Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Kitty 7d
free course
change your life
look prettier
make everyone like you
Start saying YES
YES I AGREE
it's really that simple
just follow this ONE STEP
let me hear you say it
YES I AGREE
be careful bossy
don't tell them what you really think
yes thats right
you agree with me
end of course
Soul Scribe Aug 23
Map
I'm lost.
I'm at a loss for words
Pulled to the curb
Pull out a map
Tucked in the back.

It's covered.
In dust it lays
To its dismay,
Hiding away
It's smothered.

I needed help but refused it in the past.
They seemed lost too so I figured I wouldn't ask.
Like asking someone in a wheelchair to sign your cast.
But putting yourself out there might save you from a crash.

I unwrapped it.
Now remembering why it's there.
When my car broke down and was beyond repair.
I screamed at the sky THIS JUST ISN'T FAIR!

I had used the map to walk myself home.
Cold and alone no one to throw me a bone.
Stressing about my future that had now become unknown.

My life is now ruined!
What will I do without a car?
A man without transport is
like Russia with no czar.
Or a parrot without Jafar.
A stereo no guitar
Lion King with no Scar...
I got so worried I had almost walked too far.

I stopped in my tracks.
Home at last I said.
Threw the map in the back.
Time to hop in bed.

And now here I am.
Needing it once again.
But inscribed on the parchment,
Something written in pen.

I recognized the handwriting,
But not as my own.
The one who wrote this message
Used to live inside my home.

See she curled her L's like this,
And wrote her I's like that.
It felt so surreal
Almost thought she had come back.

But alas she was gone,
And no time soon coming home.
As she'd been dead for years
And now, I was alone.

For such a long time I had put on a mask,
So many times I just soloed the task.
See, I had loads of problems but I'd never ask,
That's like asking someone in a wheelchair to sign your cute little cast.

I struggled immensely,
But she suffered more.
Her bones were breaking,
I was probably just sore.

But now to that note.
Etched in blue pen.
I could barely get through it,
I pulled strength from within.

“Tim don't you ever!
Think to yourself,
I'm all alone in this problem,
There's no one else.
For your struggles are mine,
And my victories yours.
Use this map as your guidance
‘Till your path be restored.”

See she was my map,
My guide and my rock.
And when I'd be lost
She'd point where to walk.

But as time went on,
She needed a nurse.
See I had some problems,
But her’s seemed much worse.

I shut myself out and
Tried to hide my pain.
I had a level of composure
I needed to maintain.

But she died alone for
I didn't want her to see.
The pain that had boiled
Inside of me.

It's pretty ironic
And weird how maps work.
If you don't admit you're lost
You'll just stay deterred.
And the map won't fare well either,
Without your tender care.
It will mold and it
will crumble into thin air.

So please ask for help!
And be there for others.
If you are both hurting
Be there for another.
Do not hold your pain inside
Now 20 turning 21 this month, but you don't realize the time and where it went until you reach a certain age.
20 still young but not as young when you think back to years ago.
When i was 10 i thought my teenage and adult life would be filled with what we see on the movies, full of life, party and fun.
But it really isn't like that, when you reach a certain age maybe for some what you wish you had may never become.
Never being able to join the cool kids, go to parties to have sleep overs because you're not labeled as "cool".
Time's have changed since back in your days, or our days.
No more house parties as we used to see, just more reckless than what old generation of the youthful playful teens would be.
I used to think drugs, parties, alcohol, loud music, *** and being popular would be cool, (isn't that what we all thought high school would be like?)
but now i look back and think it wouldn't be fun to...
die from drugs, puke from poison, carry maybe syphilis.
But maybe being able to join a party or 2 and be a bit popular and be liked would be cool.
Or would it?
If you had a chance to experience this Youthful Playful young life, please explain down below how it really made you feel?
My most popular poems on the Internet, according to Google ...

A number of my poems and translations have gone viral, according to Google, and some have been copied onto hundreds of web pages. That’s a lot of cutting and pasting, which suggests someone likes the writing enough to take the time to share it …

This translation returns over 1,000 results, according to Google:

Grasses wilt:
the braking locomotive
grinds to a halt
― Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



This translation of a Sappho epigram returns more than 500 results, according to Google:

Sappho, fragment 42
translation by Michael R. Burch

Eros harrows my heart:
wild winds whipping desolate mountains
uprooting oaks.



This original epigram returns more than 400 results:

Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.



My translation/interpretation/modernization of Robert Burns’s “To a Mouse” also has more than 400 results.



This epigram returns more than 300 results:

Does my soul abide in heaven, or hell?
Only the sea gulls in their high, lonely circuits may tell.
—Michael R. Burch, after Glaucus



This poem, based on a phrase I found in a comic book as a boy, returns more than 300 results:

Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers and children of Gaza

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her Tears ...

Note: The phrase "frail envelope of flesh" was one of my first encounters with the power of poetry, although I read it in a superhero comic book as a young boy (I forget which one). More than thirty years later, the line kept popping into my head, so I wrote this poem. I have dedicated it to the mothers and children of Gaza and the Nakba. The word Nakba is Arabic for "Catastrophe."



Others with more than 100 results:

Speechless
by Ko Un
translation by Michael R. Burch

At Auschwitz
piles of glasses,
mountains of shoes ...
returning, we stared out different windows.



Shattered
by Vera Pavlova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I shattered your heart;
now I limp through the shards
barefoot.



Mariner, do not ask whose tomb this may be,
but go with good fortune: I wish you a kinder sea.
—Michael R. Burch, after Plato



The first soft snow:
leaves of the awed jonquil
bow low
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Come, investigate loneliness!
a solitary leaf
clings to the Kiri tree
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Ah butterfly,
what dreams do you ply
with your beautiful wings?
― Fukuda Chiyo-ni, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



While you decline to cry,
high on the mountainside
a single stalk of plumegrass wilts.
―Ō no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Teddy Roosevelt spoke softly and carried a big stick; Donald Trump speaks loudly and carries a big shtick.—Michael R. Burch



How Long the Night
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa early 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song ...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast—
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong
now grieve, mourn and fast.



The Burning of the Books
by Bertolt Brecht
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the Regime
commanded the unlawful books to be burned,
teams of dull oxen hauled huge cartloads to the bonfires.

Then a banished writer, one of the best,
scanning the list of excommunicated texts,
became enraged: he’d been excluded!

He rushed to his desk, full of contemptuous wrath,
to write fiery letters to the incompetents in power —
Burn me! he wrote with his blazing pen —
Haven’t I always reported the truth?
Now here you are, treating me like a liar!
Burn me!



Auschwitz Rose
by Michael R. Burch

There is a Rose at Auschwitz, in the briar,
a rose like Sharon's, lovely as her name.
The world forgot her, and is not the same.
I still love her and extend this sacred fire
to keep her memory exalted flame
unmolested by the thistles and the nettles.

On Auschwitz now the reddening sunset settles!
They sleep alike—diminutive and tall,
the innocent, the "surgeons." Sleeping, all.

Red oxides of her blood, bright crimson petals,
if accidents of coloration, gall
my heart no less. Amid thick weeds and muck
there lies a rose man's crackling lightning struck:
the only Rose I ever longed to pluck.
Soon I'll bed there and bid the world "Good Luck."



Nun Fun Undone
by Michael R. Burch

Abbesses’
recesses
are not for excesses!



Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch

If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.



Asstronomical
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
proved E equals MC squared.
And so mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!



Like Angels, Winged
by Michael R. Burch

Like angels—winged,
shimmering, misunderstood—
they flit beyond our understanding
being neither evil, nor good.

They are as they are ...
and we are their lovers, their prey;
they seek us out when the moon is full;
they dream of us by day.

Their eyes—hypnotic, alluring—
trap ours with their strange appeal
till like flame-drawn moths, we gather ...
to see, to touch, to feel.

And in their arms, enchanted,
we feel their lips, grown old,
till with their gorging kisses
we warm them, growing cold.



Pale Though Her Eyes
by Michael R. Burch

Pale though her eyes,
her lips are scarlet
from drinking of blood,
this child, this harlot

born of the night
and her heart, of darkness,
evil incarnate
to dance so reckless,

dreaming of blood,
her fangs—white—baring,
revealing her lust,
and her eyes, pale, staring ...



Neglect
by Michael R. Burch

What good are tears?
Will they spare the dying their anguish?
What use, our concern
to a child sick of living, waiting to perish?

What good, the warm benevolence of tears
without action?
What help, the eloquence of prayers,
or a pleasant benediction?

Before this day is over,
how many more will die
with bellies swollen, emaciate limbs,
and eyes too parched to cry?

I fear for our souls
as I hear the faint lament
of theirs departing ...
mournful, and distant.

How pitiful our "effort,"
yet how fatal its effect.
If they died, then surely we killed them,
if only with neglect.



Sappho, fragment 155
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

A short revealing frock?
It's just my luck
your lips were made to mock!



Sappho, fragment 156
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

She keeps her scents
in a dressing-case.
And her sense?
In some undiscoverable place.



Sappho, fragment 58
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Pain
drains
me
to
the
last
drop
.



Sappho, fragment 22
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

That enticing girl's clinging dresses
leave me trembling, overcome by happiness,
as once, when I saw the Goddess in my prayers
eclipsing Cyprus.



An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar (1460-1525)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear―
except only that you are merciless.

Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.

I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would compose her roots again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.



Postcard 1
by Miklós Radnóti
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Out of Bulgaria, the great wild roar of the artillery thunders,
resounds on the mountain ridges, rebounds, then ebbs into silence
while here men, beasts, wagons and imagination all steadily increase;
the road whinnies and bucks, neighing; the maned sky gallops;
and you are eternally with me, love, constant amid all the chaos,
glowing within my conscience — incandescent, intense.
Somewhere within me, dear, you abide forever —
still, motionless, mute, like an angel stunned to silence by death
or a beetle hiding in the heart of a rotting tree.



Postcard 2
by Miklós Radnóti
written October 6, 1944 near Crvenka, Serbia
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

A few miles away they're incinerating
the haystacks and the houses,
while squatting here on the fringe of this pleasant meadow,
the shell-shocked peasants sit quietly smoking their pipes.
Now, here, stepping into this still pond, the little shepherd girl
sets the silver water a-ripple
while, leaning over to drink, her flocculent sheep
seem to swim like drifting clouds.



Postcard 3
by Miklós Radnóti
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The oxen dribble ****** spittle;
the men pass blood in their ****.
Our stinking regiment halts, a horde of perspiring savages,
adding our aroma to death's repulsive stench.



Postcard 4
by Miklós Radnóti
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I toppled beside him — his body already taut,
tight as a string just before it snaps,
shot in the back of the head.
"This is how you’ll end too; just lie quietly here,"
I whispered to myself, patience blossoming from dread.
"Der springt noch auf," the voice above me jeered;
I could only dimly hear
through the congealing blood slowly sealing my ear.

This was his final poem, written October 31, 1944 near Szentkirályszabadja, Hungary. "Der springt noch auf" means something like "That one is still twitching."



Letter to My Wife
by Miklós Radnóti
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This is a poem written during the Holocaust in Lager Heidenau, in the mountains above Zagubica, August-September, 1944

Deep down in the darkness hell awaits—silent, mute.
Silence screams in my ears, so I shout,
but no one hears or answers, wherever they are;
while sad Serbia, astounded by war,
and you are so far,
so incredibly distant.
Still my heart encounters yours in my dreams
and by day I hear yours sound in my heart again;
and so I am still, even as the great mountain
ferns slowly stir and murmur around me,
coldly surrounding me.
When will I see you? How can I know?
You who were calm and weighty as a Psalm,
beautiful as a shadow, more beautiful than light,
the One I could always find, whether deaf, mute, blind,
lie hidden now by this landscape; yet from within
you flash on my sight like flickering images on film.
You once seemed real but now have become a dream;
you have tumbled back into the well of teenage fantasy.
I jealously question whether you'll ever adore me;
whether—speak!—
from youth's highest peak
you will yet be my wife.
I become hopeful again,
as I awaken on this road where I formerly had fallen.
I know now that you are my wife, my friend, my peer—
but, alas, so far! Beyond these three wild frontiers,
fall returns. Will you then depart me?
Yet the memory of our kisses remains clear.
Now sunshine and miracles seem disconnected things.
Above me I see a bomber squadron's wings.
Skies that once matched your eyes' blue sheen
have clouded over, and in each infernal machine
the bombs writhe with their lust to dive.
Despite them, somehow I remain alive.

Miklós Radnóti [1909-1944], a Hungarian Jew and a fierce anti-fascist, is perhaps the greatest of the Holocaust poets. He was born in Budapest in 1909. In 1930, at the age of 21, he published his first collection of poems, Pogány köszönto (Pagan Salute). His next book, Újmódi pásztorok éneke (Modern Shepherd's Song) was confiscated on grounds of "indecency," earning him a light jail sentence. In 1931 he spent two months in Paris, where he visited the "Exposition coloniale" and began translating African poems and folk tales into Hungarian. In 1934 he obtained his Ph.D. in Hungarian literature. The following year he married Fanni (Fifi) Gyarmati; they settled in Budapest. His book Járkálj csa, halálraítélt! (Walk On, Condemned!) won the prestigious Baumgarten Prize in 1937. Also in 1937 he wrote his Cartes Postales (Postcards from France), which were precurors to his darker images of war, Razglednicas (Picture Postcards). During World War II, Radnóti published translations of Virgil, Rimbaud, Mallarmé, Eluard, Apollinare and Blaise Cendras in Orpheus nyomában. From 1940 on, he was forced to serve on forced labor battalions, at times arming and disarming explosives on the Ukrainian front. In 1944 he was deported to a compulsory labor camp near Bor, Yugoslavia. As the Nazis retreated from the approaching Russian army, the Bor concentration camp was evacuated and its internees were led on a forced march through Yugoslavia and Hungary. During what became his death march, Radnóti recorded poetic images of what he saw and experienced. After writing his fourth and final "Postcard," Radnóti was badly beaten by a soldier annoyed by his scribblings. Soon thereafter, the weakened poet was shot to death, on November 9, 1944, along with 21 other prisoners who unable to walk. Their mass grave was exhumed after the war and Radnóti's poems were found on his body by his wife, inscribed in pencil in a small Serbian exercise book. Radnóti's posthumous collection, Tajtékos ég (Clouded Sky, or Foaming Sky) contains odes to his wife, letters, poetic fragments and his final Postcards. Unlike his murderers, Miklós Radnóti never lost his humanity, and his empathy continues to live on and shine through his work.

Keywords/Tags: most popular poems Google social media viral copy paste replication
Kennedy Apr 2
i think, you and i are the same,
she told me.
i think you have seen things worse than me
though i do believe we are the same.
i laughed, taking a  drag
the cigarette brought calm,
serenity,
peace.
we will never be the same.
but we are,
but the only thing we have in common..
neither of us will be missed.
from my WIP book
IDS Mar 23
𝐼 𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒
𝑎𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ

𝗡𝗼𝘄

I like killing myself
escaping meals
framing insomnia
whereas it’s me who detests sleep
in my dreams
I grasp a glimpse of bliss
fantasizing what I can’t have
confined in a theoretical domain

I like the susceptibility of
being shredded by
other people's opinions
requesting for sincerity
even when I know
it's not what I want to hear
𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒
tell me you liked my natural hair
before I dyed it
𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒
tell me I should lose weight
tell me I should be more feminine
𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒
tell me I’m too naive
tell me I’m too fretful
𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒
Tell me I shouldn’t speak my mind
Tell me I shouldn’t be negative
I want the truth
not a sugar coating
and i don't exactly want it to hurt
but I’m starting to think
it is better than nothing
it is better than
𝗡𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀
IDS Mar 23
I enjoy finding well-structured and coherent worldviews and ideas that collapse my prejudices, ideas, and my vision of the world; it’s uncomfortable at first but the catharsis achieved by being able to synthesize opposing ideas and find common ground where to build new ideas it’s one of the greatest mental pleasures I have felt.

It’s like feeling that after endless hours of trying to mix water and oil, the solution finally becomes crystalline and gleaming in veracity; to immerse myself in it and then go out to see reality with new eyes.

The main cognitive bias of all people is to discard information that contradicts their prejudices, ideologies, and conceptions of reality because of the cognitive discomfort this new information enables.

We take scientific objectivity as a base, and we accept the linguistic subjectivity and its intrinsic intuitive value; it is actually much easier to achieve a rational consensus in decision making.

That’s why we must be very vigilant and look out for rigid ideologies that don’t accept an intellectual confrontation, since they don’t have the capacity to adapt to a reality like ours that’s in a constant state of transformation.
IDS Mar 23
I do not feel superior because I'm vegan. The truth is I am vegan because I do not feel superior to others.
—Michele McCowan.

It’s more accurately a principle that we shouldn’t subject anyone to our wants and/or needs.

The bottom line isn’t whether we believe ourselves to be better people. The question is not what we are, but what we think, and what we do as a result of what we think. The issue is about ideas and behaviors, not people.

Those of us who reject cannibalism do not think we are "better" than cannibals, do we? We only believe that there are ways of acting that are better than others according to ethics.
IDS Mar 23
3am
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩. 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘱 𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘴.

Why

You are subconsciously afraid of the change that will come from going from reaching out for what you genuinely want. You relate freedom to happiness, which is something good. It doesn’t matter whether the change will be good or bad, your ego is afraid to change.

Why

Your ego likes the status quo. Right now you’re alive and well and your ego wants to keep it that way. I believe evolution has given us an “ego” precisely for that reason, self preservation. It had a quite logical purpose back when humans were hunters and stuff. They had to be afraid of everything that was foreign in order to stay alive. Not anymore.

𝘐𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳? 𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶? 𝘚𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

𝗕𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗮𝗰𝗵 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗳𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗼𝗻. 𝗪𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳. 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘄 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝗵𝘂𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗲𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁. 𝗦𝗲𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲. 𝗙𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂. 𝗟𝗲𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗱 𝗳𝗹𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸𝘀 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳𝗳 𝗻𝗼𝘄. 𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 𝗮𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲, 𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗳𝘂𝗹. 𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝗹𝗹 𝗲𝗻𝗱𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗮 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝘂𝘁𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗶𝘁. 𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝗹𝗹 𝗮𝘀𝗸 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝘄𝗵𝘆 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻’𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝗼𝗼𝗻𝗲𝗿.
The feeling of my fingers on the keys
Have me completely at ease

How I've missed you my friend, my home
I apologize for wanting to roam

I'm back now, I'll never leave you again
I promise you, this will never be the end.
After a couple years, I am finally back to writing poetry.
Next page