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Did your body not warn you
before you were wrung dry?

The day you found yourself depleted,
the nights that lead upto it became fragile,
your cell heavy as they were heaved onto the bed.

Did you not listen to your body,
when you woke up with a heavy chest
and your body begged you to sleep?

Did you not acknowledge your heart
when it had become
a black hole the night before
as it ****** you out in.
Your bones like gravestones
prominent among the barren skin.

Did the suffocating dark matter
not ring louder
as you gasped for air with burnt lungs.

When you stood there overworked,
with signals mixed and sensitive
rewired and tangled
did the response fit their norm of you?

Did your voice not thud,
with the lump in your throat?
Did your heart not pound
against your ribcage,
your stomach not curdle
with that war in your chest,
as your mind raced
and your chest pressured as you tried
to clutch that breath?

Did your hormones
not muddle with your thoughts?
Did they not drown them in depths
and set them on fire all at once?
Did it not ache your muscles
before it all turned red?

Did your body not scream
when they came near?
Your feet cemented,
as your body froze?
Did your gut not twist
till you felt nauseous?

Did your toes not curl
when the feeling sunk
through your spine,
sat in your bones
like an unwanted guest,
and you like an unwilling host?

Did you not feel the chill
shiver down your spine
as terror spread across your face
and painted it white
before the quake came?

Did you not acknowledge
your body is the vessel
that you kept giving and pushing
depleting it of the right to rest
rather than opening
it to the abundance of love
it was surrounded by.

Your body became over extended,
your mind became forgetful
a body that is now a red flag;
travesty.
- SabilaSiddiqui ©
Ken Pepiton Aug 2019
nuero
tribal tales, too many memories here,
tuning
to the story channel
...
said Noah to his grandpa,

nah,
Methusalah say,

I expect they imagined this
fixes next,

wait and see,
times like these,

they pass. Build the box.
Radioman, and old voice
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
why I love certain men


it’s a raining and writing Saturday,
a washout for the beach visitors who chose their
calendar lottery tickets poorly

but hurrah and huzzah for the poet
in the no-sun-today-room with
steam collecting on his face from his 20 oz. Canadian mug,
the rest of him cozied neath a
wooly mohair knitted and tasseled blanket,
from a now naked and shivering alpaca goat in Turkey or Tibet

perhaps we’ll make a tiny dent
in the 1319 poems,
in the ‘sorta started to do’ list

****.
new one sneaks in demanding immediate satisfaction
and threatening my mind’s incarceration unless,
serviced and unleashed as the Frenchies say

Frites, immédiatement!: (french fries, now!)

I love most men; certain men more than others,
not because they are soft to the touch,
look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe,
lay hands on animals, just as they do upon their grandchildren,
or write better poetry than me,
because
they make me weep from zealous delight at
their capricious unprecedented constancy of their
honorable actions

they are soft to the core, which is itself
wrapped in a leather soldered steel,
which defines them by their self-questing constant,
asking themselves preface and postface,
doing it well, in between,

what is the honorable thing?

this honor idea of which writ previous
doesn’t dissolve - indeed grows crescendo stronger,
like the miracle of the Yom Kippurs rams horn
crying out to heavens at the concluding end  
on the holiest judgement day,
a shofar miracle for it inhumanly grows ever louder,
ceasing only when nightfall marks a new day begun,
reminding both sinners and saviour each,
to inquire of their colluding selves on this forgiveness-giving day,

what is the honorable thing?

some are borrowers and some lenders,
of anything, the substance or the whom matters not,
but the bonding bonfire from which the deal is done,
is of a uncharted organic chemical matter unrecognized
but millennium ancient


here I stop

the call to breakfast must be obeyed,
for it’s with lovely made, menu man-poet requested,
this is too an honorable thing to do,
and the 1319 half blood~half writs poking my eyes,
can be faced with new courage afterwards
on a perfect raining and writing Summer Saturday
for the next one hopefully and woefully

may not come till the September (Rosh Hashanah/Jewish New Year) when acorns fall

certain men will greet that fall Sabbath/ New Years Day,  
when Atonement begins, a ten day process to the final conclusion,
by asking of everything living and of every act human performed,
for the forgiveness requested inherent in the absolute bar setting of

what is the honorable thing?

which by the by,

is why I love certain women too...

and all who are honorable
will read this honorific and remain
clueless as to whom it is addressed...

oh god, I do so love that best!

what could signal honor even more...
Shiv Pratap Pal Jan 2019
Vow
A well known judge
Was very well known
For his high self esteem
For his wonderful ego

He always felt like a king
The king, the Maharaja
Who always strived to eliminate
All the evils, all the sin

He vowed to himself that
He will not take rest
Until and unless all the flaws
Of the system gets revealed

To fulfil his vows
He kept on finding faults
And discovered many of them
One by one, one by one

He vowed again that
He will not take rest
Until and unless he fixes the flaws
Through his claws

But he himself got entrapped
In the net laid by the culprits
The net was almost invisible
Far beyond the judge’s imagination

The Judge exercised his powers
To punish the culprits
But the signals from the net
Distorted few signals of the brain

The results were very simple
Innocents were hanged
The king showed sigh of relief
After all he had fulfilled his vow.
Who is the real Controller? Who has the real power? Who Manages Everything?
A Simillacrum May 2018
I load a fat bowl.
I insert stem.
I trust my lips
at the hole.

I see a split world.
I hold it in.
I let the lies
matter not.

Beyond a pale veil
beats the bitter heart
the soul of destruction.

In its own realm
it lacks the fear to lie
so it reigns unashamed.

I burn more trees.
Invite the ash in lung.
I cough out Ebajalg.
Invite the joy return.

Wind through the lazy curtains of my window,
Music enter my limbs through vibrations in my toes,
Lit only in moon and blue cyber light I ignite the signal fire,
For someone, somewhere, also in sweat in demon dance.
Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
Let us write our stories  
Reckon all moments
A passage to self-reflection  
With a display box of grandeur,  
Fingers on a key pressed,  
Levitates a search in no time,
Way out of the crowd  
Quiting a reality to roam and wander  
Nothing is outside, all within  
A big circle of virtual connections,  
Without months of eye contacts  
No face to face,  
Sending empathy through e-thoughts

Having a common ground,  
Hope to run faster than Terabyte,  
We love seconds more than a minute  
WiFi made all worth living  
Sending signals to the soul  
We will feel it, anyway.
Shared from my Anthology, Canvas: Echoes and Reflections, 2018.
Wyatt Feb 2017
I'm hurting and this
isn't something you can stop and treat.
This follows me, echoes behind my triumphs
and it screams louder than ever when I fall.
I've lived my life as best as I can,
but you learn that it isn't enough.
I'm hurting and I don't want
you to hear it from me
because it'll eat you alive too,
but ironically I'm still putting the words in order.
Ready to send a mixed signal.
A plea and a warning.
m i a Feb 2016
i'm like a wifi signal,
and i'm connected to
you and only you
it's true though,
every time you leave
my signal turns low
and i can no longer function
but then every time you say
hi my connection goes to
an all time
high.
im like a wifi signal,
and im connected to you and only you.
<3
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