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Kassan Jahmal Jun 18
Shape of figure;
strength, courage, love,
Curved into masterpiece; a fiery heart,
fiercely burns my eyes in the wake of desires.

A dream? I hope not, for angels don't
belong in such a place. I'd choose not to wake.
Wishful thinking. I wish to have that I cannot,
that perhaps all do not. That I can't truly love.

Anguished; underfed passion, yearning the taste of tears.
Beautifully falling like rain that has blessed the grounds.
I'm on the grounds under your weight, the weight of your
desire has to my heart.

Sigh! I'm tearful at night; pillows that hold oceans,
drowning. Drowning in my vivid imaginings spent
with you.

A paint brush,—wet as lips shaking from a kiss,
it must have outlined you with I in mind.
All things I like; to experience them into love.
A clutch pencil,—clutching my heart, piercing through
my paper thin weakness towards you.
A tablespoon,—sprinkled into a dish, baked in
a maturity's time in the oven of growth.

Funny how I've kissed a thousand times those
skins of savoury lips. But wailfully, woefully,
wretchedly, and painfully you don't exist.

Just an imaginary Miss.
david jacobs May 2
wri
ting is
threading
your       life
thro          ugh
a nee         dle
and           if
you    sew
secrets
you’ll
get
po
ke
d
a
l
i
t
t
e
by me
formerly
Hg
Panda Boy Mar 29
There’s this holly tree
That can imitate
Its shape to
That of a Christmas tree,
And every time I can’t help but state
‘Doesn’t that tree look like it wants to be
A Christmas tree?’
And all year round,
My co-workers laugh politely.
M Solav Mar 22
Thought is finding its shape,
Becoming stronger,
And word by word,
Layer upon layer,
Self-erasing,
Taking form.

The mind is a collage
Creating itself from cut-up scraps;
It is a sculpture built by a flowing
Fountain of sand,
Both constantly being eroded
And being formed

And grown by the erosion,
The sculpting fingers of erosion,
The sculpted shadows of forgetfulness.
Grains of memory
Beneath the fingernails,
They fall, they forget;

One remains.
Written on January 6th, 2022.
This is a photopoetry collaboration with poet Paul Rowland (www.jonathanpicklesthecity.com).


— Copyright © M. Solav —
This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact marsolav@outlook.com for usage requests. Thank you.
YReem619 Feb 9
Your eyes looked like the eyes I’d fall in love with.
The spark they carried and the tiny sweet glimpses you made.
Writing about your eyes now makes me fall for you again, for the millionth time.
This time it is different though, because I remembered how it always ends.

So dear you, my first true love,
If you are reading this, I begin by saying I love you
In a language that you don't speak.
I loved you a love that is beyond us now,

A spiritual tie of a prayer about love,
Cried out loud within the heart of the universe.
This will remain long after you forget me,
Our love is a bouquet of memories sculpted into poetry.

Sweet and bitter poetry, imagine that
The two worlds we are collided,
Air collided with earth.
This is the contrast of breathing and not.

Until I found myself but when I looked,
I couldn't recognise myself.
I was shaped differently,
My spark has died.
Sal AK Mar 2021
As I am
As you are
As we were before trying to fit into a shapeless world
We found a place in each other's heart...
As we are
So flawless
So effortless
We fit into the shape of love.
little lion Feb 2021
My life has become a bit like a fishbowl:
the glass is thick and durable, it's supposed to
be smudge-proof, but you never fail to leave your finger-
prints behind. There are rocks at the bottom, a blend of neons:
blue and orange and pink and green and yellow, painted with the
cheap kind of paint that eventually chips away and gathers at the tip-top of the water...always mixing in with the the flimsy food flakes you toss in at mealtimes before watching with disinterested fascination as I swim to the top and sort through what's edible and what's not, as if the food is much better than the chips of paint and the dust bites that gather after a few days of sitting on the counter. My bowl stays in the sun as though the pink and purple fake plants you've given me require time spent in
the light to grow and prosper, although it is fun to check every
now and then to see how much you really care when I let
myself drift to the top of the water to bask in the glow
of either the sun or the artificial lamp that's been
placed next to my bowl. Some nights you
forget to turn it off, but I don't mind
so much because at least then I
can watch over you at night
the way you watch over
her, instead of me.
Skye Dec 2020
Some               times
We forget th        at it is better
Forgetting than     remembering
All the faults they've committed
Empty words they've said
Memories filled
with ecstasy,
Memories
devoid
of
you.
Carry on, don't let the mistakes of our past confine us and trap us
instead let them guide us, a part of who we are,
or who we were once.
◊ ◊ ◊
© Cori
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