#cup
Greeting a stranger,
Offering a helping hand,
Caressing a broken heart,
Chatting with a lonely soul.
Being someone’s ladder, a lifeboat,
Painting a smile on someone’s face.
Reciting a hopeful prayer,
Sharing a cup of coffee with a neighbor,
Losing yourself in serving others,
Enjoying the company of a loved one.
Treating others as equals in humanity,
Chanting the song of freedom and liberty.
Enjoying the little things, learning a new skill,
Chasing your dreams, living a full life.
Playing with a child, petting a pet,
Reading a book or composing a poem.
Pouring your heart into your work,
Being a catalyst for positive change.
Being drunk on nature’s beauty,
Watching the birth of a new spring.
Planting a tree and watering a flower,
Listening to the songs of rain
And the whisper of the wind.
Observing the awakening of a new day,
The glow of sunset and the rising of the moon.
— Hussein Dekmak
Dec 20, 2025
Dec 20, 2025 at 3:57 PM UTC
I am tired
in a way sleep can’t touch
tired from loving
with open hands,
tired from pouring myself
into people who never notice
I’m running dry.
I want to love.
God, I do.
It’s the one thing about me
that has always felt true.
But I can’t keep giving
from a cup only I refill.
I can’t keep holding hearts
that never think
to hold mine back.
It’s exhausting
to be the warmth
in every cold room,
the steady voice
in everyone else’s storm,
while no one sees
how quietly I’m unraveling.
And I hate that numbness
looks peaceful from here—
like a place where
I don’t ache,
don’t hope,
don’t keep waiting
for someone to notice
I’m tired too.
I don’t want to go numb.
I don’t want to lose
the softness I was born with.
But there’s a strange comfort
in imagining a world
where I don’t feel everything,
where loving doesn’t hurt,
where giving doesn’t empty me.
I’m just lonely
in a way that comes from effort
from caring too hard
for too long
without being held in return.
And all I want
is to know what it feels like
to be poured into,
just once,
so I don’t have to keep choosing
between loving others
and saving myself
Dec 11, 2025
Dec 11, 2025 at 8:50 PM UTC
I think I love her
not in the kind of way that asks,
or reaches,
or waits to be seen.
Just love
quiet, unspoken,
pouring from somewhere I can’t name.
I want to fill her cup,
to see her eyes soften,
to leave warmth in her day
where there might’ve been cold.
And maybe that’s enough
to give, to care, to steady her heart
even when mine trembles.
But I feel it now
the slow draining.
The hollow echo of a heart
that keeps pouring
without a place to rest.
And it isn’t her fault
she never asked for this river.
It’s just me,
trying to love the world through her smile.
My cup is emptying,
and still I pour.
Because it hurts less to give
than to hold it in.
Because love, to me,
was always the act of lighting
someone else’s candle,
even as mine burned low.
Yet even candles need tending.
Even rivers run dry.
So I’ll learn to pause,
to breathe,
to taste what I give away.
Maybe love,
the truest kind,
isn’t the endless pouring
but the quiet knowing
that I deserve to be full, too.
Nov 3, 2025
Nov 3, 2025 at 7:16 PM UTC
a butterflies wings
a child's laughter
a prayer for ever after
a day without sunshine
a tomorrow without hope
a **** on some bad dope
a door that's left open
a scream unspoken
a picture untaken
or a cup left
unwashed
on a draining board
next to a dishwasher
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 1:08 PM UTC
The living reality of a metaphor, almost every ounce in-taken,
Every nuance, every pronounce, measured, weighted and weighty,
Fluid or firmament, each encapsulated, prior to release, scaled,
Tabulated, ordered, noted, recorded, and ultimately judg-ed.
Totality of it all, the varied quantities of the ingested nutrients,
even the forecast of the future, if every day was a metaphor for
like today…
DO
I speak of the day's headlines?
Of the quantity and nutrition that passes through my lips?
Or
The surround sound of the surrounding sounds of this day,
the flocks of bandito geese who exist only to torment,
the landscape working crews, with their tools, like a 7::00an wake up buzzing about, for the entire street, going house to house, looking for itinerant grassy knolls of patches of bright green,
overnight sprung up and needy to be
guillotined,
laundry to do, rugs needy for clothesline screaming/beating or merely super fast vacuuming;
they, hawking their skills available for the old and infirm,
or the fatty catty cattle lazy, (somewhere in there is moi);
and the decibels of their machines, the rat-a-tat of their rapido, voluble speech that feeds me poetry by the ounce of their laughter, but more exactly of,
What do I speak, to what do I allude?
Why all and none, everything and specifically nothing,
for the metaphor is meta! (1)
It is life itself, from the quarter teaspoon
to the overflowing bath, it is life at its most incremental,
the moment
of flushing face,
the second
of ah ha! recollection, the,
long term trends
trending,
the flatline of my EKG,
the weighty pronouncement of my talking scale (you've been bad),
IT IS THE EVERYTHING
that is measurable, weighable, isolatable, defined;
it is our existence of our each & every of action and inaction strung together like a necklace and a chain
We are metaphor, reality, is, the script,
which is the product of you.
scriptwriter…/
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 6:17 PM UTC
In the night sky
Was a moon shining bright
In the night sky
Was all kinds of lights
But This moon was broken
And still floating
My head is full and I’m heartbroken
Im going to give up
But not anymore
This moon filled my cup
Even with my head at war
The broken moon stayed afloat
And so will I keep going
for the moon was a lifeboat
And I’m not stoping because the moon is still glowing
Jun 21, 2025
Jun 21, 2025 at 9:47 AM UTC
_My soul feels too short for love –_
but there’s a tall glass of it, I’m hoping
fills the thirst of my heart’s empty cup
But if there’s a map to someone’s thoughts
…here I am, navigating!
While the hills of their eyes are always
these dreams like mountaintops
Though rising to your peak is so scary –
where the bottom always looks you up,
And I know we’re all still searching for those
pieces of ourselves.
Even when sometimes there’s a mix of
doubt in my cup – it’s so hard to doubt the
fact that you sometimes really love to doubt
yourself… most days I have to empty myself,
_to refill up on worth in this cup._
Mar 1, 2025
Mar 1, 2025 at 11:30 PM UTC
A vast cosmos swirls within my cup its hue reminiscent of
rich earth – this is how I savour the celestial dance of stars that
illuminate my dawn. The birds are chirping; their incessant
calls grating to someone still caught in the clutches of sleep,
an hour past their awakening.
I crave the warm embrace of those first sips, the aroma of
a universe enveloping my senses – those dulled nerve endings
yearning for that electric jolt to awaken my body, sounds ringing
sharp like a sudden jolt to the ear, quickly grounding me in
the present. My eyes, keen as a blade, slice through the haze of
distraction, honing in on clarity.
As I speak, relishing that fleeting moment of joy, the kettle
whistles its urgent call – a signal for the morning coffee I so
desperately seek.
Nov 11, 2024
Nov 11, 2024 at 9:11 AM UTC
Fine china is pressed to my lips.
offering a moment of sweet bliss,
as soothing warmth envelopes me
and my troubles start to fade.
Slowly sipping my cup of tea,
I find all is as it should be,
and clarity slowly emerges
putting my mind at ease.
I enjoy this relaxing remedy,
in this comforting serenity,
with a smile and a sigh
I find Positivi-tea.
©️Lizzie Bevis
Nov 10, 2024
Nov 10, 2024 at 1:10 PM UTC
20 years and a Bottle,
not much has changed
between the mother
rubbing whiskey on her
infant's gums
and the girl that stands tall now
drinking it from a cup.
Mar 23, 2023
Mar 23, 2023 at 11:43 AM UTC
the power of a broken heart
fills my cup
and my fingers tremble
and shake when i lift the tear stained glass
i want to be alone
drunk on my sorrows
finally having the right to do so
after so long
of hiding in plain sight.
May 22, 2022
May 22, 2022 at 11:39 AM UTC
Am I an empty cup
Are my contents used up
Or are you still filling
Only to be over spilling
I’m about to topple over
From the stress around my corners
So hurry lift me up
And please drink up
Mar 30, 2022
Mar 30, 2022 at 3:42 PM UTC
Midriff burning sensation,
Exactly as if it will explode,
Nocturnal timings help,
Stark daylight is undesirable,
Troublesome five days,
Ripe burning inside the temple of life,
Under the wicked sky,
Awry is the cup for collection,
Lopsided is its construction.
Cusping the proof of life,
Unfailing burning sensation,
Pouting by the end of a month.
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 10:46 AM UTC
Be a green leaf that celebrates life with every new dawn, absorbing a full cup of energy with every sunrise.
Awaken humanity to the call of love!
Hussein Dekmak
Aug 9, 2021
Aug 9, 2021 at 11:34 PM UTC
It becomes soggy and wet
The paper starts peeling off
Flimsy and weak
It starts to leak
The kids chewing around the rim
The teens filling them to the brim
I take a small sip from my cup
In my throat, I feel a lump
Playing with the paper peels that fell off
Under that layer, the paper fibres feel soft
The cup is my only friend here
My vision begins to smear
I wish I could just disappear
~21/5/21
May 21, 2021
May 21, 2021 at 3:55 AM UTC
I never realized until now.
How much you really changed me.
How much you really hurt me.
Its when I think about loving someone else.
I can only think of running away.
No matter how much I feel.
Even after everything.
I'm still trying to erase the memories you left behind.
Your shadow looms in my every step.
That maybe I do not deserve to love.
And maybe I never will.
I want to believe that I am wrong.
But not even the cards I shuffle in my hands will be able to prove me otherwise this time.
-Kore
May 16, 2021
May 16, 2021 at 12:59 AM UTC
Mindlessly applauding
the torn for choosing right
denies the open weight felt
of them not choosing left
The ripping of blank paper
is heard in your
congratulations and affirmations
Giving pride that isn't yours to hold
remains unknowingly empty
Wrapped well
Recieptless
Let go of optimistic ear muffs
and bright yellow shades
Yeild.
Tugging left turns
misled me to the same stop sign
begging to be dismissed
Lost in a spiral,
in my own left turns,
not abandoned but alone
Despite being desperately sought,
these roads are different in the dark
No comfort or guidance
in this backpack made of bricks
with bricks too sharp for a stuffed bear,
bricks too large for a lamp
Concern and direction
slip through
the cracks and the bricks
in the deafening darkness
Left again,
just one more time
What shades am I wearing,
what muffs are mine
that instruction is muffled,
that care is shaded grey
Even still,
my lefts are my right
my right to make
and to hold
and to keep
and to breathe
and to bleed
Save your pride
and your rosey half-full glasses
Hold your applause
and the promise of a later okay
Acknowledge the bricks
I am carrying now
They are concrete
More so,
than the life you see
that might never live to be
Mar 15, 2021
Mar 15, 2021 at 10:02 AM UTC
Symbology cup.
Water spilled over meaning.
Seeping out my prayers.
Feb 13, 2021
Feb 13, 2021 at 10:14 PM UTC
If you know
The history of coffee
You know me well
And if you
Want to know
The history of coffee
I will know
You are trying to
Know me
And if you
Have never tasted coffee
You don't know
Love
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 7:16 PM UTC
I took a sip from your cup
a drop of your signature potion.
Oh, you know what?
Just one is enough.
Leave a drop for the bees.
Let the honeycomb build and melt
in this sea of sweet magic!
The rest is yours as you please.
Dec 23, 2020
Dec 23, 2020 at 6:02 PM UTC
Finishing the last sip, I took the pause,
Reminiscing the scintillating flaws,
Conjuring the crowded applause,
Staring at the emptied walls,
Living the ******* cause.
Dec 16, 2020
Dec 16, 2020 at 1:13 PM UTC
The Rains Came...
the rains came in short, but lovely, bursts
clouds, that had been only skyward visitors, decided to weep
welcome, welcome rain from high up
come and fill our flowers cup
leave some moisture for us to keep
leave it while the desert sleeps
let it soak into the ground
giving up lifes nector, with nary a sound
the rains came in short, but lovely bursts....
Brian Hill - 2020 # 308
Nov 9, 2020
Nov 9, 2020 at 9:13 AM UTC