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RT Naintial Sep 20
I painted your greyest skies my warmest colours,
i planted flowers over your dead soil,
i sat in pit of misery as my experience shouldn't be bestowed upon you,
i pleaded as a solider to its king to stop the war,
to stop the war within you
and when the roles were reversed you left me out to stink in my agony, dreaded with misery
When questioned, you looked at me
It was the first i saw your soulless eyes,
and maybe i shouldn't had hesitated with your knife over my throat,
I should've melted over your knife and let blood drip your face,
If it drips would it be sinful? Or a scar?
maybe i should've let myself rot away as my soul would've been free,
if it weren't for me
would you have survived?
You, who held this misery once was too shaken to see if it weren't for me.
We are two worlds colliding and dying.
Tuhin Tilak Sep 20
Beneath the flickering of a streetlight’s glare,
Her shadow sways, a monster in the midnight air.
No words exchanged, just minutes of horrendous lust—
She buries dreams that the world discards as dust.

Her heels cling the cracked concrete, defying strength,
Each step feels like a mountain, too high to climb.
They find joy in loud moaning, homicide, and cigarette butts,
But none of them want to hear the anthem she actually sings.

In solitude, she dreams of a sky unbound,
Of fields where her soul can amble and run free—
A writer, an activist, a doctor,
A gleaming star that runs over rudimentary scars.

Yet again the night arrives, the golden cage of her life,
Each stranger denudes, defying her inner scream.
She looks at the mirror, at the dark—
A ray of hope screaming to the walls: “I am more than this body, a glaring star!”
Whispers of the vulnerable prostitutes forced into s*x work ......
Arpitha Sep 20
Handicapped by my brain
art and poetry are my crutches.
How long will they last?
Are they helping me stand?
or just digging a hole
for me to sink deeper?
Norbert Tasev Sep 20
The irresolvable contradiction, in whose subconscious formula this current absurd-impossible World is immersed, first it turns into non-existence, then it organically emerges into the stagnant Nothingness. The ostrich-faithful gangs of yampecs, like the circus associations of the self-deceivers, seem to even play together a little in the manner of accomplices in the intercontinental businesses of gamblers - because a restless, wandering Soul has long since become a cat and has been tempting the son of man, because there is no partiality, no special difference in a prolonged, incessant Sisyphusian fall. It feels the numbing cracks of the rotting decompositions, while those who remain on the surface are constantly eviscerating the last pennies and silver coins from the pockets of the simpler, working average; Even pitifully degrading bureaucratic wisdom cannot be quite adequate these days: dignity and existence exclude each other just as feudal lords exclude a compromising servant.

Free-thinking is not at all chic these days, they are quite calmly content with merely the illusion of truth as long as possible. Now imported idolatry is becoming more and more popular again, but very much so. Because in the guaranteed transitional age, no one and nothing can be themselves, or the same as they were as long as the laws of humanism were observed, the message of conscious blind indifference seems to have been deliberately transplanted into another blind world.

Like startled fish embryos, apocryphal passwords glide, wrinkles write the warning message on the secret prison walls of faces: "Pay attention, and rather hide in hiding!" - Every circle must organically close at some point. The wasted seasons are no longer waiting for a silver star ready to wander. It's time to ventilate the soul-crushing stuffiness that is welling up in man!
Before the world called us black,
We were bronze, shining in royal grace.  
We were complete, nothing we lack.  
Fly with me now, through poetic space,  
To a land where legends never die,  
Where every stone tells a tale,  
And bronze plaques are tongues of ancestors,  
Still speaking, still loud, still real.  
We built walls without cement, but with resolve,
No empire walked through without bowing first.
We lived in a Utopia, before they came,  
Thieves of time, looters of sacred flame.  
Not all white‑looking birds are eagles,
Ask the ones who plundered our treasures.  
But the bronze whispered till the world listened.  
We, the children of the soil, rise again.  
Not just children of history, we are history itself.  
So when you speak of kingdoms…
Whisper Benin with respect.
"Odes to the Great Benin People" is a poetic tribute to the rich heritage, resilience, and glory of the Edo people — both past and present. It honors the ancient Benin Kingdom, whose legacy still echoes through its art, architecture, and ancestry. Each line carries the voice of bronze, stone, and soil — mediums through which our ancestors continue to speak.

This ode is not just for those who once ruled with wisdom and walked with spirits, but also for we, their descendants, who carry their pride, pain, and power in our veins. It reminds the world that Benin was never defined by colonial shadows but by its own brilliance long before foreign footprints.

The poem calls for remembrance, respect, and the revival of cultural pride — because we are not just children of history, we are history itself.
Masi Roberto Sep 19
Scrivo perché l’anima  
non conosce silenzi,  
perché l’amore e il dolore  
diventano parole.  

I write because the soul  
cannot remain silent,  
because love and pain  
become words.  

Ogni verso è un cammino,  
ogni parola un respiro  
che cerca di incontrare  
cuori e occhi lontani.  

Each verse is a journey,  
each word a breath  
seeking to meet  
hearts and distant eyes.  

Se queste poesie parlano a te,  
sappi che il mio viaggio  
vive anche in libri  
che custodiscono le stesse voci.  

If these poems speak to you,  
know that my path  
also lives in books  
that guard the same voices.  

📖 Amazon – Roberto Masi  

*Masi Roberto © 2025
Vazago d Vile Sep 19
I did not bow my head,
nor was I dragged into this place.
I walked here in fire,
a child of the star that fell
and still refused to break.

Chains were offered,
sweet as comfort,
bitter as sleep —
I shattered them all.

I stand,
not because fate commanded it,
not because fear cornered me,
but because my will is mine.

If I stay,
it is love that roots me.
If I leave,
it is freedom that carries me.

I am not accident,
I am flame chosen.
Not servant,
but spark unhidden.

And if you would see me,
see this:
I remain,
not trapped,
not fooled,
but sovereign —
on my free will.
This piece is written in the voice of defiance and devotion. It is Luziferian at its core: a declaration that love only matters when it’s chosen, that fire is sacred when it’s carried by free will. Gnostic in tone, it rejects blind fate and embraces the divine spark within.

For me, it’s both personal and universal — born from the tension of love and freedom, of staying not out of chains but out of choice. It speaks to anyone who has stood in the storm and said: I burn because I choose to burn.
Norbert Tasev Sep 19
Every spiritual wound is filled with little dawning cracks. It seems that actions and consequences no longer have a beginning or an end; how and how can they be connected to the Respite Times?! As if the questions you have decided or just wanted to ask could simply be thrown into a gaping abyss with a final will. A drowning need would drive one person after another to seek not only the light-blooded joys of being, but also the lawful security of the Soul, because even newborn words cannot be licked up by the mother tongue. The ebb and flow of the tides regularly leave their footprints here in the solidified whirlpools of Existence, intended as testimony.

More and more people would ask inquiringly:
"How is it possible that a person is homeless even in his beating heart, when he has a Beloved who cherishes him like an angel and comforts him?!" - There is no answer, or perhaps there was none. The cross-section of the faces has always been scratched by the retained pearls.

As if everything grows back behind those who have crossed the green border without return. Man gets further and further from himself, yet inside he goes deeper and deeper, to find what he has always been looking for in the Odyssey of knowledge; for he is both a prisoner and a sucker, who has let himself be consciously exploited, in every case it is necessary to defy misunderstandings, the cowardly feeling capitulates. A stifled reproach - that is not much - and the whole World is ready to sweep the many sins, offenses, and filth under the rug.
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