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Cadmus 1d
✈️

A slap on the tarmac, crisp and clear,
From Madame’s hand to France’s dear.

Not war, not scandal, nor fiscal gap
But history paused for a marital slap.

The cameras rolled, the world took note,
As dignity slipped from his tailored coat.

If kings once fell to sword and plot,
Now presidents blush, and say they “forgot.”

👋🏻
Sometimes history is written in treaties, sometimes in blood, and occasionally, with an open palm in front of a presidential aircraft.
If buses rattle over streets
At least you jounce on comfy seats.  
Imagine a divan
Made from a frying pan
Or griddles cushioned by felt sheets.
City buses bounce and jolt
As though to loosen every bolt.  
The shocks must be missing,
A leak would be hissing.  
Or is it the potholes at fault?
MetaVerse Apr 9
Prove whether I do change, my dear,
Or if that I do still remain
Like as I went, or far or near,
And if ye find me not the same,
Declare 't is so that all may hear.

But if ye prove I change, my dear,
Not, but unchanged I do remain
Constant and true whithersoe'er
I travel to, then, dearest, deign
T'admit it only in mine ear.
Original lines by Sir Thomas Wyatt:

Prove whether I do change, my dear,
Or if that I do still remain
Like as I went, or far or near,
And if ye find
I stand in this inky crucible,
Staring down the gemstones of my work,
But which of these sparkling stones,
Is beautiful enough to be brought to light?
I have blue sapphires,
The color of lonesome waters,
Made of solemn tears.
I have clear diamonds,
Cut carefully,
Each face polished delicately.
But are any of these good enough,
To be shown to the masses?
What if they don't shine as bright,
When they are brought to the light?
I'm pulling poems,
But I'm afraid,
I might set the back down anways.
I'm trying to pick some poems to read for a school event, not going too well.
I get a little afraid,
When it comes to public appearances,
Whatever the matter, I'm not any kind of people's man.

It's difficult to talk to pretty girls,
I just don't think I'm worth their time,
But I do my darndest with you.
My confidence has some worn edges.
Sudzedrebel Feb 15
If it comes out the tap,
I'm drinking it.
Whatever is public.

If we can't at least guarantee clean water,
Who are we?

If you think I'm only talking about one thing,
I'm sorry.

If it shouldn't bother you,
Does it?
Why do different?
Why worry?
Like a fly buzzing,
Best just to ignore it.
Swat it!
Stamp it!
Crush it!
But you just can't catch it!
Antonio Dec 2024
another year has passed, as cliché as it sounds, we look forward to new times
you might feel emptier or happier, even angrier,my advice remains, don't even stress
even if with our differences, one thing's for sure.
we have less time



so cherish the ones you love and give justice to your ideas full of herculean hope.
short few words, will try to post more. probably for me. happy new year and hold tight the light of life!
AWURAA Nov 2024
Place in my hands a cloth of satin,
that I may hold it over my eyes,
looking at all those who pass by without allowing them to see emotion in my eyes.

It is too intimate, them seeing my eyes and ****** expressions without knowing me.

I love getting to know a new person, observing each new ****** expression they show, their eyes when they speak, the tone they use, the jokes that expose me to a new realm of their humour and personality.

I don't want other people to see an aspect of me without them taking the time to know me.
Why should people pass by and watch me in a moment and partake in a memory which I do not remember them being in?

So pass me a cloak of invisibility,
that I may clothe myself in it,
allowing myself to only be seen by those who love me.
Magda Nov 2024
I hide my pretty words
inside a shell.
Safe and far away from
prying eyes –
thoughts and desires, carefully constructed
to never see the light of day, never feel
the warmth of human connection.

For this is all too raw,
too fragile.
Words painfully crafted –
containing the chaos inside.

If people only knew,
what I was hiding,
I’d have to tear open my body,
remove the pearl
for all to see.
My flesh exposed – consumed,
my core, paraded around necks.

And I’d be tossed away
into the waters of my suffering,
to create more precious gems.

At the end, when I am too tired for it all,
clutched by the fingers of grief,
all that shall be left of me –
a shell, forced to adorn
the walls of strangers’ homes.

Just as so many mother of pearls,
who’ve came before me.
I wrote this poem while thinking about artists like Amy Winehouse and Sylvia Plath, who crafted beautiful, personal work that captivated people—often at the cost of their own suffering. The public’s fascination with their pain, especially after their untimely deaths, is a sad reminder of how art and suffering are so often intertwined. To quote Oscar Wilde: "The public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius."
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