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i am a literal thinker
something not verY useful for a pOet
For everyone else writes Using metaphors
and Dreamlike language that i dOn't kNow how
To replicate
Unless i caN somehow teach myself to
write like a poet Does
i will forEveR be loST in this ethereAl world
but at least everyoNe will think i
Dont truly mean what i say
People in real life take me too seriously. But people here don't take me seriously enough
I remember the rain, heavy on our umbrellas,  
the scent of wet earth as we walked,  
silent, yet knowing.  
You handed me the slippers first,  
a small kindness that opened a password door in my heart.  

In our classroom filled with murmurs and pages turning,  
you sat in the last row,  
your glasses catching the fluorescent light and time,  
your hairband keeping time with your movements
You were a tomboy, you said,  
but to me, you were softer than the world allowed.

A quiet building, an empty hallway,  
fries shared between words that meant everything and nothing
The pull of something unspoken  
led us up the stairs, past the classrooms where fans hummed  
to a moment that rewrote us.  

Afterward, we laughed in daylight,  
separate yet tangled,  
our conversations shifting between equations and longing.  
You had friends; I had you in the quiet.  
And then time carried us away,  
first to different cities, then to different lives.  

You reappeared in pixels and midnight messages,  
a voice from the past steadying me in my new world
But distance is a slow tide,  
pulling even the strongest memories apart
I spoke too much, stupidly shared too much, or maybe just enough,  
and you drifted again,  
this time with no promise of return.  

Now, I hold you in flashes
the rain, the fries, the hush of a stairwell,  
the echo of a name I can no longer address.
bellamy Feb 23
I thought we buried this alive but my fingers are raw and ***** from digging just to find an empty casket; it died long before we could ever bury it, and no amount of dirt or digging or wood and nails could ever bring it to life again

it died a unceremonious death, no one aware enough to mourn it because they didn’t know it was dead

we sat with the corpse because that was how it lived; silent and still but with a unfamiliar stench that everyone around can smell, but never know

if no one is mourning it, did it ever die?
wrote this on my notes app in like late 2023, posted it on medium then forgot about it till now. I would usually edit and change something like this before posting it here, but I think it's flaws and errors can show the emotional state i was in while writing more transparently than a perfectly edited and grammatically correct poem
Samuel Feb 18
Got a secret? Can you keep it?
Bury it deep in your grave.
Or I’ll knit a doll with ****** stitches,
Stern vows and broken wishes—
Bury it deep, or rot in the ditches.

Turning from my trustful gaze,
My thoughts twist through a thorny maze.
Calculating your faith,
As I sharpen my scathe.

Voices rise, a cursed din,
My ears trace every whispering sin.

Giggles fade, joy is peeled,
Just then, I know—
Your fate is sealed.

I wonder,
Why do we commit our darkest deeds, then tell?
The burn in our brains becomes a living hell.
I know you’ll tell.
I KNOW YOU’LL TELL.

Heart racing, humanity fading,
As I approach you, internally cascading.
Silent night, stone-cold face.

SUDDENLY—

Burgundy flows, sins atoned for.
My shirt stained,
With the weight of what I now bore.
No regret to shred,
Only two can keep a secret when one of them is dead.
Inspired from Pretty Little Liars Theme song.
kel Feb 14
I confessed
knowing it'll leave you unrested
this ***** secret won't be addressed
and I'll- I'll be depressed
since I'll be detested
and you'll stare at me like I'm possessed
as my heart becomes distressed
One dawn, as the earth was bathed in light, I stood in awe beneath the sky so bright, and with heart ablaze, I asked the Sun:
──────────────────
O' Sun, whose light makes the day begun,
What secret makes you blaze, a golden run?
Without your gaze, the world would be blind,
What stirs your flame, so pure, so kind?

You burn with fire, yet ask for no feast,
What makes you glow, O' radiant beast?
Your light endures, so steady and strong,
What is it that keeps you burning all along?

──────────────────

And the Sun, with wisdom deep and vast, spoke, as though time itself would breathe its last, with each word that echoed across the sky:
──────────────────
O' Jamil,
Your eyes are small to witness all I reveal,
Yet still, you seek what the soul can feel.
I burn not from hunger, nor earthly need,
But from love of the One, from whom all things proceed.

Know this, O' Seeker, the souls before you,
They too knew the light, the love, so true—
That love is the fire, the soul's true spark,
The eternal flame that lights the dark.

The wound, O' Jamil, is where the light enters,
Through love's embrace, the soul it centers.
I burn not for glory, nor for pride,
But from the One, with whom I reside.

The earth would perish without the Sun’s kiss,
A truth so profound, a cosmic bliss.
Within your heart, let love arise,
And in its glow, you’ll touch the skies.

The cup of light, O' Jamil, is never full,
It overflows from the One, boundless and beautiful.
Drink deeply, O' Seeker, from this divine cup,
For in its light, your soul will rise up.

The moment you seek is now in your grasp,
In love’s embrace, all truth will unclasp.
O' Jamil, let your heart’s fire burn,
In love's warm light, you shall return.

The souls before you have shown the way,
Let love be your light, each and every day.
For when your heart is alight with fire,
You too shall join the eternal choir.

──────────────────
Radiance of Love 07/02/2025 © All Rights Reserved by Jamil Hussain
Trinkets Jan 25
you have a secret don’t you
like a coin in the hand of
a beginner magician
well hidden for any who
never really pay attention
Nat Lipstadt Jan 25
genetic & embedded in both
the left and right brains and
heart muscles, pores and parts
that participate in the body’s
daily ritual colloquium regarding
the necessary amount of magic
needed, upkeep required,
to please the Lord, 
whose designers were
co~missioned,
tasked-to make a self healing
being, with a reasonable shelf
life but with built-in imperfections
and to struggle and to
honor  that idea that we born blind
and our goal is
learning to see,
envision
our better

version

the
correct redirection of
constant course corrections
using the
secret compass chord
playing on the harp of our
heart strings

<•>

903am
1/23/25
on a day of addition and sub traction
Zywa Jan 20
A trap? Then I'll step

into it, wondering what --


will happen to me.
Novel "a word child" (1975, Iris Murdoch), chapter Saturday [5]

Collection "Unspoken"
Today I'm feeling
Hopelessly heartbroken.
I must rediscover
Something called love.

When you were on my mind
Only you captivated me.
Rereading our love notes
Listening to your voice
Deep withing my memory.

Now I begin to settle into sleep
Effortlessly drifting off feels like
Endlessly falling
Down into a cascade of
Sweet nothings you never said.

My heart feels split in two
Ominous fears fill it constantly
Regrets keep it beating
Eerily in the silence.

Life will always be relying
On my memories of you
Vividly captured
Engrained within my head
Remembering all those
Sweet nothings you never said.
I will follow the first person who finds the secret message in this poem. Have fun!
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