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Zack Ripley Sep 22
Yesterday, my body hated me.
And I couldn't tell you why.
All I could do was breathe.
All I wanted to do was cry in pain.
Yesterday, I was scared.
But today, I'm OK.
Because yesterday is not today.
And somehow, just knowing that
makes all the difference.
Christopher Sep 22
don’t take a breath.
let it all fill within—
let it in all at once
contaminating it all,
condensing the stall,
converting the haul,
considering the call,

correlating to conclude.

float with each word.
feel the anxiety rush in,
flush a blush from its flash,
fulfill the ache on your face,
fill the space, shade its pace.

solve the case, aware of its place.

become what you’re asked.
let words invade your surface,
cling to condensed, coded conclusions,
it will be easier with each swallow;
it will be smoother if you allow
yourself to do other than wallow—

keeping safe inside its indigo halo.

transport your soul to the edge.
translate each disposition’s pledge,
telling tales of its trailing tributaries—
conspicuously converging conceptions,
fall ferociously fast forging fortifying forms
love lavishingly ravishingly like loaded lava
spreading unsparingly unapologetically
tantalizing tastefully, tormenting treacheries…

all for the pleasure of your imagination,
alternate to living in ignorance’ damnation.
sometimes we need help figuring it out.
Jasper Sep 22
Poetry should console one with the many tortures of existence. One should feel understood by a poem. A poem should say, "It's okay, so long as I'm here." Pain and death: The black ink and the white space of our letters, and the language: It is with this language that we write life, beauty, and joy. Love. Through poetry. Poetry shouldn't be to show off, or to make money, to get views, it shouldn't even be for itself. It should be for whoever the poem itself is for. For humanity. This doesn't mean all poetry has to be sad poetry. Happy poetry is okay as well. But there's something so utterly impermanent about a brief moment of happiness. The sweetest touch has never left a scar. But the sweetest pain - that
Is poetry.
Usha Sep 21
Years later, I returned
to that old library...
the one where you first appeared,
lost in your universe of books.

A cup of tea by your side,
half a dozen volumes spread open—
I wondered how one could
breathe so deeply in words.
And in that quiet moment,
my heart chose you
without a sound.

You felt my gaze too,
as if your soul, somewhere,
was calling back to mine.
That silent current carried us
through pages, through time—
until one day,
the sky collapsed around me:
the news of your cruel illness,
your battle against fleeting days.

Then I understood—
true love does not need
to be spoken aloud.
It survives in the hush
of unshed words,
in the longing of a soul
that destiny denies.

You left the city for healing,
and then... you left this world.
That day, my breath faltered too,
as if I no longer belonged to life.

Marriage? My heart refused.
You had become a habit,
an irreplaceable part of me.
I took to books as you did,
living through pages,
yet always, with one cup of tea,
I still wait for you.

They say another birth awaits us.
If it is true, my only prayer is this:
in the next life,
you will surely find me.

— Usha Maniar ☕❣️
"In a library of silence, love found me,
Fate took you away, yet you never left me.
With books and tea, I still keep the flame,
Hoping next life will bring you the same."

— Usha
Johnson Oyeniran Sep 2020
-A Psalm Of Johnson



Some people worship gods with multiplearms, others worship lifeless gods of wood and stone,

But as for me, I worship the true Triune God who rules all from his glorious throne!
Von Winters Sep 21
I enjoy people watching,
Seeing them go about their lives,
lives that are less mundane than mine.
No perversions or thoughts of sinful taint,
Just curiosity, to see a sight different than my own.

Maybe that curiosity is sinful,
A ******* in its own right.
A desire for something different than my own.
Usha Sep 21
None of my friends ever grow old...

They are laughter woven in silken threads,
Rays of sunshine that never fade.
Even when life’s storms arrive,
They stand unshaken, strong, alive.

No pride of wealth, no vanity’s claim,
Their hearts are pure, their love the same.
In every moment, hand in hand,
They paint joy across the land.

With colors in hair, sparkle in eyes,
Dancing spirits beneath the skies.
Every step, a song, a glow,
Every smile makes the world bestow.

O Lord, keep them blessed and near,
Grant them laughter, love, and cheer.
For friends like these are treasures rare,
Timeless souls beyond compare. 🌹
💌 Dedication

This poem is lovingly dedicated to all my dearest friends – you are my forever joy and strength.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 21
perhaps a subject already well covered. but I consult no one else,
who can expertly summon the artificial artifacts, no better yet,
art~iN~facts of prior expert~tease, and speak only and wholly
for myself, blatant, and openly undisguised

it is the spilling, the upward sensory explosive detonating,
in a pressured chest, the eagerness
to race, to complete,
find the next line, to define, to refine to get the balance tween
elegance and simplicity, to have the ******* sensory totality
of completely having spun off a piece of me and let it free float as a balloon, that may fly to China or get stuck on a telephone pole
just beyond my front door
                                      =============
^ I write this midst the composition of another poem, wherein
unusually I feel the need to pause, collect my thoughts which are bombarding my atoms internal, causing  a new fissionable element,
distinct and unique, my poem…next…
If you have not experienced this,
then why write?

Because you know,
it is inevitable
                                 that it will happen…
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