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Sourav 18h
Like leaves that fall in different seasons,
Four times I've watched them drift away.
Each one taking pieces of me with them,
Fragments I'll never see again today.

I am the tree that bleeds but grows still,
Stretching branches toward distant stars.
Some might pity these empty spaces,
But I've learned to smile through these scars.

Between temples and minarets I wandered,
A stranger lost between sacred walls.
The morning prayer in different tongues,
Each faith another way to fall.

They say the heart grows wise with breaking,
That pain teaches what to avoid.
But mine burns brighter with each fracture,
Like a flame that fills the void.

In dreams I build our morning after,
Where my solitude dissolves like dawn.
But daylight brings its cold reminders,
Of warmth that's always been withdrawn.

Yet still I grow, though branches trembling,
Roots pushing through the stones of fear.
For love's not measured in its keeping,
But in the tears we choose to bear.

So read these words, beloved strangers,
Who've carved their names into my core.
Know that in these bleeding verses,
Lies beauty you chose to ignore.

For each "almost" and every "maybe,"
For every smile that slipped away,
I remain untamed, still loving,
Though nights seem longer than the day.

In time, perhaps, these words will echo,
In hearts that once beat close to mine.
Not to burden with guilt or sorrow,
But to show how loneliness can shine.
men of endurance
will often take the back seat -
they’re driven by poise.
Mishika 2d
I swim with fate
Across my sea of stars.
In it I’m never late,
For the sea is only mine.

I gave my stars
To the empty seas
And I never fear
For my sea is only mine and mine.

And when my sea
Was stripped of its stars,
The light went out not once,
For my fate still swims with me.
I make them smile,
not for ease,
nor for the brief bloom of laughter—
but because the world is a weight,
and lightness must be carved
by hands willing to bear the chisel.

I have seen sorrow move like a tide,
dragging its wreckage ashore,
leaving eyes hollow, shoulders bent,
hearts shaped like doors
that open to emptiness.

I have watched the weary—
not dying, but unlit,
not grieving, but undone—
souls curled inward like autumn leaves
that never learned the grace of falling.

So I place joy like a candle
in the cavern of the ribcage,
let it flicker against damp walls of doubt,
let it whisper—however briefly—
that there is still warmth, still wonder,
still a reason to lift the chin
toward the sky and call it home.

A smile is not salvation,
but it is rebellion—
against the hush of despair,
against time’s indifference,
against the notion
that we are meant to suffer in silence.

Let them call me foolish—
say laughter is fleeting,
that joy is a trick of the light.
I will still shape it, scatter it,
send it forth like a dandelion seed
that does not care
where the wind takes it—
only that it was given,
only that it was free.
I wore my heart like heavy armor,
Fighting shadows, none of them true.
Quixotic in my relentless fervor,
A soldier lost in skies of blue.
Sara Barrett Feb 11
The most substantial burden women have ever endured was not the weight of motherhood, nor the physical toll of childbirth, nor the exhaustive list of responsibilities, including appointments, bills, meals, and future plans, that they often undertook alone.

The most substantial burden women have ever endured was the weight of a man's ego.

Fragile as glass, yet razor-sharp, it constantly required polishing, yet was incapable of shining independently.

A man who made promises he failed to keep, who spoke of sacrifice but never made any, who relied on women to do the work while he took the credit.

A man who needed constant reminders, coaching, and guidance, yet claimed to have accomplished everything on his own.

And when women sought truth, held up the mirror, and dared to say, 'You are not who you pretend to be,' his world crumbled.

Not because it was untrue, but because he was exposed.

And that was the real transgression.

For men can deceive, fail, and break promises with impunity, yet a woman who speaks the truth is vilified.

She is cruel, vicious, and ungrateful for all that he almost did.

And still, she carries the weight of everything: the household, children, meals, laundry, bills, plans, his future, failures, and lies.

While he claims it is hard for him, asks if she cannot simply be nice, and reminds her that he works hard for her.

But what does a man work for if his home is merely a place for a woman to serve, to build his life while sacrificing her own?

And what could women achieve if they never had to bear the weight of a man?
A raw and unapologetic piece about the invisible weight women carry—not just the physical and emotional labor of life but the crushing burden of a man’s ego. This poem exposes the hypocrisy of male entitlement, the way women are expected to build, serve, and sacrifice while men take credit, demand kindness, and call it “hard work.” But what if women were free from this weight? What could we become if we never had to carry a man’s failures, lies, or fragile pride?

For every woman who has ever been told to be “nicer,” to “appreciate” what was almost done, or to shrink herself so a man can shine—this one’s for you. 🔥
Jonathan Moya Feb 10
Exhausted, endured,
my  veins
touch the moon's hope—

this faded celebration
that keeps clinging
to possibilities beyond—

amongst these pallid faces,
silent companions,
the burdened

looking down this
sterile room,
pale walls,

who surrender
to sleep so easily,

unheedful of this
moon child

listening to only
the comforting whisphers
just ahead.
1    
I eat thistles to do away with
my hunger for green life,

capturing in pixel ****** what
my prying eyes can not evade.

The forest offers no inheritance,
every branch has its best name


                          2
I wish to learn and know the work
songs of smaller, silent things,

blend not into the shrubs but rocks,
the mutes of this dry and dying land,

join the procession of farmers mourning
the lost voice of closeness to the earth.

                          3
These hands that  no longer clasp or
knead are but the repeated gestures

of an uvulating tongue that knows
that the egg in a pool of oil will

yield a dry dough of double thistles
in the purple slanted sunsets to come.
Miss Masque Feb 5
I go out of my way
to make people laugh
Because
people
went out
of their way
to make me cry.

I Will Combat
belligerent
ignorance
Every. *******. Time.
In My Way.

Saying Nothing
Encourages the
choking vines
to thrive,
nurturing Silence.

I heal hearts--
Ignorance took
a running start
to push over
My resolve.

Rip up the page,
Start again.
Another person
Stopped Listening.

I go out of my way
to brighten someone's day
Shared Laughs,
Shared Smiles.

How
Someone
Made You Feel--
That
Is what
You remember.

Do I need to
Be Remembered?
I would like to be.

But
If I have only
ever touched
your life
Once
I hope
You Remember
How
I made you feel.
~~Don't Let the ******* Get You Down~~
Malia Feb 3
On the windowsill, all flailing
Legs and desperation—
At times, it attempts to fly
Away, but soon enough it gives
That up as if to say,
“I can’t.”

The movements get smaller and
Slower, but occasionally there are bouts
Of hysteria
(𝙒𝙃𝙔 𝙈𝙀)
Until eventually nothing is left but a
Feeble twitch and really the question
That you should be asking is:
“Is it still alive?”

It is still alive.

It is still alive but it is tired.

Slowly…
Slowly…
Slowly…
eventually i just killed it. i couldn’t look at it anymore.
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