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mark soltero Oct 11
sometimes I lay awake at night
and fixate on things I shouldn’t
whispers of my own transgressions linger

although it seems disingenuous
I am eager to fill the space
between this world and the old

please ward away the chilling breeze
make them apologize
because silence was one of my worst decrees
mark soltero Sep 30
degrade me because you love me
infect me with your cancer
befoul my integrity
because i’ll do anything for attention
disillusioned with my charming grip
you lie awake
thinking of ways to let me down easy
you won’t be getting rid of me
because it’s me
im the malignancy
Bea Aug 7
My scarfaced TSA prince
I see you on imvu and
I just want you
Loving
As we talk my
Body aches for you
My heart aches for when we can work
Together
And be together
I pine for your presence
Your love
And touch
daffodil Aug 3
pigeon coo’s echo outside the window
relentless repetition please stop,
grey skies, lacklustre rain
drip drop drips from the sky
like a tap not turned tight
enough

the kettle is screaming at me
fogs up the window
desperate, don’t look out there,
the forbidden fruit, sacred outdoors
sterilised sanitised inside, free me,
I long to ***** my feet

how can the world keep on turning
when we are all so still
does the passing of time matter
during this vast nothingness?

a cup of tea to calm my nerves
hot liquid chases down the fear
bubbling up in my throat but
it just crawls back, and settles
so quiet becomes the house
eternally occupied, no respite

heavier now, thankful for the sound
drowning out the silence, rain
like the white noise, grateful
the sound of breath has become
too much, all of us in mute,
in sound, in colour, in all
n-khrennikov Jun 2
Poets and writers are stricken with poverty.
Modernism is all about the profits.
I’ve sold my soul and blood
And still my name remains unmentioned.
H.хренников
kiran goswami May 26
I posted a picture on the internet today,
after handpicking the best of all.
While she is left with no choices,
so she walks on the roads that burn
carrying herself upon her feet that bleed.

I took my camera and checked up the lighting,
as I wanted the picture to look 'natural' and 'candid'.
A cameraman rushes to her to click a picture
as he is a magazine photographer searching for stories real.

I sweated and protested about the scorching heat
while I set up my camera.
She wipes the sweat off her father's forehead
on which the glabellar lines cease to exist,
while hers is carrying the roots and branches of it.

I held books in my hand to strike a pose
as my fingers laid in front,
whose nails I painted yellow for this summer.
She holds the handlebars of her bicycle she can no more hold or paddle,
her nails have painted themselves with the colour of mud.

I clicked too many pictures for me to count or recall.
Even after thousands, she remembered how many miles is home.


I captioned my picture
'No more lonely quarantine',
She hardly knows alphabets or words to even ask for help.

I swiped from filter to filter
selecting an 'aesthetic' one.
She drinks the pitch-black liquid,
they tell her is water,
without even demanding for 'cleaner' one.

I finally edited and made a perfect picture,
with my wide grin sealed with a gloss,
And the cameraman too asks for her to smile for once.
She with her deserted lips forms a curve that makes the cameraman frown.

He deletes the picture from his camera
as it would be disliked by all,
It got 1.9k likes,
The picture I posted on the internet today.
Ylzm May 9
A post truth world:
     truth's a construction,
     witnesses manufactured,
     facts designed with intent;

Any lie is for sale,
     as it pleases the powers
     and brings in the money;

But your choice is your freedom:
     you believe
     what you want to believe;

Truth
     is your construction too:
     without power, without money
     but via the accessible
           social engine of truth manufacture
     many witnesses shall rise
           and believe in you too.
It was the time when clock was ticking exactly 12.
The stars started fading and sky covered itself with clouds.
A little boy opened the door hearing the rain, the soil was wet and it had the fragrance of freshness in it.
The mesmerizing sound of droplets amazed him.
He smiled and wished facing the sky, the one wanted to be a pilot , so
that could do a hifi to the clouds, but the illness he was bound to would never let his wish to be fulfilled which he knew .
He stepped in the rain  and it rained, just rained
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