artifacts
that never die

in
an~always~at~the~ready,
in service to
the great conceptual,

poetic in/justice
what happens when I walk the streets
assaulted and assailed
by rapid fire poetic insights
exploring, exploding
inside
gift Oct 2024
she was artistic,
unconsciously making everything ravishing
she was poetic,
everything she did was aesthetic
—g.l
but he never really cared much for art
Traveler Sep 2024
These protagonists words describe
a worldview most people may not know. I do admit
I have a tendency of presenting new facts and serving them somewhat cold..
So even if for now you don’t believe, put it in the back of your mind and set it free..
Deep passion is quite luring
it gets the creative blood stirring.
Traveler 🧳 Tim
Norbert Tasev Aug 2024
I wonder what it will be like in the future, standing in the ring of what can be called polite handshakes believed to be respected, among the profane self-seeking attempts, groping glances, when everyone already thinks they can do whatever they want. While the inner soul sheds its rain-smelling crocodile tears and finally moves out of this earthly existence?!

After repeated compliments, the sole, insidious goal of which is the all-encompassing bed scene, the unconditional culmination of Everything. Even the golden and heroic ages - if they existed - are exalted only out of habit.

Among the raging daily grind and inhuman hunger wages, what will the miserable life of forty-year-olds, which they tried to scrape together for themselves, be like one day?! – What kind of cast will there be among the familiar faces?!

Again and again, everyone repeats the pathetic dog comedy around themselves for their own petty and hypocritical amusement. Self-important, boasting, and licking Alamus *****, he climbs the donkey ladder, jumping over the curses of successful and unsuccessful generations of donkeys.

And each of the babies stares at him, bewildered, in a barrage of brainwashed obsessions. Will the earthly metamorphosis of the vulnerable, human-smelling calvary and immortal lovers be recognisable? A cosmic comet-sphere beaming in the rose-scented holy glow of dawn, which got stuck halfway and then finally fell to earth?

Can we still find our way after so many self-inflicted, painful disappointments? In the manner of obsessed emotional frenzies, we even cling to the last straws, which we once approached with a humble heart!
Norbert Tasev Aug 2024
Because sooner or later, someone always returns to the houses. No one can yet know whether it is the betrayed husband, or the bohemian lover who holds a grudge, the diva lady who tries to hide her own girlish confusion by pretending to be a superficial, hysterical canary. So many questions and answers, to which we can rarely find proper, logical answers. -

The self-destruction that is so envied by many in the intoxication of LSD or ecstasy, in the usual ******-warfare, when the manipulation is no more than a transparent and definable chess game played by two competing parties, there are wild jerks who just like that fight with stone axes , and they fight, just like their hairy-backed ancestors did a million and one millennia ago.

The gravity of the Universe sooner or later pulls everyone along and pulls them down. Because everyone is locked in a lowly cage of minimums and pitiful deadlines, so that they can languish for a lifetime between the prison walls of careers. There will be no one to take a direct interest in the life of each person!

"Just tell me, my friend? Do you still have humanity left in your heart?!" - Lét manufactures and distributes hijacked, lousy end products, as if everyone can be recycled and replaced at the same time. Curses and actions that want to curse have become a daily headache because of indifference and lack he already measured us by the kilo, like straw puppet wrecks, and that's precisely why you can't look into the depths of crooked mirrors with impunity, because he is ashamed of himself whose grotesquely distorted reflection is wolf-eyed Apocryphal codes...
Danica Apr 2024
In whispers soft, apologies are spun,  
Like magic spells beneath the sun,  
Yet hollow echoes fill the air,  
For they can't heal the wounds laid bare.  

You say "sorry" without feeling deep,  
Unaware of the scars you reap,  
No effort made for reconciliation's start,  
Leaving shattered pieces of a broken heart.  

How can you act as if nothing's amiss,  
Sending messages with a careless kiss?  
Can't you see the effort I've bestowed,  
While you turn the blame, letting falsehoods grow?  

Your words, a dagger, twist and turn,  
Making me believe it's my fault to learn.  
But if your heart lies elsewhere, let it be known,  
So I can find my place, no longer alone.  

If it's her you seek, then set me free,  
From this tangled web of deceit, let me flee.  
For I deserve truth, not shadows cast,  
Release me now, let go at last.
Just let go at last.
SelinaSharday Mar 2024
Do with ya.
Make ya breakfast on time. Duh…
I see somethin diff about cha.
some don't know what to do with ya.
But you can see sumthin different when ya with me.
preparing ya lunch.. What you like I got a hunch..
every day when ya f'in with me.. be somethin diff.
Dinners going to be somethin to stick to ya bone.
Ya won't get the same thing er’day.
the young chicks don't know what ta do with ya..
with ya yeah yeah.
I'm like seasoning simmering and classic dinning.
but home grown fixing..ol schoolin know what I mean..
I'm jus saying I'ma eye pleasing cuddly smiling thang.
Dedicated behavior..
dressing thangs up and smoothing things round..
so cool so cool....
Bring yah specialty behavior...
So I can bring tha flavor...
tasty gravy.. committed chemistry, sweet rarity.
I could be best fa yah...
cuz some wouldn't know what ta do wit cha..

H.E.R_Poetry By SelinaShardaye
Being Her.
Shofi Ahmed Jan 2024
The moon hums in a new style
Ah, pretty little beauty spot, opens a slice of sky
On the door of tomorrow in the serene shadow of night
Keeping the ears down, alleyways of stars lie down.
The sea too rolls out high waves of rhymes
Only then will the veiled mystic night  
Opens once a kohl-dark, enigmatic eye
On the door of tomorrow deep down the night.
Wise one mentioned me a door. The least I could do picked up my pen.
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