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You have this whole world,
The sun and moon
You have the universe
and I am just a speckle and dust

I've wished on my luckiest star,
I wish you're waiting
for me
to fall.
I am just a speckle and dust
Within your universe.

You saw how i shine for you
at most fleeting time,
through the crisp of air
I am walking while
my feet's still bare
towards you.

I came undone
like a pendulum underneath
your time
I try to hold your hands,
but I feel all the myriad
of crash.

I know you have them all
but they all fell into blackhole.

Despite of your destruction,
I will try to fix its core
beyond interruptions,
I will try to find a connections
if ever the gravity

Even if I saw new faces
in other places
of every inches
in your universe

in every blink of my eyes
they are all pitch-black
but at every seconds I open it,
it's you, i all have.

To all that never stays,

they will perish away
but they just laid
in you
and to your memories.

Even if the centuries
will turn into sand,
Just remember how
The speckle and dust
gave meaning
to your universe.
Tu durr gaya to Kya
Mere rooh me
Tu basa hai..

Pata nahi
kab wapas aayega
Par mere har Rastey par,
har mod par
Tu hai...

Insaan alag hai
Par Meri ankhe
humesha tujhe
dhundti hai..

Pata to nahi sapne
Haqikat me
badalte hai ya nahi..

Par ab sapne me
hi jeena thoda
Sikh liya hai..

Tujhe dekhne ki
aadat hai Hume
Aadat to
chhutne sey Raha..

Ab tujhko
khudme pane ka
aadat hume
lag chuka hai..

English Translation-

So what?
You are away
But you reside within
My soul..

I don't know yet
When you will come back
But in every path
In every crossing
You are there
To accompany me..

People are different
Yet my eyes
seek for
only you..

I do not know
Whether dreams
come true?

But now
I have learnt to
Jump into the pool
Of my dreams
With you..

To see you
Has become
one of my habit
Which will
Neither leave..

you are rooted
within me,
Has become
My best habit
of all times!
Very personal poetry in Hindi, translation might not bring out the best in it. But tried my best to keep it intact.
sayali Aug 28
Your love pattered,
On the earthen roofs
Of my heart, awakening
Everything within.

-Sayali Parkar
Julian Delia Aug 27
M’hemm ebda mod ieħor
Li stajt niddivina, biex forsi tisimgħuni –
Bil-Malti issa qlibt, jekk forsi qegħdin tinnutawni.
L-ewwel ħaġa:
Fehmuni għalfejn għadha tezisti d-duttrina.
Akkost li xi ħadd jibgħatni nieħdu jien u nirfes il-bankina,
Ser ngħidha!

Għax ma ngħallmux lit-tfal tagħna
Jifhmu l-imħabba lejn il-proxxmu
Minflok il-liġi inuffiċjali
‘Min mhux magħna kontra tagħna?’  
Għax ma nitgħallmux niddiskutu u niddibattu,
Forsi nċedu ftit, flok dejjem nċaħħdu u nirribattu?
Forsi immexxu bl-eżempju; flok immorru sa’ tempju
Nitpaxxew b’deheb misruq u b’moħħ magħluq,
Nitgħallmu nieqfu niskappaw u nistaħbew,
Wara wiċċ imżejjen falz, jew xi metafora.

It-tieni ħaga, u għalissa nieqaf haw’:
Fehmuni għalfejn lesti li l-futur taghna ninġazzaw?
Nikkompromettu, nidħlu fid-dejn,
Il-valuri tagħna nirremettu, basta fl-aħħar tax-xahar
Jidħlulna imqar dawk l-elfejn.

Qabli hawn oħrajn li dan il-kliem diġà qaluh –
Malta m’hijiex ward u żahar u kollox ifugħ.
Anzi, l-intiena tal-korruzzjoni tqanqallek id-dmugħ.
Jien ma ġejtx hawn biex immaqdar u nitlaq,
Nixtieq li nkunu konxji u nieħdu dak li jixraq.
Jekk inti tixtieq hekk ukoll,
Mela ejja ningħaqdu, għax għandna ħafna xoghol.


­[in English]

There is no other way I could divine
To make you hopefully listen to me –
You may have noticed I switched to Maltese.
The first thing on the list;
Can someone explain why (religious) doctrine still exists?
Although this may elicit someone’s anger as I step out on the sidewalk,
I shall say it!

Why don’t we teach our children
To understand loving one’s fellow man
Instead of the unofficial law
‘Whoever is not with us, is against us?’
Why don’t we learn to discuss and debate,
Maybe concede a bit, rather than deny and rebate?
Maybe lead by example; instead of going to a temple,
Awed by stolen gold and closed minds,
Learn to stop escaping and hiding
Behind a fake, decorated face, or a metaphor.

The second thing on the list, and I’ll stop ‘ere:
Can someone explain why we’re ready to ruin our future?
Compromising, racking up debt,
Our values we are regurgitating as long as, at the end of the month,
We get a couple thousand (as in, money).

Others before me have already said these words –
Malta isn’t all flowers and roses, and not everything is fragrant.
Actually, the stench of corruption will make you cry.
I am not here to complain and leave,
I just wish we’d be aware so we can get what we deserve.
If you want this as well,
Then let us join together, for we have a lot of work to do.
A poem in my native tongue, Maltese.
Freddie Ruiz Aug 23
Beauty is not just a reflection of what she is on the outside,
beauty is much more than what meets the eye.

Beauty is:

Beauty is the doorway to her heart
and the place where her love resides.
Beauty is the caring she lovingly gives
and the passion she shows for the life within.
Written on May 22, 2011
Composition number: 383
A presence
a continuous torment
until, even with cessation
only a tenuous self
is present
leaving only the resin

The maniacal
is an infestation
festering around in my head
Its existence,
a creation
created at inception,
hacking my brain
Forever a trap
creating a

to all mankind
Not acting
like a man
Not one word
that's kind
Committing crimes
and getting oneself
A deviation
creating a deviant
Shifted values
due to a devalued

An esoteric
seemingly sentenced
on this journey
by judge and jury,
not by one's peers
because the many
not able
to peer
into this individuality
The duplicity
of duality
that is my reality

Challenging myself
to a dual
One in which
I both
win and lose
But in the end
not breaking even
or coming out ahead
Always ending
further back

Its back braking
and always aching
Pain from which
not capable of
Effort I’m taking
Of myself making
Time for a new king
For kinsmanship
is aloof
And this man’s ship
has sailed away
Sipping a port
at a shipping port
And yet
slipping away

Deeper still
In the depth
of still water
into the abyss
Lost and gone
But not missed
Is this the end
of our fable?
Or will our “hero”
enable himself
and in the end
be able
Deciding who to be?
Kane or Abel?
For the hurricane
is hurrying along
Its aim always the same
Constant pain
A payment he feels
for the displaced
which just in case
is placed
same place
he went

Ink in the face
A disgrace
When suddenly
encased in his brain
are racing thoughts
of a plan
he’s ace’n

A label of insanity
given by those
who claim sanity
when the reality
is their thoughts are free
and optimize
a sanitized
and homogenized
And in the end
it doesn’t matter

Offering suggestions
in which they
feel threatened
Pathways congested
and protested
Testing them
Even worse,
A problem beset
upon them
Time to steady
the flock
Roll n’ Rock
Inoculations we’re getting
Start the injections

“It’s been an honor”
Mounting my Lipizzaner
A disarmer
A charmer
The armor
‘mi amor’
Leaving me
wanting more
But as they keep score
the task is daunting
A life that’s haunting
with such splendid decor
Yet, can’t take any more
Their taunting
is leaving me sore
So to the atmosphere
I open that door
and flying up above
I soar

Forever more
Feel pain no more...
Written: August 17, 2018

All rights reserved.
Seanathon Aug 14
Explode into a blue crater
And mushroom cloud
Into a condensed atmosphere

Turn no more
Than a morning clock
But simmer still
In firey fear

Warm heat
Cold whisps
In a circling mixing
Upward fall

Dark coffee
Napalmed into cream
To the taste responsible
To call
Within a cup
As eighth month of the year
both within Gregorian and predecessor,
     the Julian calendar, where
said month originally
     named Sextilis in Latin
since averred month ranked sixth
     in ancient Roman calendar veer
really changed to August in honor

     of Augustus Caesar
     pinpointed eight Earthly
     steeplechased rendezvous roundabouts
     clocking viii sun danced orbitz
thru metaphorical solar turnstile,
     sans common era there

after retaining a trace
     of antiquity doth square
lee tug at mine olde ink
     quiz hit heave egghead noggin
     heady curiosity shoppe,
asper how lunar place name

     linkedin as rare historical tidbit
thus, when at a loss,
     what to write poem about
an unexpected brainstorm
     found me not to doubt
Google when literary eureka
     came to this lout
(only I own license to debase self)

just on the verge,
     and ready to pout
fearing writer's block
     as if creative juice
     yielded nary a drop from thine figurative
     fountain oft times
     gushing water spout.

As a poetic foot note, aye
frequently ponder about
     millenniums gone by,
and peoples, who
     dotted with graveyards
     of lovely bones after they did die
     the four corners of the globe,

     this twenty first century
     chap doth espy
harem there, a debauched prurient
     hot pocket of mankind
     (woman too of course)

     begetting, fostering, mothering
     ancestors of this guy
retaining genetic characteristics
     that got pooled watering
     survival of the fittest well nigh.
the sky darkens
as night draws near
the forest grows quiet
as closer draws fear

the shadows lurk
between bushes and trees
dread grows larger
with all that he sees

lost in these woods
without a trace
just terror in his bones
and fear on his face

the sights are scary
but worse is the sound
he looks for a path
but none can be found

dark shapes surround
he feels them close in
no escape from these beasts
in the woods and within
Zeyea Jul 30
When I close my eyes, it's like stepping into a whole new world. White flecks in the darkness flash green and blue, the blackness bleeds red and I feel the sun warming denim. It makes me feel as though I'm at a standstill. Like this is a dream, a form of aesthetic that isn't quite my flavor and I have no place but an intrusion.

I hear wind chimes in the far distance, like a sparkle made up of sound waves and I suddenly wonder if the neighbors down the street are feeling this way as well. Or if it's just a fantasy, if this world is just a daydream away and we're the blurred figures we never remember but always see, like how people from dreams are real life people you've seen before. I like to imagine ourselves as those people, forgotten but lingering in the mind of whoever is staring down at us, if there is one anyway.

I find it easy to breathe: no weight down my chest or numbness crawling up my esophagus. My leg is swinging, my eyes are scanning and I should be enjoying this day like a normal person should.

But I'm not. Not because my heart is slowing down or that my mind is pulling me apart but because I know that whatever I do there is a filter that blocks me. Because even if I act happy and normal there's still a screen between us, made up of stigma and prejudice. Because I'm me.

I hear a baby's cry, ebbing into laughter and I wonder if I can be that innocent, that happy again. If I can be content with my life.

I smile sadly. "No."
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