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Ibekwe ifeanyi c Oct 2020
Am sticking with poetry
Hoping it be necessary
Whenever I write it seeming like a remedy
My soul ushered with liberty
Serving my mind tranquility
My eyes made open to the sweetness of the melody
Extinguishing severe malady
I start to taste truth hidden in written fallacy
Glancing through my dictionary
Sapping words consistently
Poetry unviels these and more occasionally
This is meant to be another version of my poem #poerty
Rita Sailor Jan 2019
does it even counts as 'sticking around'
if i burned the bridges leading up to your front door?
now i'm in the eye of the storm
convincing myself you're the shelter
Spencer Smith May 2018
My words bunch up in my throat.
I want to comfort people with my words, sweet as honey,
But they're too thick to come out.
I finally get them out, but they're weak and useless.
How do I get them out?

My touch falters.
I try to reach out and help with a gentle touch,
But it lands awkward and uncomfortable,
People edge away not wanting to be touched by me.
How do I fix my touch?

My eyes betray.
I try to tell stories through my eyes,
To spare people my words, that stick like honey,
I look to try and keep my poisoned hands away from them,
But all they display is hurt and sadness.
How do light them?

My writing helps.
I write down all the thoughts that stick like honey.
I try to touch the reader's heart with my words.
I hide behind a screen so they don't have to see my eyes filled with sadness.
How do I do this without a screen and keyboard?

— The End —