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Neelam Jun 1
The myelin sheaths

conduct subliminal messages

to the slumbering populace,

bypassing filters.

A graceful might of

thinkers, inducing

flashes of intuition in somber


The layered oratory, textured in

truth keeps the messenger

alive !
Dedicated to all writers/poets/philosophers.
Wilkes Arnold May 10
I can't write a word
Or even pickup a pen
I wish I had hands
neth jones May 8
Retreading the same creative subjects
Rebedding headaches
Some discomfort
Clung all over
          with a fungal dampness
          And moored with a heavy sleep-like coat
Worthy of nothing
Nothing worthy of note

Consumed by rehearse
I've lost the thirst to broadcast
Cowardly in delay
Relaying what's past
..... a Recurrent distress

I stand sudden :
Done !
I derail the trolley-lot ...

Then I fit
In a mirthquake
         I laugh like i am made of bellies
'The Bellycake', I'll call me.

With my serious anchorous state nulled
I approach fresh work with good humour
(Teen Hamlet in decay)
Smara May 3
Glared me once and stared me twice
The look was real; undeniably true.

Standing, front of the mirror
An image appears, someone who looks like me.

The round of questions began
Who is worthy?...; finally asked!

Proposals are sent from time to time
Rejected!?...:Yes several times.
This poem is based on Rejection, from which each person go through multiple times and find themselves questioning over and over again about their worth.
Kelsie Apr 17
There is power in the voice
The words that are spoken ever so softly
Finding meaning and purpose is conveyed through her poetry
Her mind full of chaos she just begins writing
Pages and pages start flowing, as the words just keep coming
Her art becomes a confronting and meaningful piece
Shared to others who need help finding connectedness and peace
A talent she holds close to her heart
Feeling greatful she has the ability to share life through all of her poetic art.
fray narte Apr 17
is there a way out of here other than the sudden violence of tearing through my skin? if i  find an escape route one day, i swear to god, i would leave even the calmest sunsets behind.
Creativity is grieved over.
When it leaves, your nostalgia blossoms
An old friend that you lost before its time
You weep at its funeral
Your tears burn your cheeks
With desires of what could have been.
Perhaps it died in a car accident
A violent, fiery wreck of destruction
Maybe it died in its sleep
You never did get a chance to say goodbye
Or you could have lost it in time
Watched it wither away
Like the memories you used to hold so dear.
Crying yourself to sleep, you yearn for your creativity.

The beauty, or perhaps the horror of this death
Lies in the fact that it could return.
After bargaining with Death
Death will return your creativity to you
Like some undead zombie
Or like the second coming of some benevolent angel.
And you will welcome creativity with open arms
You will hug it close, and promise that you will watch it closely.
You will assure it that you won't let it slip through your grasp.
You pick up that pen, stroke those keys
And let your friend spill out all over the pages.
But just as with people, the death of creativity is inevitable
And before long, it will leave you bleeding yet again
Only to return to you as though it never left.
I've been gone too long...
fray narte Apr 5
a sheer curtain caught in a crossfire,
i stand here,
and burning tenderly —
burning softly before your eyes.

i liken myself
to a child's laughter falling
on patches of sunlight —
to persephone giving in
to the licking flames,

but she is no more than
a fading ghost,
and my skin —
no more than a haunted woodland.

i hold on to the flames,
to this perplexity:
how can immolation
look so soft,
so cleansing,
so **** hypnotic?

when it feels everything but.

a sheer curtain caught in a crossfire,
i stand here,
burning tenderly
into oblivion —
just as softly before your eyes.
Traveler Mar 31
I like to rhyme way with way
But I have so much more to say
Since I have a higher technological mind
I’ll be rhyming time with time
Now, now
Don’t be jealous of all my rhymes
I’m alive and doing fine
Traveler 🧳

And now you have it...
Rhyming writers black!
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