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Eloisa 5d
I don’t need beautiful music to continue
to dance.
I don’t need perfect words
to tell you my life story.
My life is shown in the grace of each sunset
and sunrise.
It is written in the blackness of the night up until the light of each day.
It is felt in the coarseness of the sand
and in the softness of the clouds.
It is heard through the songs of the birds
and the psalms from the still water.
Each of my story is part of the dust and hopeful seeds blown and scattered by the joyful winds.
The magic, the majesty, the glory of everything that surrounds me.
Every single moment is a memory.
A wonderful memory of my story.
Maelynn 7d
Ripe feelings fill the balmy air
And ride the summer breeze
They twist and dip and whisper
Throughout the wizened Trees

They paint a vivid picture
Full of memory
Of a once caged heart
Now soaring full and free

They tell their tale with gusto
A sense of hushed pride
They speak softly to the flowers
Of a love that’s undenied.

The flowers tell their flower friends
Then those, they do the same;
Every blooming rose bush
Knew the couples names

They gossiped and they whispered
All chattering with ease
Till the story shuffled off
With a couple bumbling bees

These bees they traveled far away
Telling the tale along their ride
Of loves triumphs and elations-
And soon they heard she’d be his bride
And buzzed “congratulations!”

The couple looked into each other’s eyes that day
And said their loving I dos
While Mother Nature smiled on
Delighted by the news
LC Jun 4
she studies his soft features
with furrowed eyebrows,
catching every detail
in the palm of her hand.
the palm lines show their story.
It's been a while :)
Ahmad Attr May 31
O whisperer,
When I die, I want you to visit my home
As a final wish
There in bedroom, take off the clock from the wall
Behind it, in a secret orifice, you’ll find a steel box
With a numeric lock
Enter 2.12.19, it is the exact day I fell in love with you
The exact day, you became the whisperer
And within this tiny box, you’ll find letters
These were the letters I wrote
And pretended I sent to you
I want you to read them all
I know you might not understand them
So I want you to reach out to someone
Who can explain them to you
After that I want you to burn them all
Although I assume you might already want to do that
In your fury, in your disgust
you might want to turn them into ashes and dust
But I hope you do try to understand them

Don’t let my words get to your head
Yes I called you many things
Loud, arrogant, mean, selfish
Chameleon, hypocrite, liar, egocentric
Which to be fair you were
But you were also my true love
Yes, if you haven’t realized that yet
I will say it again I do love you
For a long time, it feels like 100 years,
Centuries, lifetimes
For all this time, your thoughts tormented me

So O whisperer!
Will you remember me?
At least for 100 days?
Will you think about me
When you to go sleep?
Will my face linger in your head?
Will you think about everything you said?
Will you finally come to visit me when I am dead?
maybe shed a tear? Just a tiny droplet of it
What will you say, when you get the news?
O whisperer! There is nobody to blame
Except the fate,
But please visit my grave, alone, finally alone
Preferably late at night, perhaps 22.32,
The exact hour I fell in love with you
Will you remember me for at least a 100 days.
Lo May 28
Journal entry
May 7, xxxx

She knows I love her, my creature. Of course she does.
There are still secrets between us; there might always be. We haven't decided.
You see, some lovers- they reach a point- where they dance that silent dance, and wordlessly through looks and smiles, will decide that some secrets will always be secrets. Others say everything, and find strength in doing so. We're not there yet. And so, some things remain unspoken.

A secret I keep from her now is- I know what she is, yes, but I can't help but think of her as the opposite sometimes. A thing not with dove wings and a halo, like the paintings, but a creature with thick, rubbery wings. Heavy horns sitting on her head. There is something uniquely dark about her.

There is so much I still don't know. There is a heaven, is what she's told me. It isn't as beautiful as you think, she says. When I ask her if there is a God, she looks away. And I know there is something in my question that brings her pain. She has never answered the question.

She still walks to her lake. (Yes- it's hers now.) She visits it often.
She does it at night, when I'm asleep. But I wake easily in her presence. I've caught her walking towards the wood. I know it's the lake she goes to. It must be. I've never followed her.

She thinks she hides it well. But I can tell there is a rage. You visit your lake in secret, and what would you have to hide, if not the fact that over there you must be inflicting yourself with some violent ritual. Something I should not see. You must have some kind of terrible thing inside of you. Divine grief, or envy, something that must be gnawing at your heart. I can see it in your eyes.

Why won't she tell me? I worry sometimes that I'll never be allowed to help her. I suffer with these thoughts, and she doesn't say a thing.

There are silences like arrows, aimed at you, meant to **** you. Meant to maim the heart. But not hers.
Her silence is the kind that hurts to look at, because you know it isn't a choice. The more I **** the more her throat seems to tighten. It's as if she wants to tell you everything, but physically can't. As if telling you was an arrow. As if telling you her truths and her fears would

  **** her


I want to know why she goes to the lake, I do. I want to know what happened before. What is God to you, what has he done? Tell me please, even if I am not enough, even if I am just the rabbit you tell your sorrows to. I may be from another world, I may be the animal unable to ever understand your pain, but my ears are long and my eyes are big and I will listen and watch you intently. I love you.

Sometimes I think I'm too small. How could a thing like you choose a thing like me? The thought used to **** me. I'm learning not to spiral. Even if you won't help me. I have to stay strong. I have to show patience.
Yes, if she wants to keep her secrets, then keep her secrets she must. I worry about her, but what can I do. I can only be patient. I can only do what I can. I can only love her until she decides to bloom before me.

My angel who howls by the moonlit lake.
I will wait for you.
Bailey May 27
A glance below
Reveals a mudded water
Reflecting the city lights from above

Tightly closed eyes
Squeeze out the few tears that remain
A wind so cold it slices through the skin

The pretend future flashes in the dark
A writer
Who's work stands tall with the best

As this battle runs on repeat
Sanity becomes a luxury
That can't seem to be purchased anymore
Ahmad Attr May 26
Times and times again
I get this ugly temptation
To confess my love to you
But there are some conditions
You have to be alone in your room
You also have to be in a good mood
Third you must not be armed
Preferentially your arms have to be tied
Finally I want you to listen to me
Until I am satisfied
Only then you can speak your mind
I will talk about your genesis as the whisperer
And mine as a poet
The December night when you whispered
A ***** little thing you saw, at a party
At that point I truly saw you,
First time not diluted in the background
An orchestra of violins, pianos and trumpets
Played as I gazed at you snowed under the lights
Standing two stairs above me
That night your name was etched on my mind
then on my forearm which I will kiss before bed
and then in every fibre of my existence
I miss those days, when every stranger's face was yours
Every voice was mistaken to be yours
I shed tears pretty as the mistletoes
Because you were cruel
You said awful things, you did them too
Didn’t understand which way the wind blew
For three months I loved you
Like my life was dependent on it
But then we were separated
Deep within me, I was relieved
I thought I could escape your curse
I didn’t though
you came back, harder than before
you wanted help which I was glad to do
I wanted to latch on to anything that resembled
You, you, and you
And when the parting was over
I came back, but you were still cruel
Like you were back in December
And at the end of my manifesto
I will look into your eyes, and say
I still feel the same way

I assume at that point there will be two possibilities
You either hate me for life
Or you want to end me
If I am right, I’d rather have you **** me
People often raise eyebrows
For how candidly I talk about death
They don’t know I fear it, more than they do
But sometimes it is a preference
Over something else in life
So in the name of virtues
I permit you to end mine
This is a very personal and autobiographical poem.
dailythoughts May 24
summer begins with the sun
& ends with me in your arms
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