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Aus 6d
I talked to my therapist today
for the 7th time
it was like the 2nd, 4th, and 5th times
where I felt and listened and talked and explained and felt
but it wasn’t like the 1st, 3rd, or 6th times
because I didn’t feel better
The 7th time was like the 7th time
It matched the circular stencil I trace
when I try to fix myself in my head
I was me during the 7th time
But something
had turned my volume down

The other times I wore a smile hard enough to make her think I’m kind and interesting  and okay like I do with everyone
This time though, I was being held by my brain like an ant in a glass box
And the heavy invisible walls of the glass box are like my emotions that make it harder to breathe sometimes
and I repeated a lot of what we discussed during the 1st, 3rd, and 6th times
not because I wanted or needed to talk about it again
but because it pokes a finger in that spot between my shoulder blades and whispers to me all of the things I want to change about myself
and so on the 7th time, i used my vocal cords to let those words out
so maybe they’d be a little quieter

These whisper words are the things I didn’t know about me until I turned 13 or 14
and I started to become a whole person
The whisper things are those small strips of adhesive in between the big pieces that make a whole person
like the parts of a special coffee mug that
was broken and got glued together, but will probably never really hold coffee again
it may look good on a shelf
or bring back a fond memory
when you see it tucked away in the cabinet
But it won’t ever function
the way it was crafted to
Because something broke it
And used cheap glue to put it back together

But this was only the 7th time
And I’m hoping
that by the 8th time, I can tell the ant to leave the glass.
I want to tell my breath to come and go as it pleases
And tell my back not to hurt
because it is a good back
and my lungs are good lungs.
And that voice that whispers
It isn’t my voice
But is the voice of broken coffee mugs.

Maybe I will believe it after the 8th time.
Aleka May 23
I want to fly away...
I can hear her whisper...
A soft, tender melody.
I want to fly towards her...
But my fears,
They won’t let me.
Because of my cries,
She won’t hear me.
I walk towards her light,
Ignoring my pains.
Is that light as bright anymore?
Are her whispers as gentle anymore?
I’m almost there.
Her melody and light invade me.
My body,
It goes numb.
My mind,
It Shatters.
So... I realized not a long time ago that I really enjoy writing and reading poetry. I wrote this. I was one of my fist poems, apart from school assignments etc, and I’m very proud of it.
AgerMCab Nov 2019
I've found the right words
I've felt the right emotions
I've shown you that I care
I've whispered many times
... I LOVE YOU

You've said the right words
You've felt the same emotions
You've shown the care I need
You've whispered many times
... YOU LOVE ME MORE

We both already felt
We both already care
There's more I longed than whispering words
... BUT NO ONE SHOULD EVER KNOW, NO ONE SHOULD EVER LEARN

... TILL THEN MY LOVE, HEAR MY WHISPER HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU
Maria Mitea May 17
I feel
the burn in my chest,
as the sunny dream chops its edges.
I run “happy” warming up in “ La vita è bella, ”
while the soles of my feet are burning
into the dark earth. Who cares? only
into the dark earth roots grow,
all lilac is still there at the Moscow Metro, while
illusion succumbs to temptation running faster and
Harder,
the underworld has a life of its own,
a life of greater depth and purity, while
my eyes touch the cold striking murals, and
the book falls on the
Whisper
"The book.." is all knowledge we humans created and possess, and that still doesn't answer our big questions.                                                            
"Whisper" is the invisible reality;  that which is present but overlooked, obvious but not seen with an opened eye, the mystic, the soul, the spirit, inspiration, imagination, desire, passion, inner drive, ...
Grey Apr 23
"I love you," I whisper into the void,
but the only response is my echo.
4/23/2020
LC Apr 21
our deepest desires
shine under the soft light.
they always catch fire
as we whisper good night.
#escapril day 20!
Stay With Me Tonight
by Michael R. Burch

Stay with me tonight;
be gentle with me as the leaves are gentle
falling to the earth.
And whisper, O my love,
how that every bright thing, though scattered afar,
retains yet its worth.

Stay with me tonight;
be as a petal long-awaited blooming in my hand.
Lift your face to mine
and touch me with your lips
till I feel the warm benevolence of your breath’s
heady fragrance like wine.

That which we had
when pale and waning as the dying moon at dawn,
outshone the sun.
And so lead me back tonight
through bright waterfalls of light
to where we shine as one.

Originally published by The Lyric. Keywords/Tags: love, stay, tonight, gentle, bright, touch, whisper, face, hands, lips, breath, wine, moon, sun, light, earth, leaves, petal, petals, bloom, blooming, waterfalls, shine, shining
Death
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You who are the final fulfillment of life,
Death, my Death, come and whisper to me!
Day after day I have kept watch for you;
for you I have borne the joys and the pangs of life.
All that I am, all that I have and hope, and all my love
have always flowed toward you in the depths of secrecy.
One final glance from your eyes and my life will be yours forever, your own.
The flowers have been woven and the garland prepared for the bridegroom.
After the wedding the bride must leave her home and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night.

Keywords/Tags: Tagore, translation, Hindi, death, final, fulfillment, life, come, whisper, joys, pangs, hope, love, secrets, secrecy, flowers, garland, bridegroom, wedding, bride, lord, night
Dr zik Mar 29
آئینے میں خود کو سنوارتے وقت جو انسان نما عمارت نظر آتی ہے۔ اس کے گریبان میں جھانکنا اور اگر ہو سکے تو دل کے دروازے پر دستک ضرور دینا۔ اس عمارت میں جیسا بھی انسان ہوا۔ مخاطب ضرور ہو گا۔ اُس کو جاننے کی کوشش کرنا اور اگر پہچان سکے تو اچھا ہے۔ ورنہ تنہائی میں اور ایمرجنسی حالات میں اُس پر نظر ضرور رکھنا۔ جب بھی غلطی کرنے لگے گا۔ تو اللہ سب سے پہلے آپ کو جاننے کی توفیق دے گا۔ لہٰذا آگے بڑھ کر فوراً بڑے ادب کے ساتھ اسے روک لینا اور بہت نرمی سے میرا پیغام اس کے کان میں سرگوشی کے سے انداز میں سنا دینا۔ کہ
"میرے بھائی! جس کی طرف تجھے لوٹ کر جانا ہے۔ وہ دیکھ رہا ہے"
An Extract From:
Book: sada si batain  سادہ سی باتیں
Author: Dr Zafar Iqbal Khokhar
Shofi Ahmed Mar 26
Buy the top guns in the world
now all in one same album.
Trump, Jinping and Putin
their ode to the public
now meticulously is one same lyric.
Get in, stay in, the home is big!

Believe it or not, it's big
Bigger than Times Square,
Palace Square or Tiananmen Square.
But how they are so sure
have they seen my home or yours?
Yes they say and surely not alone
in one voice they sing, love it
or loath it lockdown is sweet
they saw the next big thing.
Dare not follow their coronavirus lyric
it could be the grave the next we step in.

What we see now, what are we to learn?
When the Almighty wants to whisper
there can be no other power broker.
In no time the sky can turn upside down
and lo back to the basic home flies the lark!
Current British poet laurate wrote a poem on the same theme see below. Two poems eyeing on the current lockdown phenomena from a different perspective. His one is more consoling while my poem insists more on taking a note on our dependence on God.

The question is, comes a catastrophe and of course we should try to overcome it by all means. At the same time, we may pass on without diving deep, without downloading the attached massage that it may come with. We can just skim through the email. But how long can we survive before seeing another catastrophe unfold on us? Because we might be ignoring an attached message.

Lockdown by Simon Armitage
And I couldn’t escape the waking dream
of infected fleas
in the warp and weft of soggy cloth
by the tailor’s hearth
in ye olde Eyam.
Then couldn’t un-see
the Boundary Stone,
that ****-eyed dice with its six dark holes,
thimbles brimming with vinegar wine
purging the plagued coins.

Which brought to mind the sorry story
of Emmott Syddall and Rowland Torre,
star-crossed lovers on either side
of the quarantine line
whose wordless courtship spanned the river
till she came no longer.

But slept again,
and dreamt this time
of the exiled yaksha sending word
to his lost wife on a passing cloud,
a cloud that followed an earthly map
of camel trails and cattle tracks,
streams like necklaces,
fan-tailed peacocks, painted elephants,
embroidered bedspreads
of meadows and hedges,
bamboo forests and snow-hatted peaks,
waterfalls, creeks,
the hieroglyphs of wide-winged cranes
and the glistening lotus flower after rain,
the air
hypnotically see-through, rare,
the journey a ponderous one at times, long and slow
but necessarily so.
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