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Keerthi Kishor Nov 2019
Eventually, we all become somebody else.

Some become the fathers they wished
to have had in their childhood.

Others become the mothers
they despised growing up.

Some become the friends
they kept a rat race with.

And some others become
the man or woman
they want to marry.
But you’ll get tired of it sooner or later.
maybe you feel about it…

…the way i feel about it

realizing that

we really dont feel

anything . . .

. . . at all

and so

we

elude

our

feelings . .

. . . to chase the truth

only to realize that

we’ve been standing in it

all along . . .

© Mahogany Ree

5-14-19
Colored men don’t talk,
Like in the history books.
Their job is to work *****,
Expect (less) what they deserve.
Their potential doesn't matter.

Young men don’t talk,
Doesn’t sound right for their age.
Their job is to stay back, observe,
Let someone (egotistic) mature talk.
Their competence doesn't matter.

Emotional men don’t talk,
People hate tears.
Their job is to **** it up,
Have a (stone-cold) strong heart.
Their credibility doesn't matter.

Unless they accept the truth,
That the world we live in is,
(Racist, narcissistic, bland.)
Perfect in every way.
Their words don’t matter.
I don't think this site supports strick through words, so the words in parenthesis are to be considered in strick through format.
In the end I think
the pain was too much to bear
to see such behavior coming from someone so beautiful
to see such hatred towards myself
coming from my own eyes,
eyes as lush and green as a forest canopy
at least that is how you described them back then

but your own eyes,
deep blue pools of loathing
for me
for her
for everyone around you,
they tell me what you truly mean.

That my eyes are dull and ugly
and better off looking in a different direction
and that you don't care what I do anymore
nor did you ever care

As long as no one is by my side
and that I do not exist to anyone other than myself

you will be happy
Most poems I write comes from personal experience if anyone cares to wonder. I don't listen to him anymore.
The words we say to you
aren’t strictly true
as much as they do
what we want them to

shaped and spun
with hidden gears
so when they reach ears they fit
K-chick!
neatly settling
without drawing attention
to the shabbiness
and moth holes

Look here my good man!

Hand shadows dancing
on a bright screen
hiding meaning
in dumb show gestures
of duck quacks and rabbit concerns

In Oz, the wizard’s heart came good,
behind our curtain
you’ll just find avarice
and certainty
that a brief, gout ridden future
means more to us than you
Nidhi May 19
Honey never rots
Just like a soul
Never goes bad
But if you add vinager to honey it's no longer good
But once you hurt a soul with unfelt vinager
He will never be the same
The honey won't go back to being sweet
A soul may never go back to honey
Or at least he will never be the same
Owen Mar 7
After so long
I let my heart bleed out
on my sleeve
on my tongue.
And you countered with reason,
left me pale,
as my life blood spilt
and pooled
so deep I drowned.
You flayed my psyche.
Left my intentions bare
for me to see.
Was this love?
I had just grown wings
and you tore them from my flesh
in seconds.
And I fell from a cloud,
back into my shallow grave,
buried in closure.
his lines are hard edged, bolded in black
my pastels dance around his monochrome colored tracks
i feel at ease in this trance
and yet when our lines overlap
i feel the wall against my back, i feel my heart under attack
it feels too good to stop, and too bad to relax
i taste ashes on my tongue
my will drained like wine
on a wednsday night

i still feel so numb
my motivation dies like vines
left to wither with no light
this is a warning to my future self, but it also feels like dejavu
I have everything I want. But my mind still visits times we had together. It's melancholy really. A beautiful time shared between us when we  had been so lost ourselves.  But yet we found some type of hope inside our wicked bodies.
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