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Gaurav Gurung Jul 10
Ever since we gained consciousness
We were-
Taught to slit throats; not algebra and geometry
Handed not cricket bats but automated rifles

Taught not to play but to hang them by the tree
Dressed not in uniforms but bandanas over our forehead.
Sworn not to education but to shoot heartlessly

We raided a village and killed the head
Took some more of their kind
Decapitated; watched the green turn red
We smoked their temple; raised our flag
Watch the light fade
As they fell into eternal nap.

Their forces marched with guns and bombs
But mostly useless; for we hid among shadows
We reigned over branches and slit them when they least expected.
We had sworn our loyalty when we hadn't learnt to speak
We felt no joy; no sorrow
We didn't know what our future would be,
Would it be a death in the form of a bullet?
Would it be called normalcy?

One raid complete- forced to fight the next
We were always fighting for they said we were the best,
All of us had our appetite for blood,
I robbed a mother of her child-
Snapped the little thing right in front of her.
Shot one up his ******,
Plucked one off his ear-
A girl my age watched with horror, the advocacy of a Devil-
Smeared in mahogany red with gushes of fluid splashing on my face.
I gripped the machete, ready to strike
But her eyes were an aegis of her own-
An iron resistance against something that had never felt warmth,
My heart ached as if Hell was gavelling every part of me.
To tear that perfect face of hers- To gouge out her aegis with my warhammer.
Every step towards her felt heavy, so I pulled out my pistol
Aiming right towards her, my finger jammed as if the metacarpals were commanding me to stop.
I had like a Godman bestowed mercy upon her to cover up my inability to blow her the Death kiss.

As I turned the other side, a bullet flew beside my ear-
The "swoosh" rapidity bedazzled me
With anxiety and fear, I turned my back
To see my Dead Deity,
The comrade shot her dead- his unholiness pierced through her shield.
A string passed through my head and it gifted me a memory;
Of us playing in the sand building castles
Of us going to school together
Never had I seen the beach,
Never had I experienced learning,
So what was that?

After the raid was done, I plucked a blood-stained daisy and placed it over her dead body.
And to this day, I think
How life would've been
If it was different and she was with me.
Dive into a short physiological anti-war poem that incorporates obscure twists as it progresses. Hope you enjoy
Eve Jun 30
in the city i was born
beside the center of town
there’s an old cultural house
a theatre, a bar and a lounge,
all in one
with shining lights,
it greets you,
almost immersive,
with “royal”
written in cursive

welcome in
to the place where i’ve danced
with bodies of the present,
and shadows of the past,
where ghosts still sing,
buried and cast,
theatrical songs,
with melodies that last,
you may hear the message,
if you join the dance,
clear and strong
they sing
“the show must go on”
in the place with shining lights
that greets you, almost immersive,
with “royal”
written in cursive

welcome in,
where two souls,
destined by chance,
dance in a forever waltz
stuck by their hands,
they met in the theatre bar,
not sitting afar,
they gave each other a glance
their eyes stuck ajar,
they knew it was fate,
a few words exchanged,
a few sweet kisses,
and soon they would be engaged,
the unknown “mr and mrs”
and married in a place
that greats you
almost immersive
with “royal”
written in cursive

welcome in
if you come to perform
or to dance,
just know theres a chance
you’ll stay forevermore
for art or for romance
your ghost will remain
in the place with shining lights
that greets you, almost immersive,
with “royal”
written in cursive
Phoebe Jun 27
Today was not a good day.
I knew from the cracked glass,
The torn dress brushing my skin,
Memories left unlit.
I woke in a field of ruins—
Limbs weak, breath heavy.
Behind the trees: a stray dog,
Black as the edge of dusk.
Its gaze seized my insides.

Slowly, we reached a garden.
Silence settled between us
Until the dog whimpered
A sound like drowning,
And anger swelled in me again.

Today was not a good day.
It worsened, as the garden bloomed backwards.
I remembered golden lights,
Laughter that almost felt mine.
Shadows of us dancing 'til dawn,
The world, for a moment, paused.
Sweet relief, how I missed you so.
But grief leaves leftovers.

My hands had torn through debris,
My thoughts ruined every party.
All that remained was the dog,
A burden I’ve carried all my life.
When will I stop letting good things die?

Today was not a good day.
But the dog stayed, patient as always.
I promised to find it a home,
Somewhere beneath my heart of stone.
But for now, I’ll learn to let go,
Even though time keeps slipping,
And all I do is remember.
Tamara Walker Jun 12
People I know
Sing under trees
They follow the aroma
Of sweet honey bees
Gathering on graves
Forgotten black figures
With painful hums and hymns
Haunting sinful flowers
Creating sweet nectar
For tea sipping *******
Plantations engulfed in guilt
Wood and rope up in flames
Smelling of whiskey and ***
From the 1850's to 2020's
Still upright remains
The sentiments they built
Till present children dance's
Internet post gaining fame
For some to laugh at
Others show to shame
New bees beginnings
Is on the pink horizon
Feeding worm knowledge
Soils deep under feet
Seeds and black faces
Garden's uprising  
At last a brighter
Future song to sing
Damocles Jun 9
Nothing is soothing in this silence,
No static in the ears, and no waves within the canopies.
Nothing is stirring beneath the verdant cover.
Stirring chitin remains still, and not even a spider dares to tap on her limbs.
Something inexorable lurks within the fog, watching.

There must be something in the water when the mist rises in toxic cover.
Dead fish float like chopped logs from arboreal slaughter,
Skeletal deer prance with an urgent need to flee—
As the shadows morph into tenebrous forms.
Limbs outstretched, they choke the light from the sun,
And colorful flowers rot in their bloom.

A billow of smoke creates a room, walls of fog closing in on him now.
No escape from judgment as it approaches.
Hear the scrape of the scythe on pavement cutting,
The echoes of the ****** calling.
Deeds and sins replay in a cinematic recording.
When peace was offered, he did nothing.
Cold, invisible fingers catch the nape of his neck,
Grasping this wretch as the time comes.

Oh, there must be something in the water, where his ego lies and dies.
The metallic smell of old blood pollutes his senses,
Iron-laced perfume gathered on mildewed, moldy linen.
Red spots from his transgression stain his clothes.
He kneels in the shallow water, gargling black water to express his confession,
But it won’t top the procession.
It’s coming through these closing walls.

Nothing is soothing about this silence,
No miracle befitting to save the ******.
Brimstone and sulfur scents assault his senses as the fiery gates open like a welcoming parade. Fingers reach from the depths signaling charades as the reaper leaps and slashes away.
Welcome to Forever.

You’re just another, something in the water.
.I like to write poetic horror stories from time to time, and I understand I'm no Poe, Homer, Milton, or even Kipling, but I still like to tell stories poetically.
Eve May 30
a rose colored potion,
a promise to get you,
you think you’re unharmed
by the hypnotic motions,
and shielded by
the petal filled jar,
and as you stand before him
between mahogany walls
they shine rose-red
and you think
you’ll lie to sleep with seven different flowers
beneath your head

and his watered, intense stare
mirrors your black night gown
as you stand bare
you swoosh around
in your fairytale
watching yourself through his eyes
and the flowing fabric
is all there is to hear
and the man before you
is all who is near
as he keep his eyes plastered
you swear you see a mesmerized tear

you stumble unto the bed
splash down on rose petals
they rise and fall
unto your face like rose-freckles
and he walks up to ya
looking down with a grin
but his soul peek through his eyes
as if he’s never sinned
and you think his shackles remains
till he reaches to his pockets
to throw petals on your face
they fill your mouth where you’re lying
and behind you there’s something he’s eyeing
he reaches under your pillow
to throw seven different flowers as a final,
and give you seven different kisses,
before you’re dying
Eve May 17
hey, mister,
i’m sure you’re looking for someone i know
i’m sure you think
you’ll see her in the distance,
flowers in her hair, free and fair,
bathing in the meadows air,
living her life of subsistence
but oh, mister,
isolation has caused
the cease of her existence

a young doll,
with cynicism of eyes turned old,
when eyelids would fall,
so would her world,
living again once they’d open
her words were unspoken
but never untold
i’m sure it is her
that you’re looking for,
but oh, mister,
your eyes are shut with precision
in this instance,
isolation has caused
the cease of her existence

i’m sure you could see her run free
oh yes i’m sure, i guarantee
the birds would sing with her above
a familiar tune by wise trees
about knowing it all
before it begun
yes a song that would teach
how life and grief always would meet,
i’m sure it is her
that you’re looking for
oh yes i’m sure now, listen
it is without resistance, mister,
that isolation has caused
the cease of her existence
We all play a certain type of chess,
In this game, winners and losers are meaningless,
Rather, we play against ourselves. Against our emotions, thoughts and experiences,
On an infinite chessboard, the poets' pieces move one step further with every poem,
There is no completion in this game, the infinite chessboard continues to expand at breakneck speed. So fast that the playing pieces sink into infinity. We only change the color, the appearance, the type of chessboard,
So that we are no longer aware of the melancholy infinity, we hope that the poetry, the poems that we write will increasingly overgrow the playing field,
So that in the end we can say to ourselves: “Victory in The Great Game of Poets and Lyricists, is the acceptance, the recognition of infinity.
writhing in
her mind
another hellscape
trapping anyone
who looks in her eyes
because the eyes are the windows
to the soul

she runs wild through
a forest of
whispering trees
calling out
but never to her

calling for the others
the betters
because she would never
be as good as them

how could they want her?

the trees whisper her name
as a crow flies above
a single feather falls

the train of shadows
moves on
stopping only
for her

she boards it
a single crow feather
as a pass
a boarding ticket
to the end of the world

the ghostly passengers stare
and turn away,
looking out the windows
to the white abyss
of snow

the endless rattling of the train
soothing
but unsettling

a bustling marketplace
when it stops
and she takes a step out the door

here they whisper too
she sees a knife glint
a golden coin falls

the train comes again

this time the pass
a gleaming gold

but now there is no train
only an umbrella
two boots
a raincoat
pouring rain
and a girl
in the middle of it all
the puddles reflecting
who she could've been
and who she was

but never her
story poem! first time i've tried this :) (sorry it's so long the words possessed me)
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