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Nylee Jun 26
My best verses are never written
Nor do anyone gets to listen
They dance in my mind
every word properly bind

The words conjuring the bliss
the smallest sentences
with deepest meanings

disappear when I take out my pen

and start over a blank sheet
with one word staring back
Composed and forgotten

In dark abyss
absence of words in canvas
Cannot remake the very rhyme
The painted masterpiece
Stolen away as
Reality strikes again
.
Tizzop May 24
writers can have a writer's block
they may end up as a skeleton
sitting at a desktop, holding a pen
take a picture of the soul, survive

looking at it kills every distraction
listen to the indecisive winds; they float
in each nutshell is another nutshell, right?
a letter will cause more letters, won't it?

the picture of the soul: take it
walk through the ruins of the night
watch stars rolling over heavens
don't think about your inner, don't think

the horizon of fear swallows poems
poems that have never existed
the horizon of fear is a writer in disguise
poets will never be able to spot this creature

sometimes, we want to write a lot
sometimes, we want to write less
take a picture of the soul and go on
come on: take this picture, my friend

the ruins of the night are made of letters
skinny letters will grow into heavy words
words become verses and they transform
come on: take this picture, my friend

a picture of the soul kills all the ghosts
write about it and let go, heaven and hell yeah!
vampires and writers adore the ruins of the night
a blank desk, now covered with words and muse

this poem doesn't have an end but a final
i am sending you these letters, here they are
chaos quietly rages in rivers of newness
take a picture of the soul, take these letters, friend
Tonight is a good night.

Inspired to write this poem by:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MGbC730C4BA
Nylee Apr 20
The heart beat beats
Intrinsic and poetic
Describing my heart desire
But i don't speak it
who is to tell me the verses
of my inner fire
?
Nylee Apr 5
I am most true
in poetry,
sides of me
which i never knew
comes alive
writes verses,
disappears.
Unaware me,
cannot identify
a soul to soul
melody
passes through words.
It is gold dust
touching the being
vanishing out the window,
through walls
and in the deep blue sky
.
Anu Mishra Mar 26
My Pantry

I panicked in the storm, afraid
nothing to bargain or trade

sustenance or reprieve
bewildered and bereaved

to acquire or do without
I walked for miles in doubt

through the tempestuous skies
I looked at the field behind my eyes

I circled around and found
my pantry still abound

the sheesham shelves were old
the walls covered in mold

a smiling monsoon
coconut ladoos likened to the moon

stolen biscuit jars
they’d travelled from afar

half eaten cadbury’s bars
reminiscent of sibling wars

jars of kindness
marmalade bitter and timeless  

pickles of surprise
cakes made of rice

curiosity in spice caddies
an old healer of maladies

my fears left me to wander
my will now fed and stronger

I had no reason to despair
my pantry overflowing, I had so much to share
A look through my own emotional larder in times of a pandemic.
V Jan 21
Reassignment: Verses in Fragments


i. awake

Piercing, ruthless -- no maybe relentless is better. Awakening from a grasp so harsh, tethered to icy ****** of expectations. Words of coercion and malice ring, slamming like thunder, fluid with heterodoxy: you're an it huh? look at him -- it's a him you wanna be right?

    Laughs, indecent and rioting, and that ruthless charade of orthodox behavior hurt him. Hurt them. Awake to who they were. Hard to grasp, terrifying yo admit, punching the ticket to their own match.

    Tears stretched past the brims of swollen eyes, enduring each hurled assault of syllables -- how do I stop it?

ii. begin

Refuge in a screen, in the safety net of a bridge reality. Asylum found in the hands of similar misfits. The insults of it from verse i. -- it?

    Heard so many times perhaps it had been a level hard to be clear of. Bubbling and morbidly sticky at the surface of their own secret.

   Hands clutched to their skirt on Sunday for church, hands digging into the flesh of their thighs on a Saturday night. Under the escape of another human -- another person not from the retrospective circle of heterodoxy that suffocated them.

iii. epiphany

Saccharine puffs of fingertips bloomed on the bridged hips. Tears or resentment upon discovering the geography of an anatomy assigned without intervention.

   The revelation of gestured dreams, honey coated and dripped in the cloak of youth, cinched with the bodice of their crippling environment.

    What are you? -- Asked over and over, trying to present for a world of alienated oddities and and disorders. Clutch again. Fingers deeply dug into the hems of their skirts, in the fabrics of hidden flannels and binders wrapped in secret around the channel of their chest.

      Fluid. Changing. Unsure spoken in response.

iv. shadow

Hide behind the familiarity of cyclonic and disposed love and consciousness. Stumbling winds and scraped egos are less than transparent, seemingly an impossibility among the issues they feel.

     The dark cloak embodies the identity, the presentation and realization of being trapped.

     Monitoring the standards that wouldn't categorize them as the genuine way they see themselves, presentation the frugal decoration they dangle to the orthodoxy of society to stay hidden.

v. persona

Fingertips fidgeting with the sirens of noise, laughs and loud voices fill halls, centers. They weren't meant for this, meant to be so forced into the social structure that terrifies them.

     Pads of scarred flesh rooting from the bottom up, eyes glimpsing the possibility of others around them.

   Those saccharine touches of loathing and the journey for love and acceptance remains fragmented, continuous, and fluid.
annh Sep 2019
Outta whack,
Outta sync,
Wanna write,
Can't think.

Words dance,
Outta time,
Mismatched,
Bad rhyme.

Lines smash,
Commas fight,
Vowels heave,
Rhythm's *****.

Verses clatter,
Phrases crunch,
****** muse's
Gonta lunch.

Gotta write,
Gotta pen,
Words'll come,
Dunno when.

Day's boshed,
Outta sight,
Gonna bed,
Good night!
‘Nonsense wakes up the brain cells. ...If you can see things out of whack, then you can see how things can be in whack.’
- Dr Suess
annh Sep 2019
This morning I awoke with a cluster of words resting in the palm of my hand, my fingers tracing their gentle form like the decades of a rosary. On the tip of my tongue a song, a story, a fable of experience, existence, and eternity lay dozing.

There I floated between my inner and outer worlds, an exquisite confluence of wakeful consciousness and drowsy carelessness, until daybreak shook the last of sleep from my tousled dreams and my verses disintegrated like dust into the ether. It was at that moment, when the cool breeze through the open window intervened and the thrum of traffic in the distance drew me out from beyond the covers, that I lost my poem.

I know it will return: as droplets of rain on window glass, or as threads of loose cotton on a frayed cushion cover, in the rhythm of a lazy Sunday afternoon, or in the sigh of the ocean’s flow. All of these are mesmerising in their effect, some intangibly soulful, others enticingly tactile. All are enough to quiet the chatter of the quotidian mind and allow the delicate operations of the creative imagination to reign.

Only then, will I attempt to commit my words to paper...and you shall read them here.

Where do all the lost words go? Do they know their way home? Do they come with contact details attached? If not, does that mean they get confused and end up inside someone else’s head? Did I post your poem my mistake? Did you post mine?
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