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Daniel Jan 2022
From where I'd watched the roses blown
Their bodies bent and brightly doused
Their forms aroused in wiry crowds

Petals pink upon a breeze
are thrown about the golden eve
Such a fabulous flock, how I envy their flight!
How I covet their course, sailing into the night
Danielle Dec 2021
Ivy
I grew up as the bed grew bigger than me, underneath there were the roots of a dream that I used to forget; I lost in the card game and you still have a lot of tricks under your sleeve.

And I will yearn if I was still the one in your anticipation; you wear it like a Sunday best and wear it out when you don't feel like yourself.

And I'll follow the traces of your footsteps crawling as vines. What all my words worth if they are a noose entangling my limbs? honey, the roses scented faintly of blood, too.

And I will carry the weight of this spineless home.
Raven Feels Oct 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, the difference makes no difference:>

under the rain love me
above the clouds love me not
think the days flowery and notes of C
think the blame is on the sugary plot

ever since I painted accidents with red
violets turned blue swoon
my demeanor shaded a women with a stubborn head
the kind of color that you moon

the most of the most
all no sequence separated
is what my season is up to raise that toast
and them breezes lay chills for the never faded

sweet
stay on my mind rule my mercury
the feel of love is neat
the curious incident that manifested this artery

a crumble of pieces to get back all a dawn
a primary color
painted on my nails tickling a green lawn
can't be traded with no other odor

the sparkles danced roses over my heart
I knew the first page
would be the death of me from the start
wouldn't trade it with any other stage

how did we get there?
the possession of double happiness
the dry blood scattered in the air
moments printed in hopeful swift angriness

delusional dimensions
out of the norm
things my soul would grant a suspension
this time to welcome the storm

I don't think so
the blur of the night on a stairs
a stumble in once upon ago
brought pretty smiles in crying strands of hair

because I don't want to wake up
the dressing of sunrise capital
the unwanted, a guitar playing after my tea cup
even if the burdened wrists all heavy calculated radicals

kisses infected mere means
the days of thoughtful ventures
of doubtful summers and no sleep
something an old vanilla scent betrays a different texture

                                                        ­                            -------ravenfeels
Ayesha Oct 2021
Still they lie on the river-bed.
Unforgotten; daughters of the sun
their itching, prickling, stabbing beams
And dusks that ran ran red
But tread on, the circus just begun,
The ripples— mote by mote— by seams

The sands stir and rocks twitch
Dull-eyed creatures still non-living go
Roses bloom, say, roses rise
Once lively dawns to sacked towns switch
Body and body and body we sow
Roses bloom, say, roses rise

Say, still they lie; still sessile
Of tens a blooming heart we plucked
Still some more we knew as our own
Stumble on we desperate while
Lie we still in the river-bed tucked
Oh, those parched pieces that once shone

and these wretched blooms undying
14/10/2021

"Hello, Paul. Thank you for the comment on Roses Bloom.
Even as I write this, I realise that I did not do a very efficient job of depicting my thoughts in the poem, as I was paying too much attention to the rhymes. It was a clumsy attempt, but, well, here is what I meant to say:

The poem is about all the good parts of myself that I have lost along the way. All the versions of myself through the past, through every day (thus ‘the daughters of the sun’) that I have killed/neglected. I guess I could say that the poem is about goodness lost as one progresses through life - I do not mean that in a sense that we become bad, or that I think I did, rather that we lose parts of ourselves as we grow, and some of them also happen to be good. This poem is about a temporary state of mind that regrets all that loss.

And all the dull-eyed creatures go on, meaning that days pass on, and the waves of everyday living hide from us all those sins we committed, or goodness we lost. But the bodies still lie there, and I see them very often. They bear all the memories of myself, and they are myself, yet I can do nothing to undo my doing.

Well… It ***** that I could not write it very brilliantly so as to make the theme or message clear, but, well, thank you for reading anyway.

P.s. sorry for the rant."

[Copy-pasted]
I'm here
sitting on the comfortable chair
with all of my poems
waiting to see
what the words could describe you.

I'm here
looking the blank pages
that I so much hate
all the time when
I want to write.

I'm here
where the pain
I so much love
grows the roses in my heart
then you freely pluck me.

I'm here  
where the night
letting the rain
pouring me from the sky
trying to **** every silence.

I'm here
where the shadows
become a crowd
burning my candle
showing me a smile.

I'm here
trying to phoned you
but you weren't in it,
I'm still here
to understand my loneliness.
Indonesia, 22nd September 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
Melody Mann Sep 2021
It is not a mere assortment but a testament to the sentiment we share,
A bundle of heartfelt glee I present to you,
An array of colors crossing symbolism itself,
A gesture reigning classical to say the least,
A bouquet of roses for you my dearest,
My sincerest regards.
Darling,
the words are now wilting,
give birth to the scent of roses.
The youth we fail to understand, expectations are increasingly wanted to always be fulfilled.
Bringing the flocks,
then grow and age.
If only things couldn't go away so easily,
maybe we've always been there.
Indonesia, 4th September 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
Emily Aug 2021
When I look in the mirror I see
roses. Stark and stubborn.
Bursting from the cracks
in skin too plain
to do them justice.

When I look in the mirror I see
thorns. Threatening to break through the façade
so carefully contorted to fit
that cookie-cutter idealization
of a pre-packaged identity.

When I look in the mirror I see
monochrome; like the eyes of the beholder
who twisted my covert dissatisfaction into something--
maybe not beautiful, but at least
accepted, yes; eyes that couldn't behold
when I had my own ideations; couldn't accept
that underneath that soft, dull skin,
there were thorns.

There are thorns
and there are roses, too, when I look in the mirror--
they are engulfing my reflection;
transforming my figure into one that is unrecognizable
to those discerning eyes--

but not to mine,
these fiery red eyes of the beholder
which finally recognize beauty
worthy of love.
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