I am a bloody writer.
I can form both sides of the speech.
Something so wanting, so desirable,
So complete.
I'm in that headspace
Where everything I say
Gets written down
And maybe
Just maybe one day
In time
These words will form a short sentence or rhyme.
i hold the pen with familiar longing
but unlike a child, or a maiden filled
with youth - i did not gush within contact.
instead my hand trembles,
not with fear but with the impact of
memories resonating through time.
i remembered how i used to be me
a person i know but don't understand
as if a stranger i see everyday but
whose name i still don't know
despite the fact that we've smiled at
each other maybe once or twice.
the person i was before was not that nice
neither is the person i see now
on mirrors and people's eyes when i
stare too hard because i don't recognize
anything
anymore
i was a planet, now a comet
i was a wanderer, now lost forever

yet i feel human and alive
there's so much to do, so much to see

but for the mean time i want a fragment of me.

so, let me write again.
let me say my name.
it's time to return home. it's time to return to poetry.
You wrote the notes inside your secret diary.
And day by day, the pages filled up.

You got yourself another set of blank pages.
And to this day, you keep writing more.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

Again and again, you contemplate letting it out,
the secrets of your inner thoughts,
begging to be screamed.

You want the world to know what it feels like,
the boys, the toys, the heartbreaks, and the dreams.

Don't hide it.
Let it be seen.
Your success isn't by their acceptance;
success is being free.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.

Not everyone will love every wrinkle when you're sixty-three.
Maybe your rhymes aren't for them, but they're for me.
Share them.
I wanna hear them.
Let them roar.

The pages aren't blank.
You know you wrote them for more.

If you're writing
word for word for word,
what's the point if it isn't heard?

You're Hemingway in every right.
Give them lines.
Show them what your heart feels like.
Share them.
Wear them like your favorite long-sleeve.
Bare them like the nakedness
you feel when you're writing.
-WRR
a wand of disappearances
operate in our very
midst
who is the conductor
of its vanishing
gist?

where once our fellow
poets did pleasantly
reside
now the wicked wand
has eradicated their
bide

numerous blank spaces
symbolize the conductor's
vice
employing a wand which
has emptied the
rice

black the hour
black the day
a black instrument
whisking them all too
suddenly away
a wand so dark
of intent
wanting to wane
our writers tent

the subtracting conductor
will be planning future
disappearances
so be mindful of its
wand's unsolicited
clearances
Up until three days ago, poet Rye Sing was actively contributing and commenting on the Hello Poetry site.  I find it most strange that he/she has just disappeared into thin air.
The word “please?” was written out;
It trembled there, upon the page
A fragile thing
I tried to console -

But I could not find its writer,
The real one who needed comforting.
Because you will live forever.

You will exist inbetween the pages of a private notebook.

You will sleep under the pillow with the handwritten poems.

You will live as a black art in the form of words.

But your name will never be mentioned.


Your sideways smile is etched in the mind and cannot be erased.

Your stolen, yet steady gaze is burned within the heart.

Your fingers that produces music from the tips are longed to be held.

But you will never be drawn, only written.


Your voice is the most precious music ever heard.

Your spoken words are poetry decorating the air.

Your laughter sends vibrations through the soul.

But you will not be heard, only imagined.


Despite all these,

You are real. You are here. And here you will stay.

Do not make me fall for you. For if I do, you will live forever. Not only in me, but in others as well.

And if this story will ever be done,

I will close the red, leather-bound notebook

and say,

Until Another Time.
You were my love until you broke my heart. Now you are my muse, and like a masterpiece in galleries, you are locked forever in words.
Muskan Kapoor Feb 13
lol
he: i love you.
i laughed


His actions were not matching with his words.
His “I love you” was just words, empty words.
So What .
I laughed at his effort.
His effort to persuade me with his hollow heart and desolate words.
Muskan Kapoor Feb 15
"his twinkling emerald eyes, meet mine"

And when I turn back
the first thing I see
were his eyes
eyes shining like stars
his emerald eyes
which looked straight at me
with a force
I’ve never before felt.
And in that moment,
I knew
he was my chosen one.
Muskan Kapoor Feb 15
"i was fucked on satin sheets"

She was a fucking storm
in the bed.
The girl who wore nerdy glasses
and plaid skirts
fucked me rough
on the black satin sheets.
She was like a dream
that night,
a dream that I have been
thinking about
since that exotic
lip-wetting chocolaty night.
No woman ever
had the pleasure
of bringing me to my knees,
she did, that too
from afar.
In a world of
expensive cars and motor bikes,
she was a cycle,
preferred by few,
like me.
She didn’t just
grabbed my hair,
she grabbed my heart
in her little fist.
But in the end
she managed to do
what none could,
penetrate the wall
separating me and myself.
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