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eliana 2d
Why do i write?
To help me through the sleepless nights?
What do i gain?
A way to verbally share the pain.
How does it help?
Gives me a way to express myself.
Poetry gives me a way to share my many thoughts
and the many battles that I've fought.
Why do I write?
Just because it feels so right.
Ankush 2d
I used to care for little things.
I used to stare at her — for anything.

Her presence — a quiet warmth.
Her beauty, engraved with moral sense.

I searched for her,
Desiring… something.
Like loving summer,
Even when it wasn’t the season.

Why can’t I feel now?
Why can’t I see now?

I lied.
Not to her —
To myself.
Camouflage.
Pretending.
Hiding the real me
Behind polite smiles
And the fantasy
Of her fragrance.

The wind passed.
She didn’t.
And I —
I only needed to breathe
That one moment.
That moment to live,
Not merely pass through.

Why can’t I lie now?
Why can’t I breathe now?

I used to do anything for her.
I used to feel too much.
Sad.
Emotional.
Mad.
Human.

I used to dream of you.
And in dreaming,
I forgot
Which part was real.

Why can’t I be mad now?
Why can’t I be sad now?
Why can’t I dream now?
Why can’t I feel now?

Then — that night.

She stood
On the bow of the boat,
Hair caught in wind,
Hands folded,
Lips soft with mist,
Moonlight whispering on her skin.

The sea slashed the port.
The wind howled through silence.
The stars stood still.

She stepped forward.
Closer,
Closer,
And closer —

Until her breath became words:
“A good dreamer you are,
Beloved.”
But complete version .
(g0D.exe) whispers//in.wifi:hearts
r e b o o t
mylovE—
in [capslocked] binary sighs
(you.are offline?)
Arduino  Copy   Edit
🦠click//me.tender:  
i’ve scrolled your breath  
thru glassthumbs & glitchkiss  
while capitalism moaned  
(somewhere in the metaverse)  
[so.what.is.a.soul if not]
a .zip file of longing &
3am texts unsent?
deletethemoon—sheneverreplied
butyou—butYOU—
(breach me)
with your old eyes
like dial-up prayers
in a 5G chapel god
is typing...

:: 07.28.2025 ::
Now there are still different Columbuses, because the motto is not always: "Keep it quiet for the West!" - not everything is on the other side of the Pacific Ocean, but it is still enough for a more livable life, about twenty or thirty light years away. Because the deepening labyrinth-pits that we can dig ourselves, rent, have become more and more common; on the waves of stock market prices, the killer predatory leech-fish, the sharks are increasingly winning, even if they have to play Russian roulette with themselves, in this way they gamble a little.

And it is increasingly the case that it is no longer the noon bell that precisely signals the end of a given job - but the summit meetings that last up to thirty-six hours, meaningless business conferences, where foreign creditors must be honeyed and glazed, to convince them with ***-licking, why they should invest their money in us. Instead of flesh-and-blood people, they ask for a mechanized Pinocchio for a meeting.

And if we take it that way, even in the dating situation, it is increasingly embarrassing for the majority of divas who are plasticized as teenagers when some average little man keeps complimenting them and comes up with the laws of the Universe. Instead of Grimm's fairy tales, today's modern children stare at reality show news on their Tablets, because how could they have learned who the evil, ugly witch is and who the good house fairy is?! Thus deporting contemporary literary cultures.

- It is increasingly noticeable that vandals and Suleimans have become more ambitious and greedy, just like the deceitful demagogues who usurp each other's thrones at the carnival of the modern nuclear age. Banking truths are fierce its hooves are pounding on the necks of increasingly oppressed creditors.
~ A Nursery Rhyme ~

By night the lamplights bloom in blue,
and Squinty Bat comes lurking through.
A flicker, a whisper,
a crooked spin,
she twirls in the hush where dreams begin.

She nibbles moths that orbit the glow,
grim as the gossip graveyards know.
Around the lamp
she loops and slides,
a velvet ribbon on moonlit tides.

At morning sun - dreadful, bright! -
Miss Clara Parrot claims the light.
She squawks and scolds,
so green, so loud,
a herald of day to the mortal crowd.

She tattles from trees with her feathered choir,
spilling the secrets that night conspired.
Their laughter clatters
like shattered glass,
naming each sin the shadows let pass.

Neighbors groan and pull their sheets
as Clara reigns over waking streets.
While Squinty swings
in her secret nook,
dangling like crime in a dusty book.

By day, it’s Clara, gossip and glare,  
by night, it’s Squinty, a ghost in the air.  
And before you ask:
Which one is blessed?
the sun and the moon will refuse that test.
And a credit to Mr. Edward Gorey, an inspiration.
Sophia 3d
I read books again and again,
the characters comfort me
as we grow close over time
their actions predictable
their thoughts always positive
their attitude unbeatable

I read books again and again,
I'm not afraid to say
that I love these people
imprinted on the page,
My time is spent
choosing to continue our journey
a decision they can not make themselves

For my friends in these words
they do not know me or know of me
that I observe them
commenting on their world
which I myself will never get to live in,
Even so with them as my vessel
I do try my best
by reading my books again and again.
These days, I cannot stop writing
words fall like rain,
endless, wild, cleansing.

Writing is my hobby,
my healing,
my hallelujah.

Hooray for my wicked pen,
my faithful pad
together, they save me.

Thank you, poetry.
Thank you.
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