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Peter Balkus Aug 2024
I wrote few poems about life,
and the rest of them were about death.
I always tried to look on the bright side,
but every time it felt like a theft.
Every day I was left sad and bereft.

I wrote few poems about happiness,
most of them were about sadness though.
I always wanted to be joyful more less,
but every time I tried, the joy told me No.
And the sadness never let me let her go.

So I stopped writing, I thought Well, okay,
if it can make me happy again,
I will throw pen and paper away
.
And I did, but it doubled the pain.
Since then I lived a life of a dead man.
JAMIL HUSSAIN May 27
Your beautiful eyes are my jewelled crown,
In their depth, all my stars fall down.
A universe spun in sapphire gleam,
Where love walks softly through every dream.

Your darling lips—my sweetest cure,
A balm of flame, both fierce and pure.
With every kiss, the night turns gold,
And time forgets how to grow old.

Your gaze, a spell that bends the air,
Turns silence into sacred prayer.
And when you smile, the heavens sigh—
A blush of dawn in a twilight sky.

Let kingdoms fall, let empires cease,
If I have your breath, I have my peace.
For no throne shines, no fate is sure,
But your lovely lips—my only cure.

So wear my soul like silken gown,
Your eyes, my fate—my pride, my crown.
And in your arms, I seek no more,
For love like yours is worth the war.
Crown of Eyes, Cure of Lips 27/05/2025 © All Rights Reserved by Jamil Hussain
Creativity is an opening,
A struggle fraught with doubt,
Unlikely to produce something
Beautiful, yet reverberations mount,
A gathering of half-ideas now
Open to others to make once
Yours, fully theirs, a bow
To the dimming pulse
Of an idea meant to endow
Sometimes I have an intense need to write, yet self-doubt and a lack of confidence in a capacity to convey what I mean can feel stifling.
I could write, I won't,
The wrong faucet is turned on,
I will drought these thoughts.
Breann May 21
This is the one, I whisper low,
Ink on the page with a steady glow.
My pulse is sure, my spirit proud,
I post it up, above the crowd.
Done.

Two days pass in silent scroll,
A single like—a softened toll.
My thoughts return, both sharp and terse:
Maybe this was my best… or worst.

Again I write, the spark feels dim,
The words fall out, a clumsy hymn.
I roll my eyes, ashamed to send
A piece I’d never recommend.
Done.

Two days pass—my phone alights,
The piece is trending, shared in flights.
The one I thought was shallow, weak,
Spoke truths another couldn’t speak.

The weight is held in different ways,
Some see the sun, some feel the haze.
What’s “best” is tied to where we are,
Some feel the storm, some chase the star.

So now I write with open hands,
No more demands or strict commands.
Each piece, a gift I can’t control,
May miss one heart and reach a soul.

And when I post, I don’t deride—
The worth’s not always mine to decide.
For passion’s voice, though sometimes low,
Still finds a place it’s meant to go.
Mrs Timetable May 20
I want to write
A little poetry book
Fitting in my pocket
To carry with me
With five little poems
One for each finger of your hand
Your hand that led me here
My muse
My blues
My cues
My heart tattoos
My infuse
So I will call it YOUs
I'm gonna do it. Watch me.
neth jones May 20
dismember                          
the smell of the books you hide                
roughed into basement boxes amongst
the most casual of junk
the most bare note book
gifted and thrifted and costumed  
your little girl words tea stain wounded
                     marooned and mould afflicted
dismember the words you mooned after near hearts
               and the great white unrequited
the fluting of ****** fuel    the fumes of their history
badly stored  and water damaged
clumped 'mongst uni flyers and old never paid bills
(H)ostile towards those that you envy
(A)ntagonistic, oh, yes there are plenty
(T)oxic like poison is, What you are
(E)gos are so high that you can reach the stars
(R)efusing to be Happy, feeling so blue
(S)pitefulness is showing all over you


B.R.
Date: 5/17/2025
Kshamata T May 17
As a child, I never understood the need for basic necessities. Strangely, even as a teenager, that understanding never came.

Then one morning, everything changed—not because I craved a luxurious lifestyle. I never asked for that.
Growing up, I always watched my mom earn every penny. So naturally, I started walking in her footsteps. But now, I find myself on the other side of the table. I’m the one in need.

When you've always earned everything, asking for help feels harder than working endlessly. And now—I’m supposed to ask.
The picture I had of myself at 16 never included asking for the bare minimum.

And yet, here I am, staring at myself at my worst. Seeking help. Trying to understand the blurred lines between the bare minimum, basic needs, and luxury.

Back then, talking about everyday chores was part of small talk. Now, finding someone willing to have that conversation feels impossible.
I never knew growing up would mean lowering my standards—in food, shelter, clothing... even companionship.

Being the elder daughter has always meant one thing: earn everything, ask for nothing.

The strange part? Earning is still easier.
New to the world of writing!
Trying to improve the journey ...
MuseumofMax May 16
I may not be gifted in painting
I may not be taught, like the masters, how to ‘properly’ create

But with my words, unsteady and scribbled, flawed and broken,
I paint canvases beyond sight.
I imagine art more beautiful than any Mona Lisa,
I create masterpieces without ever dipping my brush.

My craft is greatly imperfect, cluttered, and poorly expressed,

But still I attempt to write the words that sit waiting deep within my chest

Often I do not understand what I write,

but I must allow my fingers to scrawl each thought

For each word, each story,
is an expression of myself;

a world in all its beauty and ugliness,

and I must share.

Even if no one is listening.
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