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Sora Sep 2024
Is poetry like rubbing salt on already open wounds,
or is it what heals them?

Is it the cure to the poison present in our soul,
or is it, instead, the bane of what we feel?

what if in lieu,

poetry is what keeps mankind alive
through words once unsaid and unwritten.

It carries on our prophecy
and alleviates the vague suffering
present in the deep pit of our insufferable, mortal minds.

Poetry,
is the way our soul inevitably bleeds.
that would mean our soul has bled too much.
The hammer is falling, my fists are clenching, my teeth are gnashing while my bones are crunching. Waves of pain are crashing, smashing against me, finally breaking. This level of pain can't be good to be taking, bad for my health. The voices are calling but no one is there, not even myself. My blood is pumping, sped by adrenaline dumping. The lack of the drug is inducing my mind to start seizing, both my legs are freezing, involuntarily quaking. The sensation of claws are slashing my back. As my heart keeps thumping, jumping around - heart attack? Now my blood is pooling. So the attack dogs keep drooling. They smell the blood and begin to whip into a frenzy, so I jump up, and run like McKenzie. Moving fast, as if I had wheels, one dog was faster and now nips at my heels. The dog bit my foot so I tripped and then fell. Now it’s gnawing on my leg, and I don’t feel very well. So I patted the dog’s head and then laid down for a spell…will I wake up? Only time will tell. When I come to my senses I won't feel at all well. Life hurts at times, unbearably so. If not for Divine intervention, I'd much rather go.
(Alright. So I took an older, rather cruddy poem, reworked and reworded it, retitled it and now it's a new rather cruddy poem, that's a whole lot less cruddy, and may even be alright in someone's opinion...my fingers aren't crossed though. But, it's much better [again, in my opinion], more specific than the original poem was and titled more accurately. I hope you find something of some value in there. It's satisfying to improve something that was previously much less than mediocre... 😄) Neat, I just looked at this after fixing typos and noticed it'd been "seen" 23 times (probably all from myself, checking the text again & again for errors).. that's just my favorite number, is all. 23. Neat. Oh! Music playing while writing, was Morphine's album, "a cure for pain". Excellent saxophone & slide bass!
Sleepy Dori Sep 2024
Suffering
borne by each being
Plays no role in determining
fast or slow, our planet's spinning

In question of meaning
some believe it's God's doing;
Will and endurance tested
is an act of reverence proven

I'd resort to a poem
It's, at least some entertainment
Seeing all sorts of pain squeezed
into a handful of rhyming bitterness

If suffering is bound to happen
Let us raise our glasses
in honor of blood and tears
Say, in poetry, we trust
Kavya Vats Sep 2024
Sleeping, waking up, rotting and then sleeping again.
This cycle just never seems to end.
I've fallen into a loophole of desires and ambitions,
But if I'm being honest, I want them none.
Why isn't loving a job?
Why hasn't the world got any love at all?
If I could love, I'd tear this earth apart,
To dig out the affection from its core and carry it all in a cart.
And then I'll distribute it to all of their hearts.

And here we go, I dreamt again.
Besides the fact I spend sleepless nights
And to all the suffering that I had to befriend,
My soul now longs for something that ignites.
Ignites the enthusiasm,
And makes me want to grow.
I live everyday hoping my heart would spasm,
And my brain would go with the flow.

I wish to be a star,
I wish to be the moon,
I wish to never fall apart
And I wish to get such a boon.
But my body is such a goon,
It makes me feel like I'm committing a crime.
I'm living too hard,
It even makes me rhyme.
it's silly because I'm still young
Ryan Sep 2024
Summers warm grip smiles,

Morphs in winters icy stare,

My love for you wanes.
Ryan Sep 2024
People think that pouring gold onto our skin,

and dressing in Gods’ gown and Jewlery

will spring angels upon our plate,

and we can feast like it's our last meal.

but our skin is rather useless,

it hides our heart and soul,

drowns it in confusion and

stabs its arms and legs to a cross,

lingering in the single moment,

never to move with the essence of time,

Frozen.



Our hearts are who we are truly,

not the skin we wear,

or the snapshots of their whole existence  

we have imagined

to capture the essence of their character.



People are more than a moment,

they are a transcendental soul,

trapped in the weak boundaries of human nature.
Priyal Sep 2024
He came covered in a dark cloak
To cause destruction and pain
He started in china in the winter
Then came to italy and spain

He quickly spread to every nation
With tentacles of despair
Causing hurt and devastation
Thriving on weakness and fear

Little did he know
There she was, the power of light
Bringing together humankind
Not to divide but to unite

She helped them rise and build their strength
Making a worldwide deal
To shine above him
To love, to learn, to heal
Little, large and tiny embers
Flew as if they’d grown their own feathers,
As flames erupted from my armchair leathers,
And long forgotten, left behind endeavours,
I am now standing near a man-made crevasse.

Feeling fire consuming my internal threshold,
Its painful lair,
Whilst emitting a strange glare,
My legs are shaking, and my hands and feet are bare.
I’ve no more knives and needles left to spare.

My potted roses have now withered,
The moment for I so long have lingered.
Their armaments in time became so dull,
Grinding my eternal thoughts into a lull.
The pain just never stops, I guess.
It doesn’t matter if their thorns sting less and less.

Her tender, warm and flower-scented head–
Oh, how I wish I could have pumped it full of lead.
And what of our dreams of an ascetic rural livelihood?
I reckon that moment you weren’t in the mood.
Us slowly splitting moisty birchwood logs.
Beloved, it seems it’s raining cats and dogs.
But now it’s nevermore;
I feel I’ve changed my history and lore
For this moment and evermore.

Or have I just repressed my need for gore?
A fairy meadow shaken to the core–
Before me the country house, I enter may not dare.
It is now derelict, in disrepair,
Winds sweeping through its crooked wooden stair.
I sense that deep inside she never even cared.

And I am crawling spitting blood and ash.
Fires burned my limbs into a pile of scorched flesh,
Life fleeting from my helpless carcass,
But now I have become Augustus–
Eternal city,
Our Rome I set aflame
With wood you brought, I know it isn’t fair,
Just as my radiant words fell into your ashtray.
I shall not lie,
Countless cats and dogs falling from the sky,
Of our beloved pets, corpses lying here and there.
We often get lost in our bubbles
Caught up in our very own troubles
But it’s equally rotten
For those we’ve forgotten
Remember that everyone struggles
Saleh Ben Saleh Aug 2024
In my darkest hour my thoughts wander, sometimes too far and sometimes just yonder. I find myself in total darkness, without a torch or word of kindness.

Entrapped in space, where sorrow thrives, enduring the pain of a thousand knifes. I feel the tears gather in my eyes, as a hundred questions in my mind arise.

A place beyond, where the forsaken dwell, between the garden of Eden and the gates of hell. Where there is no sound but the sound of silence, or desperate laughter, or cries of violence.

The taste of bitterness ran in my mouth, as my head revolved, from north to south. My heart beat accelerated and exceeded the rate, while on its drums, it violently played.

I hear the queries in the drummers beat, should I advance or should I retreat? My soul is standing on some rocky ridge, do I descend or just cross the bridge?

My thoughts are shattered, for help I call, but my words resonate in a desolate hall. Amidst of worries I seek a light, a sign of hope, or a hand of might.

I have grown weary while strength I assemble, as my feeble hands began to tremble. It could be  light there in the distance, must I bide or seek assistance?

To my Lord I appeal in times of stern, at one’s leisure, good deeds you should earn. My heart is joyful, when dancing to its beat, what tasted bitter, has now turned sweet.
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