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Himangshu Singh Nov 2020
Of shadows refrained, and
hypocrisy big brained;
labels the crops,
f'r these art c'rpses.
promises in caskets,
f'r these art showpieces.
oh palmy, thy palmy
strengtheneth thy soil
f'r t is in vengeance
too much of Shakespearean sonnets influences a lot
Himangshu Singh Nov 2020
are you still buying?
are you still buying
your tears and the sobs
from the movies and the tags;

are you still selling?
are you still selling
your highs and the lows
to the poems and the prose.
just a random thought.
loveless May 2020
"Once this fire of love used to keep me warm... Now it's dying embers set ablaze everything they touch.. Stay away, Violet. Or they will burn you too..."

"If that's true, Summer, then let me be embraced by the flames..."
Scribbles that never become a story. I write such things as a means of self-help now.
I name my characters on things close to me. Violet is my favourite colour. Summer is my last rhyme.
Jason Drury Dec 2019
These are wounds
piled on my desk.
They bleed for
attention and ink.

These are nameless,
kept away from view.
******* children,
of my quill.

Urchins in rags,
unkept and unfinished.
They haunt my dwelling,
as beggars do.

They are dismembered,
without proper structure.
Perhaps faceless,
void of identity.

Give them names,
would equate their freedom.
Label them,
and they shall see the sun.

Or not,
and leave them,
as they are.

Grey Dec 2019
Ideas swirl in my mind
Forming windstorms
That pick up scattered thoughts and words
and grow into tornadoes
that whirl across my mind.

They distract from life
From what's real
and what matters.

But when I sit down to write
They all flee in terror
And my pen hovers above the page
filled only with scribbled out phrases
and my own insecurities.
I always have these stories and ideas in my mind, but when I go to write them down, the words to do so evade me and it comes out as sloppy, half-formed, and not anywhere near as good as they were in my head.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
Alas.  Absolutely NOTHING is inspiring.


Firs hang their boughs in silence as in pale
Excuse it looks like some big snowman thence
Erm, toppled by whom, eh? lies headless hence
Upon the "island's" rim cuz oh, t'avail
Last weekend some tried to move snow sans bail,
As la, his forklift needed to fr'intents
Be wrestled from captiv'ty, as for sense
The icy pile swore it would NOT move, hale.
Now as a fragile touch of pink'd bestir
Itself to trick out blank racks 'cross the view,
Likeas a chalkboard blushing faintly fer
Effect, what drives me to complain?  Naught woo.
Nor have I watched aught movies.  What, as twere,
Culls this dull sense that nary joys now cue?

You're allowed to take out the trash, but I want to keep this particular garbage, hahaha.
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