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Shiva Chauhan Jun 20
In the echoes of love untold,
The very heart I kept her hold,
Burned and ripped apart, my soul,
I shall sit and request my tears to fold.

She's not coming back, I know, I do,
I choose waiting, that's surely true,
The love I once had, so divine,
Oh, I'm dying to call her, "MINE".
Still waiting… even when I know she won’t return.
Zywa Jun 20
In nice clothes I wait

and await, it takes so long --


before you touch me.
Collection "Local tardiness"
badwords Jun 19
A call not about
Sweepstakes I never entered
Just a wrong number
In this minimalist yet emotionally layered haiku, the speaker recounts a seemingly mundane event: receiving a phone call that turns out to be a wrong number. However, the poem uses this incident as a metaphor for the larger emotional experience of entering new relationships—particularly the hopeful, uncertain space where romantic potential lives and often dissolves.

The poem opens with “A call not about,” a line intentionally left incomplete, evoking a sense of open possibility. It invites the reader into a moment of suspended expectation, paralleling the anticipation often felt when meeting someone new. This expectation is expanded in the second line, “Sweepstakes I never entered,” which cleverly captures the irrational hope for sudden emotional reward—desire without groundwork, love without history. The speaker knows the odds, yet still yearns.

The final line, “Just a wrong number,” delivers an understated but poignant turn. What initially felt like fate or connection is revealed as coincidence—an impersonal glitch mistaken for meaning. In doing so, the poem critiques the human tendency to romanticize beginnings, projecting possibility onto strangers, only to face the quiet disillusionment that follows.

Through everyday imagery and restrained language, the poet reflects on the fragility of expectations in modern connection. The piece resists melodrama, instead presenting romantic disappointment with irony and emotional clarity, suggesting that in love—as in life—what feels destined is often accidental.
Lee Holloway Jun 18
When does the film begin
when does the film begin
           I've been waiting so long
          with a bowl of popcorn
When does the film begin

When does the programme start
when does the programme start
         I'm in theatre one
         where the curtains are drawn
When will the programme start

When does the film begin
When does the film begin
        I've turned off my phone
        now I'm sitting alone
When will the film begin

First act!
              Second act!
                                Third act!

When does the programme start
When does the programme start
        Your story's done
         Mine hasn't begun
Oh when will my programme start
Emery Feine Jun 17
I was sinking to the bottom of the ocean
I hoped you hadn't pushed me
I looked at you with tears in my eyes
I hoped you didn't see

I was waiting for you
Waiting for you to return
I was waiting for you to call
I hope one day I'll learn

I saw you choose your friends over me
But did I cross the line?
And I saw blood on your hands
I just hoped it wasn't mine
death to the lover that you were dreaming of
Zywa Jun 11
Recovery can

take a long time, like waiting --


for what is over.
Collection "Local tardiness"
Sophie Jun 9
I see some kids heading home from school,
bent over from the weight on their backpack.
In Palestine, children bear the politician’s schemes on their backs.
And bend further down,
grieving their parents’ lifeless forms.
Children, who used to be whole,
have their limbs torn off,
skin hanging from their faces and hands.

On my visit to the shop,
I see a kid throwing a tantrum over not getting sweets.
In Palestine, children hear cries of the wounded,
screaming for help.
While the world stands silent, aid delayed.
Red capes, a stone in their hands and a imaginary knife in their
teeth, they die as martyrs.

Politicians, no way you’d wield ruthless might,
If they were white children in your sight.
Cadmus Jun 5
🚪

Tell those latecomers,
they are too late.

No longer welcome.

The longing that once burned for them,
now sleeps in ashes they cannot revive.

Even beauty,
once able to undo me,
now passes by,
unseen,
untouched.

For what fails to arrive when it’s needed,
doesn’t arrive at all.

Excessive waiting takes its toll,
and the loss is permanent.

⌛️
Some doors don’t slam… they simply stop opening.
Arii Jun 3
If I’m here long enough and didn’t stray too far away,
Would you maybe,
Somehow,
Possibly
Want to stay?

It’s taken many hours and is taking many days,
So,
could you be the one to
end my wait?

Oh, if I were to be quiet and I were to be devout,
Would it be too much to ask for you to
linger around?

I’m sorry if I’m too much and
I’m sorry if I’m not enough
But would it be to much to ask for you
To be around?
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