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am i ee May 19
2:30 am


gentle rain falls,

silent but for the drops.
blessed silence in the middle of the night in the modern suburban hell
M Solav Apr 5
Where is that hand,
That motherly embrace,
Which comforts in its ****** -
That motherly hand I can trust?

Where is that hand,
That warming caress,
Which eases the nerves -
That cocoon of soft curves?

  There is no rest anymore
  In thoughts of exile and escape;
  My being is shaken to the core,
  My soul bent under the stress.

Where is that hand,
That soothing absence,
Which cradles you gently -
That silence of calm and mercy?

Where is the hand,
That promise of better days,
Which relieves innocently -
That convincing “don’t worry”?

  There is no rest anymore
  In thoughts of exile and escape;
  My being is shaken to the core,
  My soul bent under the stress.
Written on August 7th, 2021;
Completed in April 2022.

— Copyright © M. Solav —
This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact for usage requests. Thank you.
Limem Ali Mar 25

I'm the sun,
I'm the light
that lives in and within
and stretch every corner
I step in
and let it shine

I'm the wind
I'm the sound of the whistle,
that crosses the universe space
and brings on the beautiful melodies
anyone would ever listen or hear

I'm the rain
I'm the rainbow with all its chords
that drops to color everybody's life
with joy and gladness

I'm the clear blue sky
I'm the calm deep ocean
that sends everyone over
with only and just only
high positive vibes
Niamh Feb 26
One day I’ll open my eyes
And feel relief.

It won’t ache,
And for the first time
In a Long time,
Sadness will not be my only belief.

For the first second
I won’t think about it.
I will open my eyes
And see the sun.
I will hear the birds,
And I will feel their peace.

I will bathe in the beauty
That surrounds me.
Skin soft. Thoughts soft.
My life won’t be on lease.

One day I’ll open my eyes,
And feel
Swells Feb 18
Daddy grows with the stalagmites now;
suicide off white rock
where mourning breathes staccato
with all the vibrations of a cross
as my bones wash away into
The great Sargasso.
No body can birth me now
in this dissonant space
with bluish tides stretched
to the corners of my mind
that echo deep into the crevices
the cracks the creeks
I breathe them in
like a wretched ceremony
an ode to my two thighs
that bear the weight
of outlandish theories
of what it would mean to be alive
and I wake up in the spring
mushrooms and flowers and things
bloom from the tips of the fingers to
the bottoms of the feet;
I am thawing.
Ron Gavalik Feb 7
The last generation
asked for success.
Our generation
asked to be left alone.
This generation
asks only to mitigate
the pain.

–Ron Gavalik
Ren Sturgis Jan 29
a soft breeze, waves lapping against the shore

circling around and around, every time learning something new

an exploration of self; a journey of pleasure

sweet caress

wet, wet, wet

it's like the tide is whispering to me


a moan like a sigh of relief

there is no shame here

only love <3
Jamesb Oct 2021
How many poems have I writ?
And how easy has the process been?
To think and to conjure from my brain
Unto the printed page,

Ideas and concepts flowing
in a seamless joyous
Tide of vocabulary and

Until a while ago.
When everything.

So what is it?
What is this ******* thing
That circumvents my joy
And my creativity?

Where is it skulking?
Coward! Come forth,
Be fought!
But it would not

Did not
And I did not write,
My pen was silent
But not my creativity,

Until I met some strangers
Who became immediate
Fast friends and true,
I opened up

And ideas flew,
Turns out
The block was that no one actually
Asked me to write,
No one and especially not me!

Well these new friends did,
And the blockage,
In that instant,
And went

And so this verse,
Poor though it be,
And first in quite a while,
Has indeed

Snuck out


The wire
While on a ILM7 coaching course I re-found my voice. Thank you Bill
Anais Vionet Oct 2021
I use make-believe
overwriting memory
it brings me some peace

The fiction I’ve weaved
you’re at the store - you wouldn’t leave
is a fool’s relief

So I take mine neat
sweet ****** of self-deceit
my strange trick or treat
a play, in 3 Senryus
I wanted to do something seasonal, with trick or treat in it and what if the trick were the treat?
Gabrielle Oct 2021
When can I be alone?
When am I really by myself?

Even the term 'by myself' implies that you are 'by' something,
With yourself.

Like the self is something external to you.
Someone you can sit next to.

I want to be truly alone, without myself.
I want the wind to brush past unfollowed by thought or recognition.
I want no one to know where I am, even me.

I need to be without myself,
Far away from myself.
I'm just so relentlessly 'there'.
This poem is about the true meaning of being alone, and the relentlessness of existing in a context.
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