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It has been more than a year
I have written nothing
writer’s block
Or out of words
maybe a heavy heart
I don’t know what it is

I think of words
I want to write
but it gets all jumbled up
in my head
I put down these words
but all I am left with
is unfinished poetry

Every-time I think of something
it all comes back to you
nothing makes sense
when I read it out loud
it’s apt tho isn’t it?

Nothing made sense
between us too
friends to strangers
without being together

I want my poetry to be
about you
but what should I say?

How your smile
lit up my gloomy days?
how your stories
made me wish I had
lived ‘em with you?
how your dorky laugh
made my heart skip a
beat every single time?

In my mind,
I could go on and on
but penning it down
was the hardest

And every time
I reminisce these memories
I feel this void in
my heart
it feels like
a piece of me
is gone

There is an empty hollow
and the only way I know
to fill it
is by sipping on
your favourite poison

Cause only for
a couple of hours
the smell lingers
on my breath
making me feel
your presence again
bringing me out of the
nothingness I'm
trapped in

This poem
doesn't make sense,
does it?
it doesn't have to
nothing made sense
about him too
This poem isn't supposed to make sense.
based on personal experience,
something I needed to get off my chest.
SelinaSharday Feb 2023
Don't say It's nothing..
Because it only has 1 like or reply!
Its Beautiful and Everything
even if it is never even seen..
Keep Sharing..
There is also the browsing
never liking/replying Kind...
Keep giving of your creative thinking.. its giving, its touching, its stirring even when we can't see those things
We like to see the things, black and white...
We don't want to get into, What's wrong... What's right...!?
Struggling against the situation, we usually forget our power and might...
When the day feels heavy... We write, to keep our mood lite...!
We dodge the darkness of trouble from our powerful word's light...
Observing the nature, from the start of the day till the end of night...!
We pour our thoughts and imagination on the paper, when we start to write!
It's 2nd part of my poem — "We write"...

Read first part here
👇👇👇 ...

Wasn't active here from last few days... Coz of my sem. Examination... But now my examinations are finished... And I'm back here again 😅 again, I'll start exploring new poems... And 'll try to interact with most of the writers 😊😊...

Another flow of rhymes 😅😅
Anais Vionet Nov 2021
He puts it out there, the Schrödinger’s cat of invitations.

Now, I’m irritated. “I TOLD you I don’t have time for.. involvement.”

“But you have to eat - so eat with ME,” he shrugs. “You can build a friendship with someone and still have freedom.” His observation was casual, as though it were unrelated to anything between us. He seemed to have the intuition that I’d balk if pressed.

“You’re subversive.” I said. “Why me? There are prettier girls, more agreeable, fun girls. I feel like I’m on the edge here,” I look around to indicate the room, the environment, the university. “And I can be a complete as-hole.”

He looked a little offended, “You’re interesting, I like what I know about you and, yeah, we can all be as-holes - we’re in a pool of “A” types, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“What do you KNOW about me?” I ask.

“I’ve read some of your writings,” he looked thoughtful, “I may know a little about how you think, It’s unusual.. interesting.”

I’m shocked and I squirm, “You looked me up?”

“I looked you up.” he nodded, “to be sure you’re not an axe murderer.”

“How much did you read?” I asked, wheedling, my inner-writer engaging.

“Tell you at dinner - YOU name the date and time,” he smiled.

“My idea of “dinner” is walking to a dining hall, picking up a bag of food, bringing it back here and taking ten minutes to eat it between chapters,” I warned.

“I have a meal card,” he says, jiggling his student lanyard.

“We’ll see.” I said. “Have you talked to anyone else about my writing?”

“No,” he answered, “Why?”

“Please don’t, I have to think about it.” I say. As far as I know, no one I know in RL has read me - it’s an odd feeling - like maybe he got ahold of my diary. I haven’t worried over the fact that someone I’m in physical proximity to could look me up. That all this stuff is actually out there.

“Don’t think my misgivings can be cajoled away,” I say, “no more talking.”

He chucked but we got back to studying.
Hannah Nov 2021
some things are better left unsaid, yes.

but watching people talk and write down about things that’s hurt them, heavily to the point they chose to sleep on them has got to be the most beautiful thing in the world to me. I only write when I feel these emotions, right in the deepest center of the realization. that’s when you know there’s a slightest meaning when you’re all lost and never want to be found again.
I write down when I’m fully aware of myself and my surroundings because I know for a fact that the next day I will feel empty and I could do anything to fill this vacant hole, again.
And I decide to read and read until I detach myself from the everlasting numbness for I can feel again and write down another poem about it.
It could take weeks maybe months but if it has meaning, it is definitely worth all the energy you can give.
We see life as we were told,
Obstacles in our path may be fiery or cold!
We don't know, what the future holds?
We just write as the moments unfold,
Taking leads from new and old,
We keep writing until our eyes get closed,
Because we never know, when the writings are going to turn into gold...
Fiery here refers to hot...
Tried another flow of rhymes... And some thoughts of mine too😅

Read 2nd part here
Tylor Nov 2020
When I first saw you
I felt as if you were the girl I've been looking for
I had waited almost all my life for this moment to arrive
And when it did,
All I had to do was spread the colours of love on my canvas and seize the beauty of the moment forever.

But never in my heart, I felt you were mystifying  
The harder I tried to love you, the more you slipped into your shell
There was something special about you, something I couldn't decipher
And for the very first time, I failed at art
A bone in my collar curls up,
your scent tickles my skin.
Catching up with puzzled eyes,
I try to unravel this time,
this moment,
this love that sends me chills.

Why do I smell you here?
In my basement?
I barely heard you unlock.
Sweat trickles down in confusion,
disclosing the hard-held anxiety.
I am surprised,
startled at how weak the air could get.
Almost failing to help me breathe.

I leave my corner,
swaying feebly to the restricted music in my head.
Tapping and twirling into a gamble,
into a bet to lose my sanity.

I let you play me.
Let your scent grow on me.
Falling lightly into your notes,
I almost dare you to love me,
to love me like I am a home.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2021

Aug 29 2020­rgia/

!!the links repeat below, so no cut and paste required!!
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