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stillhuman Mar 15
Through yellowing pages
I've travelled many places
And tasted pastries from that baker
And held a man when he was crying
And seen the sun when it was raining
And fell in love when I was hurting

To trees now gone to create
a contrast strong in black and white
I feel thankful for creating life
Who knew paper could be so magical?
When people say "lost in a book"
few can know what it means
few are given the gift
to walk within the scenes.
To "get into a book" only takes a few pages
to step inside
and leave your body behind
and wish to never find your way back again.
To read is different to readers
those who have the gift
they do not remember concepts or words
they remember where they have been.
peachguts Jan 5
at the age of twenty-two i fell in love with the guy who can't pronounce my name, who only says i love you when he bites my lip (there are times that he forcibly opened my mouth and search for the dead poetries i buried 2 years ago).

at the age of twenty-four he asked me to undress myself while his eyes are stabbing my chest (i did and he stabbed me so deep that until now i can't get the blade off). he smashed my small body on the bed and abandoned after he found another poetry hiding in between my legs (i picked myself up after he left).

at the age of twenty-five he asked me to give every poetry blooming inside of me (but what can i offer if i'm alone with typos and errors?)

at the age of thirty i'm nothing but a cover page (no, i'm not a poetry book after the reader ripped off my pages).
Terra Levez Nov 2020
If readers were made rulers
Their knights would wield pens
Their wars fought on paper
And their subjects imaginary
We are all rulers aren't we?
Miss Daytona Oct 2020
We see, we hear, we watch,
we talk back. We write.
This is a strange time to be alive.

And if a reader finds this poem,
Buried or dropped or kept:

You see, you hear, you watch,
you talk back. You write.

And I bet you feel the same way.
What strange time it is, indeed,
To be alive.
TIZZOP Jun 2020
The Ocean Inside


a place made of cosmic dust and water is
inside of me, birthplace of poetry
red voices are echoing through the ocean
in order to create words of vignettes
the lines are floating above the water's surface


how can they escape from the dullness
of my mind? my thoughts are not a poem yet
i have to lure them with music, with adagios
the strings are playing and they are dancing
green layers of feelings transcend me


my hand is not writing on the keyboard
the keyboard is writing on my hands
i can not dictate my muse, she is shy
she only comes out when i rest


the muse wakes me up and overtakes
rivers of oblivion, streams of consciousness
no thinking about the reader or the trophy


a place made of muses and flow is
inside of me, birthplace of poems
pink voices are echoing through the vignette
in order to create words of a special form
the verses are drifting through clear water
Today is a good day.
new, unused; you picked me up
from quite a few parched with dust over them
excited you were so was I to be selected after all.

picture of me clicked, lights on and a perfect setup,
you and me only with a cup of chai and not so bright lights.

love thrill and excitement,
the first chapter had it all,
you read it and loved it,
like never before.

with the passing chapters the story slowed down,
so did your reading speed,
started forcing yourself, with tired face and sleepy eyes
struggled just to move forward,a bit more, a page more, a chapter more. maybe you should have Let me go at that moment,
but decided to hold.
never did you forget to take out time for me,
I have seen you crying smiling clinching to your pillow like a kid,
also while reading when that pink blush slid. soon the story paced up again, there were ups Lows and heartbreaks,
and you were sailing through them all,
along with me.

I was about to get over,
we were about to end,
you wanted me to be longer but the plot didn’t allow,
you finished reading,
you competed with me and you freed me,
that was how I wanted it to end.

now I am free I promise to be with you,
through your lows and highs and smiles and cries,
that’s why it’s always said,
it all starts with a good book.
ms reluctance Apr 2020
This is a poem
only because
you deem it worthy.  

Without your gaze,
amenable and open,
it is a line broken
in erratic fashion –
a skeleton
awkward, unbecoming.

You take my common words
upon your clement tongue
curiously tasting every emotion
compassionate, kind,
with your all-consuming spirit.

You magnolious stranger
with the soul of a friend,
we may never know
each other’s life or pain;
unable to console
or hug
or even wave hello.
But you paint my sparse canvas
with so many inimitable layers,
your perspective,  
your experience,
your empathy,
and the brightest color –

This is a poem
only because
you see it as one.
NaPoWriMo Day 16
Poetry form: Free Verse
Dez Apr 2020
If you desire to be great
Then when you create
Think about those who read
And in considering them you’ll be great indeed
For to consider another is the best of traits
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