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Blood-soaked blue sky
Smell our vinaigrette of helplessness
The honey crying chords of a zillion golden cubs

Roots that won’t die
Bursting through us
Dark crimson walls high
Too shame our innards

Tear-drenched rain
Draining our conscience
Pulling us toward the marble migraine
Where blinded gerents continue the measured deterrent

Of life desperate
Keeping hearts from heads
And minds from mouths

Away from this marble pavement
High up top, in cobwebs of restitched tapestry
Skeleton beast, less beastly in breathlessness...

A surge of sun spurged light in clustered cusps
Blows into this lecher
To carry our vividness
Like pappus in great gusts...
In the distance -
I see the mountains of my
Homeland start to cry
as we say goodbye,
and look at each other
for the very last time.
our fate has decided to separate us - but how sweet to meet again and again, and again.
Malia 4d
I am from a loneliness
That I no longer claim.
I am from a gift of God—
Call it luck if you want, the kind
Of luck that saves, and ever since that
Ripe-old age of one I say
I am from Colorado.

I am from a father that couldn’t stay.
I am from a mother who couldn’t.
But they are not important.
To miss them, they’d have to be real to me,
Not Goldilocks, not Cinderella, not Little Red Riding Hood—
Not a fairy tale.

No, the important part is this:
I am from two parents who went through hell and
Prayed to God that they could do better, and did.
I am from two parents who did their best,
But their best was not always good enough.
I am from two parents with worn-down, stomped-on hearts
And still they kept on beating.
And still they kept on beating.

Everything came down to this—
Everything came down to me.
But I am not a Lego flower built of blocks,
Generations of too-bright, too-wide, too-tight smiles
Meanwhile both hands in a bear trap.
No, I am a flower grown up from the dirt.
I am the blood rushing through me every time I put
Pen to paper.
I am stubborn softness, smart and stupid, everything and nothing.
I am what I longed to be and what I feared becoming.
I am an ocean, the deep blue fading to dark.
I am an open book written in code.

But I hope one day, dear God, I hope
That one day I’ll be brave.
One day I’ll stand on solid ground
And find a hill worth dying on.
I want a home with a willow tree,
A house built in the branches.
I want two kids to chase around, walls
Filled with laughter and messes and warmth.
And God, I want to hear my footsteps
On the floor of a courthouse, briefcase in hand.
I want to be something, I want to be someone
And heaven knows that is what I will be.

A mind like a mess, just a tangle of thoughts,
I am everything that I ever loved, lived, and lost.
One of them “where i’m from” poems

what do you think?
con todo mi amor para Arturo Patricio Linares Salgado, de quien florece por ti


No llegué buscándote, ni sabiendo qué querías.
Y aun así, sin darme cuenta, ya eras parte de mis días.
No hubo promesas, ni fondo musical,
solo tú, hablando de lo normal.
Y yo, entendiendo que algo dentro de mí
ya no volvería a sentirse igual.

No era azul, ni rojo, ni gris.
Era verde
como lo que crece sin pedir permiso,
como lo que nace donde algo ya estaba listo.

Desde entonces, todo tiene tu esencia.
Tu forma de estar cambió mi presencia.
El café sabe distinto, el cielo brilla más,
las cosas simples pesan, como si el tiempo no pasara jamás.

Me sorprendió esta forma en la que te volviste mi raíz,
como si al respirar te amara más, como si mi cuerpo te dijera: “aquí”.
Como si mis manos recordaran tu piel
y al tocarla, entendieran que no era por placer,
sino por fe.

Fe en eso que no se explica,
en las miradas largas,
en tus muecas raras,
en la forma en que se abren mis grietas
cuando nombras mis palabras.

Amar(te) en 4 días, ¿quién lo habría dicho?
Pero no hubo prisa, solo un salto al abismo.
Un “te amo” que no fue grande ni dramático,
solo real, tan simple y tan mágico.

Y sigo sin saber cómo explicarte
que mi sombra se mueve al mirarte,
que mi piel busca tu contacto,
y mi cuerpo se enreda si no estás al tanto.

Que no hay forma lógica de sostener este temblor,
este deseo de contar tus sonrisas
y entender el idioma de tu voz.
Que cada segundo contigo
es un eco sin reloj.

No te conocía, y sin embargo te reconocía.
Como si algo mío, que dormía,
se despertara con tu risa,
y dijera: “era por aquí,
era este el punto de partida”.

Y aunque no sepa darle nombre,
ni quiera encerrarte en una definición,
te juro que hay algo en ti
que vale cada contradicción.

Así que si no entiendes todo lo que siento,
no importa.
Yo tampoco lo entiendo.

Solo sé que me pasa contigo,
como un campo que florece después del frío.
Como si por cada respiro tuyo
yo también respirara más mío.

Y si todo esto se reduce a dos palabras,
que sean estas:
te amo
aunque no haya rima,
aunque no haya calma,
aunque solo quede el alma,
mirándote crecer
mientras crezco entre tus ramas.
Con todo mi amor para Arturo Patricio Linares Salgado 💌.
Un poema en verso libre sobre la forma inesperada, cotidiana y mágica en la que el amor transforma todo, desde cosas simples como el café, la luz, la piel, los días, hasta cosas mas personales como el autoconocimiento a través de otra persona. Escribirlo fue una manera de dejar constancia de lo que siento, aunque todavía no encuentre todas las palabras.
Y, Arturo, si estás leyendo esto...
quiero darte las gracias por inspirarme todos los días.
Gracias a ti soy capaz de escribir, de sentir y de crecer de maneras que antes no conocía.
Este poema es solo un reflejo de lo mucho que transformas mi vida.
Oliver Lenz Aug 14
You severed your roots,
and called it progress.
Then wondered why
your soul went starving.
CE Uptain Jul 29
I can’t keep up with my muse’s ****
My write hand is dragging, like a catcher’s mitt
In such a hurry, trying to catch everything
You never know, my muse may make me sing

Words abound, no truth in any I’ve found
Still the words, they circle back around
Did they find my roots, am I buried that deep
The cold, dark ground, holds my secrets to keep

Wait just a minute muse, you’re going too fast
You have to slow down to make the pages last
Capture my heart, blurred between the lines
Uncover my soul, it’s inside these rhymes
Another one from my marathon writing sessions on "My New Pad "
a ring of embers—
with my heart
gently dancing around it.
my face is flushed,
damp with tears,
as if they’ve started
boiling in the mist.
i miss you—
but you know that
already.

in my mind,
i’m still running
through the churchyard,
over stone paths,
stepping on yellowed leaves
that gave up weeks ago.
inside me:
homesickness, awe,
anger, grief—
a hundred hands,
all pulling.

you’re a morsel of bread,
bird-snatched, half-left—
carried home in my satchel,
like a labourer
at the day’s end.
you are what you say you are.
and more.
a frame around my soul
i can’t keep building.

i cannot call you mine.
i have a homeland.
you gave the exile shelter—
but she, the other,
birthed me, shields me,
and one day
will cover me with earth.
i cannot betray her.

for what you made
and left behind,
i owe you still.
i’ll bury your legacy
like treasure
in the quietest parts.
it’s mine to guard.

and maybe one day,
when time has vanished,
i can return to you—
shed a tear for us
on a rainy evening,
wipe you clean
like an old photograph,
and place you gently
back into
a quiet corner
of the past.
July 10, 2025.
this one is about loyalty split in half. one gave me language, the other gave me life.
Yashkrit Ray Jun 25
Ink
Not just a fluid,
I am ink — the druid,
Shaping your ideas in a blink.
In depth of papers, I sink.

Not just a physical thing,
An end to your thoughts — I bring.
Not made to drink,
I am the almighty ink.

I flow on the paper,
With your thoughts — I caper.
Like the roots of a tree,
Even the history is written with me.

Not just a black fluid,
From the sac of a squid.
Not made to drink,
I am the almighty ink.
A materialistic thing that is not just materialistic. Here's a humorous poem on ink.
The moon, in its monolith state,
watching the earth as it torments itself alive.
The flames, sprinting house to house,
building to building-
cleaning the flesh and bones of the fleeing,
while it feasts on their names.
"Father! Father! Why are they doing this to us?!"
"Son...because we... are aliens..."
"Father?..."
...
...
...
Chains are put on,
running through generation to generation,
feeding on revenge, rage, and trauma-
down to the ancestral, cultural r’üts of the race.
Until then, the oppressed stares into their ancient scars.
Only seeing their own hands
dripping with fresh bludhymn
for the actions that are not
yet-
committed.

Clouds pass overhead.
Time grows ancient.
"Is it because we are devils?"
-centuries of clouds pass-
"... because we are robots."
-centuries of clouds pass-
"They imprisoned - the humans."
-centuries of clouds pass-
"Why am I born as an angel?"
-centuries of clouds pass-
"Why am I... different?"

These voices echo throughout the sky-
into roots that remember
every life they've ever swallowed,
into blood that refuses
to forget a single drop,
into threads that
can never unravel,
into...
upon...
its own...
endternal...
reflection.

Thus, built upon oppression,
                                        after oppression–
                             after oppression–
                    after oppression–
          after oppression–
after…
r’üts: Another word for ‘roots’ but added with a sense of depth and complexity, symbolizing the enduring connection to one’s heritage or lineage through trauma or societal forces.

bludhymn: A word that combines “blood” and “hymn,” representing the collective suffering and identity tied to personal bloodlines as passed down through generations as curse.

endternal: Something that feels endless, but at the same time is unclear or unresolved.
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