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Daivik 3d
ये सब छोरो ,ये सब तो चलता रहेगा
वो लड़ाते रहेंगे, हम लड़ते रहेंगे
ये सत्ता की नदी हैं
इसका न शुरवात हैं न अंत
बस डूब मत जाना।
Catch a calling pigeon,
Tell him what you really think.
Express your deepest statements
To the rim of your last drink.
'Cause society will tell you
That your voice is not worth hearing,
As they cast their vicious judgments,
With their pompous faces leering.

Release your thoughts into the silent night,
Or share them on a small poetry site.
Intellectual conformity is promised:
We learned to lie without being dishonest.
How does one share an opinion that isn't held by either the majority or the loud minority?
Lise Nastja May 5
“Who’s the lucky guy?” someone asks
“Their name’s Bea,” I reply
“I support that,” they hesitate
“You are so brave.” they add

I never saw their lips as a political statement
Nor did I think holding hands in the front seat
while a friend is puking by the side of the road
Was some kind of revolution

How romantic is it
That our story will be etched
Not in some Neruda poetry book
But a professor’s first textbook
Or a college student’s 2 am essay

When I said I was in love
You thought it meant I was hungry
Not for touch or for pleasure
But for justice and freedom
I didn’t know that
When I run my fingers down her neck
It would be tied to a long Twitter thread

I never saw my love as a battleground
A metaphysical exploration of sexuality
What’s Marxist about the way their eyes
disappear when they smile?
What’s so intersectional about
Our entanglement at the back seat
Or our hands holding in front

I never thought I would be so brave
At my most fragile state
So political
In my most dumbstruck ways
So woke
When I’m asleep in her embrace
What it feels like to be in a queer relationship. Your whole relationship becomes a political discussion. And while I love a discussion, sometimes I just want to love.
labyrinth May 3
Getting to choose whom to be ****** by
Is called democracy instead of lullaby
For as long as I can remember,
the women of my family have lived
in hunger like hulking tigers in a cramped cage.
Love is quickly used up, its quality fading
from golden light into grainy shadows
flicked haphazardly across God’s great canvas.
After Love departs, nothing remains but
the splinters where we have torn away limbs
and dug holes in search of that light again,
the flecks of gold streaked through our hair,
the ones that know better than revisit our homes.
When we give up, we sit in our drab backyards
to watch the sun sink over a police state
masquerading as the ultimate state of grace.
We tuck our freedoms into bed, kiss our sacred rights
goodnight in case we never get the chance
to lead by the hand into the light of day,
and sneak back down to the kitchen for one last snack,
maybe two. Maybe more, maybe our mouths
wait in secret to transform into one bottomless pit
as we reach with every breath we take for something
we have always known and long since learned
we’ll never be able to grasp in our earthly fingers.
Thank you for reading. If you liked this poem, you'll probably like these:
https://briannarduffin.medium.com/the-back-of-my-hand-f1922dde51f9
Power is pleasure
but pleasure can always end up toxic.
State blames the power,
the power is a slave to the money,
money running this nation,
Man-made paper running Man.
too much politics, weak politics
Daivik Apr 29
You are truly blind
When you refuse to believe your eyes
Too young to have an opinion
Yet not too young to know the truth
Too young to know their orientation
Yet not too young to know its not a phase
Too young to experience racism
Yet not too young to have slurs tossed at your face like casual talk

Too young to understand global warming
Yet not too young to negatively affected by pollution
Too young to understand politics
Yet not too young experience the effects of an incompetent president
Too young to dress like that
Yet not too young to be sent home because the boys are distracted by your shoulders

Too young to experience real pain
Yet not too young to be six feet under because of it
This poem was written by someone who knows what it feels like to be "too young"
You're never too young to make a difference
A change in this unvarying world might be just what it needs
This is the second poem I've ever written, so let me know if you like it.
Just because your team ***** this year,
Doesn’t mean you’ll shift your support,
You’ll defend them as you would yourself,
As though your life depends on the opinion.

It's like the turning of a faucet
If you stay in the hot too long you'll boil your hand
If you stay in the cold you'll freeze
Are you going to move before you get punished
Or are you going to stick with your team?

Justified in your opinion
As you won the game,
You’ll shoot the opposition down
Claiming “fake news” as a bleat
That only adds irony
To your flock of sheep.

But don’t get me wrong:
The other side bleats just as loud,
With the wavering cries
And nights spent in paranoia,
After calling out at the other side,
You’re just as bad.

Address your strengths together,
Understand each other’s weaknesses
And prejudices to stop the fire from spreading,
Because spending every four years undoing
What the other side has done
Leads on a winding path to nowhere.

It's like the turning of a faucet, I said,
A faucet of denying that both sides
Have gone much too far.
Turn on the other side,
To combine both,
Or we’ll only ever exist in fire-hot or freezing-cold.
39 lines, 250 days left.
labyrinth Apr 15
The art of calling everybody brother
While treating the most as the other
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