#french - Hello Poetry

i love french dips i love french onion soup i love french fries i love french bread give me some Brie i love the French

0

Mar 12

Mar 12, 2026 at 8:09 PM UTC

breeaudrey

Viva France Via America

i love french dips i love french onion soup i love french fries i love french bread give me some Brie i love the French

6

Some other time before I've written sweet words To all the girls of France I hope for them to reply I've swore I'll be happy Before the end of the year I've written sweet words To all the girls of France Every day and every night But at the end of the year I am still Alone in my bed Nobody misses me But that's not so bad I have already spent a good moment A good moment, some other time before I think about them with so much sadness When the moon is full What parties, what dances And what songs do they enjoy [lit. spend] without me The evening starts like an old song But I am not able to sing I forgot the melody For some years now. Nobody misses me But that's not so bad I have already spent a good moment A good moment, some other time before I have already spent a good moment… We’d Mar 4 10:29am https://lyricstranslate.com/en/autrefois-

0

Mar 4

Mar 4, 2026 at 10:15 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

A good moment, some other time before / Autrefois

Some other time before I've written sweet words To all the girls of France I hope for them to reply I've swore I'll be happy Before the end of the year I've written sweet words To all the girls of France Every day and every night But at the end of the year I am still Alone in my bed Nobody misses me But that's not so bad I have already spent a good moment A good moment, some other time before I think about them with so much sadness When the moon is full What parties, what dances And what songs do they enjoy [lit. spend] without me The evening starts like an old song But I am not able to sing I forgot the melody For some years now. Nobody misses me But that's not so bad I have already spent a good moment A good moment, some other time before I have already spent a good moment… We’d Mar 4 10:29am https://lyricstranslate.com/en/autrefois-

30

Je sais pourquoi ces ombres me terrifient Parce qu'elles n'ont pas de visage Parce que je n'arrive pas à dire leur nom Parce que je ne sais pas leur faire face Parce que je ne sais pas leur dire non Parce qu'elles font rôder la mort Parce qu'elles signifient le châtiment Parce qu'elles sont le sort Parce qu'elles sont le tourment Parce qu'elles sont vacillantes Parce qu'elles disparaissent Parce qu'elles sont l'enfance Parce qu'elles réaparaissent Parce qu'elles sont incontrôlables Parce qu'elles me tendent un miroir Parce qu'elles me mettent minable Parce qu'elles répandent le noir Parce qu'elles sont des menaces Parce qu'elles sont une partie de moi Parce qu'elles sont tenaces Parce qu'elles ne se taisent pas

0

Dec 2, 2025

Dec 2, 2025 at 5:49 PM UTC

At a party I asked you what you thought of me Over the music, you told me "Jenny says cry" It sounded foreign in a way I couldn't place And I sat there with an expression you didn't recognize I don't know anyone named Jenny but she's right nonetheless

0

Jan 31

Jan 31, 2026 at 11:11 AM UTC

LunarLena

Je Ne Sais Quoi

At a party I asked you what you thought of me Over the music, you told me "Jenny says cry" It sounded foreign in a way I couldn't place And I sat there with an expression you didn't recognize I don't know anyone named Jenny but she's right nonetheless

9

Si je pourrait Je te regarderais jusqu’à mes yeux ont usé Cela compenserait pour les temps j’ai passé vivre ma vie avec mon dos tourné Si je pourrait Je t’embrasserais jusqu’à mes poumons lâchent Cela compenserait pour l’air j’ai gaspillé Pleurer pour une autre femme

0

Jan 23

Jan 23, 2026 at 9:39 AM UTC

Ladybugwrites

If I Could

Si je pourrait Je te regarderais jusqu’à mes yeux ont usé Cela compenserait pour les temps j’ai passé vivre ma vie avec mon dos tourné Si je pourrait Je t’embrasserais jusqu’à mes poumons lâchent Cela compenserait pour l’air j’ai gaspillé Pleurer pour une autre femme

10

I'm going too fast, But I can never slow down Or I'll fall behind. I want to drop dead So the thoughts will ******* stop But I've gotta live, Gotta change the world. I wish it wasn't alone, But what can I do? It is what it is, and will be what it will be; I'd rather not be alone, but eh; C'est la vie.

0

Jan 15

Jan 15, 2026 at 12:26 AM UTC

Wolfnation4800

C'est La Vie

I'm going too fast, But I can never slow down Or I'll fall behind. I want to drop dead So the thoughts will ******* stop But I've gotta live, Gotta change the world. I wish it wasn't alone, But what can I do? It is what it is, and will be what it will be; I'd rather not be alone, but eh; C'est la vie.

11

Long dead the body rot, rats and worms lay cliam to the *** Vultures feast and scavengers howl Teeth and claw tare bone and bowel Body reverts to dust once more We sleep in graves made of la mort.

0

Dec 28, 2025

Dec 28, 2025 at 12:38 AM UTC

trejrha

I think im cheating

Long dead the body rot, rats and worms lay cliam to the *** Vultures feast and scavengers howl Teeth and claw tare bone and bowel Body reverts to dust once more We sleep in graves made of la mort.

5

Des, des parts sombres nait une graine. C'est une rose, rose naissante à la tige verte. Elle peut grandir si vite ! La tige enserre la peine, En plein de petites racines, agréables, certes.

0

Dec 18, 2025

Dec 18, 2025 at 4:00 AM UTC

Biket

Rose naissante

Des, des parts sombres nait une graine. C'est une rose, rose naissante à la tige verte. Elle peut grandir si vite ! La tige enserre la peine, En plein de petites racines, agréables, certes.

4

Retour ? Brume ? Calme. Retour, bruit, rassurant.

0

Dec 18, 2025

Dec 18, 2025 at 3:56 AM UTC

Biket

Retour

Retour ? Brume ? Calme. Retour, bruit, rassurant.

2

Pourquoi ? Bonheur supposé, Pourquoi ? En partant voyager, Pourquoi ? L'humeur sombre, Pourquoi ? Ne voir que des décombres. Peut-être trop, Peut-être beaucoup. Bientôt : le ciel bleu.

0

Dec 18, 2025

Dec 18, 2025 at 3:53 AM UTC

Biket

Des parts sombres

Pourquoi ? Bonheur supposé, Pourquoi ? En partant voyager, Pourquoi ? L'humeur sombre, Pourquoi ? Ne voir que des décombres. Peut-être trop, Peut-être beaucoup. Bientôt : le ciel bleu.

7

Le Pont de Noël or The Christmas Bridge In the far north of Quebec, where the conifers crowd the hills like patient sentries and the winters arrive early with the certainty of old friends, there stands a covered bridge older than any memory. Its spruce timbers are darkened with age, its roof bowed gently under decades of snowfall, and its red paint—once bright—has faded into the colour of cranberries caught in deep shadow. The people of the region call it Le pont de Noël—The Christmas Bridge. They say it was built in 1819, long before any proper highway was carved through the Laurentian wilderness. Back then, it was only a humble crossing over the Rivière Blanche, built by settlers who needed a way to bring sleighs to market and children to the stone schoolhouse. But from the very beginning, stories gathered around it like snowdrifts in a fierce winter storm. Folks whispered that the bridge “chose” what the traveler saw on the other side. There was magic in the timbers used to build the bridge they say. Now, most people hurrying along the modern route with trucks full of lumber or groceries see only the highway continuing on, the long strip of asphalt stretching into the pines. They pass beneath its beams, glance at the weathered wood, and think nothing more of it. To them, Le pont de Noël is simply an old relic the province never got around to replacing. But others…The true believers of the magic...know better. True believers don’t always look like believers. Some wear snowmobile suits and haul ice-fishing gear. Some drive rusty pickups or shiny new Subarus. Some are nine years old, carrying gingerbread dreams . Some are ninety, carrying the memories of Christmases past, of better times and family. But they all cross the bridge with the same quiet faith: a belief in wonder, in generosity, in the strange and gentle magic of this northern land. And when they cross, whether at Christmas or in the heat of August, sometimes the world changes. The hum of the highway fades away into silence. The air grows crisp and sparkling, as though touched by frost even in midsummer. And, under the warm glow of lanterns, they find themselves entering a village that should not exist anymore. A village from the early 19th century, dressed forever for Christmas. There it stands, as though painted from a Currier & Ives print: cottages of hand-hewn logs, roofs deep with snow, smoke curling from stone chimneys. Oil lamps flicker in windows trimmed with balsam garlands. Fires crackle at the blacksmith shop. The church bell, small, bright, and silver rings every half hour. Children in woolen mittens skate on the frozen millpond, laughing like wind chimes. Even in the middle of the summer, this is the scene in this magical town. Women in shawls carry pies cooling in tin plates. Men with frosted beards haul cords of birch on wooden sleds. And the smell, oh, the smell! Spruce pitch, woodsmoke, and maple taffy lingers everywhere. Visitors don’t question how they got there. In that village, time settles softly, like a blanket folded with care. The villagers greet strangers as though they’ve been expecting them. “Bienvenue, voyageur,” the blacksmith says, shaking hands with a grip like warm iron. “Come warm yourself,” offers the baker, pressing a thick slice of bread, still steaming, into their palms. Children tug at sleeves. “Do you want to see the Christmas tree?” they ask, eyes wide. And what a tree it is: a towering balsam fir in the square, lit with candles that never seem to burn down, decorated with pinecones, ribbons, and hand-carved wooden toys. Sometimes a fiddler plays old French carols on the steps of the church. Sometimes the whole village gathers for a feast: venison stew, maple cakes, roasted apples, and mulled cider that warms from the inside out. Travelers swear they have spent hours, sometimes whole evenings. in the village. Yet when they finally cross the bridge again, returning to the modern world, only minutes have passed. Their coffee is still warm in the cupholder. Their radio hasn’t finished the song they were listening to earlier. But something in them has changed. They drive away lighter, as though a long-closed window has been opened. Of course, not everyone sees it. That’s the way of magic; it belongs only to the hopeful. Some cross the bridge talking about bill payments, deadlines, or the foolishness of northern myths. They see only old timber beams and the asphalt stretching beyond. The bridge gives them what they expect: the world as it is, unadorned. They drive on, none the wiser. But sometimes—just sometimes—they catch the faint scent of pine and warm bread. Or they hear a child’s laugh carried by a wind that should be far too cold. And they wonder. That is how believers are born. There is one more part to this tale, spoken only in hushed tones at the general store in Saint-Laurent-du-Nord. They say the bridge has a keeper. A figure seen only at dusk or dawn. An old man in a fur-lined coat, carrying a lantern that glows with a steady gold light. Some swear he was the bridge’s original builder. Others say he’s a spirit of Christmas itself. Children insist he winks at them when they pass, even if their parents see no one there at all. Whoever he is, he stands watch, ensuring the right people see the right world. And so, on Christmas Eve, the believers come. Not in crowds, but quietly, one or two at a time, each hoping to catch a glimpse of that timeless village. Many have crossed before and hope that the magic still remains. They cross the bridge slowly, breath fogging the air, hearts open wide to wonder. Some return with stories of sleigh rides under lanterns and midnight carols sung beneath falling snow. Others return with nothing but a lingering warmth and a certainty that magic brushed against them. And still, the non-believers cross, seeing only the highway. But somewhere, deep inside, something small stirs. And that, perhaps, is the greatest magic of Le pont de Noël, that even those who do not believe may one day find themselves glancing back in the rearview mirror, wondering if they missed something… and feeling, with sudden tenderness, that they’d like to believe after all.

0

Dec 10, 2025

Dec 10, 2025 at 1:49 PM UTC

roger-turner

The Christmas Bridge

Le Pont de Noël or The Christmas Bridge In the far north of Quebec, where the conifers crowd the hills like patient sentries and the winters arrive early with the certainty of old friends, there stands a covered bridge older than any memory. Its spruce timbers are darkened with age, its roof bowed gently under decades of snowfall, and its red paint—once bright—has faded into the colour of cranberries caught in deep shadow. The people of the region call it Le pont de Noël—The Christmas Bridge. They say it was built in 1819, long before any proper highway was carved through the Laurentian wilderness. Back then, it was only a humble crossing over the Rivière Blanche, built by settlers who needed a way to bring sleighs to market and children to the stone schoolhouse. But from the very beginning, stories gathered around it like snowdrifts in a fierce winter storm. Folks whispered that the bridge “chose” what the traveler saw on the other side. There was magic in the timbers used to build the bridge they say. Now, most people hurrying along the modern route with trucks full of lumber or groceries see only the highway continuing on, the long strip of asphalt stretching into the pines. They pass beneath its beams, glance at the weathered wood, and think nothing more of it. To them, Le pont de Noël is simply an old relic the province never got around to replacing. But others…The true believers of the magic...know better. True believers don’t always look like believers. Some wear snowmobile suits and haul ice-fishing gear. Some drive rusty pickups or shiny new Subarus. Some are nine years old, carrying gingerbread dreams . Some are ninety, carrying the memories of Christmases past, of better times and family. But they all cross the bridge with the same quiet faith: a belief in wonder, in generosity, in the strange and gentle magic of this northern land. And when they cross, whether at Christmas or in the heat of August, sometimes the world changes. The hum of the highway fades away into silence. The air grows crisp and sparkling, as though touched by frost even in midsummer. And, under the warm glow of lanterns, they find themselves entering a village that should not exist anymore. A village from the early 19th century, dressed forever for Christmas. There it stands, as though painted from a Currier & Ives print: cottages of hand-hewn logs, roofs deep with snow, smoke curling from stone chimneys. Oil lamps flicker in windows trimmed with balsam garlands. Fires crackle at the blacksmith shop. The church bell, small, bright, and silver rings every half hour. Children in woolen mittens skate on the frozen millpond, laughing like wind chimes. Even in the middle of the summer, this is the scene in this magical town. Women in shawls carry pies cooling in tin plates. Men with frosted beards haul cords of birch on wooden sleds. And the smell, oh, the smell! Spruce pitch, woodsmoke, and maple taffy lingers everywhere. Visitors don’t question how they got there. In that village, time settles softly, like a blanket folded with care. The villagers greet strangers as though they’ve been expecting them. “Bienvenue, voyageur,” the blacksmith says, shaking hands with a grip like warm iron. “Come warm yourself,” offers the baker, pressing a thick slice of bread, still steaming, into their palms. Children tug at sleeves. “Do you want to see the Christmas tree?” they ask, eyes wide. And what a tree it is: a towering balsam fir in the square, lit with candles that never seem to burn down, decorated with pinecones, ribbons, and hand-carved wooden toys. Sometimes a fiddler plays old French carols on the steps of the church. Sometimes the whole village gathers for a feast: venison stew, maple cakes, roasted apples, and mulled cider that warms from the inside out. Travelers swear they have spent hours, sometimes whole evenings. in the village. Yet when they finally cross the bridge again, returning to the modern world, only minutes have passed. Their coffee is still warm in the cupholder. Their radio hasn’t finished the song they were listening to earlier. But something in them has changed. They drive away lighter, as though a long-closed window has been opened. Of course, not everyone sees it. That’s the way of magic; it belongs only to the hopeful. Some cross the bridge talking about bill payments, deadlines, or the foolishness of northern myths. They see only old timber beams and the asphalt stretching beyond. The bridge gives them what they expect: the world as it is, unadorned. They drive on, none the wiser. But sometimes—just sometimes—they catch the faint scent of pine and warm bread. Or they hear a child’s laugh carried by a wind that should be far too cold. And they wonder. That is how believers are born. There is one more part to this tale, spoken only in hushed tones at the general store in Saint-Laurent-du-Nord. They say the bridge has a keeper. A figure seen only at dusk or dawn. An old man in a fur-lined coat, carrying a lantern that glows with a steady gold light. Some swear he was the bridge’s original builder. Others say he’s a spirit of Christmas itself. Children insist he winks at them when they pass, even if their parents see no one there at all. Whoever he is, he stands watch, ensuring the right people see the right world. And so, on Christmas Eve, the believers come. Not in crowds, but quietly, one or two at a time, each hoping to catch a glimpse of that timeless village. Many have crossed before and hope that the magic still remains. They cross the bridge slowly, breath fogging the air, hearts open wide to wonder. Some return with stories of sleigh rides under lanterns and midnight carols sung beneath falling snow. Others return with nothing but a lingering warmth and a certainty that magic brushed against them. And still, the non-believers cross, seeing only the highway. But somewhere, deep inside, something small stirs. And that, perhaps, is the greatest magic of Le pont de Noël, that even those who do not believe may one day find themselves glancing back in the rearview mirror, wondering if they missed something… and feeling, with sudden tenderness, that they’d like to believe after all.

47

Je suis le vent Je vole et souffle sur les plaines Je ne fais que passer Je survole les joies les peines Sans jamais m'enraciner Je suis faite d'air et de particules Je suis une force invisible Je ne pèse rien et n'imprime pas Je ne laisse pas trace Et l'on ne se souvient pas de moi Je suis faite d'atomes de rêves De douces folies et d'illusions Qui ne font de mal à personne Et me maintiennent en lévitation Je n'ai pas de nom pas d'accroche Je glisse à la surface de la terre Pas de berceau pas de tombe Juste un souffle frais Frêle frémissement de feuillage Ou ride à la surface de l'eau

0

Dec 4, 2025

Dec 4, 2025 at 3:03 PM UTC

Superblue3838

Le Vent

Je suis le vent Je vole et souffle sur les plaines Je ne fais que passer Je survole les joies les peines Sans jamais m'enraciner Je suis faite d'air et de particules Je suis une force invisible Je ne pèse rien et n'imprime pas Je ne laisse pas trace Et l'on ne se souvient pas de moi Je suis faite d'atomes de rêves De douces folies et d'illusions Qui ne font de mal à personne Et me maintiennent en lévitation Je n'ai pas de nom pas d'accroche Je glisse à la surface de la terre Pas de berceau pas de tombe Juste un souffle frais Frêle frémissement de feuillage Ou ride à la surface de l'eau

20

Il fait trop de bruit dans ma tête Les voix de mes peurs Fouillent les blessures de mon ame Leurs braillements occupent chaque recoin Et mangent l'oxygène de ma boîte crânienne Je leur hurle qu'elles ont tort Que je refuse d'écouter leurs cris Qui veulent fendre mes certitudes Mordre le silence Dans l'enfer de ma conscience Anéantir mes voeux de sérénité Pour mieux me persuader Que je suis un démon déguisé Mais mes tortionnaires insistent et aboient Une litanie de confessions forcées Ces bêtes jappent leur perfidie Ressassent que je me trompe que je mens Que je vole que je triche Que ça ne sert à rien Que je suis définitivement perdue Je ne peux pas arrêter ce bruit Dans la douleur de ma lucidité Je peux seulement tenter de l'ignorer Le contourner d'une parenthèse Le temps d'une course salvatrice Dans un grand rayon de soleil Dans les profondeurs des eaux froides Dans quelque ligne de poésie Mais les images intrusives surgissent encore Des amas de chair Des flammes de l'enfer Ou au contraire un noir total Un puits sombre et abyssal Et je me débats de toutes mes forces Je hurle mon cri d'impuissance Pour conjurer ces visions atroces Je projette la force de ma résistance mentale Je cours de plus en plus **** De plus en plus vite Mais on ne s'évade pas de son destin Encore moins de sa prison intérieure

0

Dec 3, 2025

Dec 3, 2025 at 9:50 AM UTC

Superblue3838

Incontrôlable

Il fait trop de bruit dans ma tête Les voix de mes peurs Fouillent les blessures de mon ame Leurs braillements occupent chaque recoin Et mangent l'oxygène de ma boîte crânienne Je leur hurle qu'elles ont tort Que je refuse d'écouter leurs cris Qui veulent fendre mes certitudes Mordre le silence Dans l'enfer de ma conscience Anéantir mes voeux de sérénité Pour mieux me persuader Que je suis un démon déguisé Mais mes tortionnaires insistent et aboient Une litanie de confessions forcées Ces bêtes jappent leur perfidie Ressassent que je me trompe que je mens Que je vole que je triche Que ça ne sert à rien Que je suis définitivement perdue Je ne peux pas arrêter ce bruit Dans la douleur de ma lucidité Je peux seulement tenter de l'ignorer Le contourner d'une parenthèse Le temps d'une course salvatrice Dans un grand rayon de soleil Dans les profondeurs des eaux froides Dans quelque ligne de poésie Mais les images intrusives surgissent encore Des amas de chair Des flammes de l'enfer Ou au contraire un noir total Un puits sombre et abyssal Et je me débats de toutes mes forces Je hurle mon cri d'impuissance Pour conjurer ces visions atroces Je projette la force de ma résistance mentale Je cours de plus en plus **** De plus en plus vite Mais on ne s'évade pas de son destin Encore moins de sa prison intérieure

41

La volonté est une force de l’âme, Forte, puissante, elle anime les rames. Sur les flots de la peur, le navire tient, Face à la grande ardeur, La terreur n’est rien.

0

Nov 29, 2025

Nov 29, 2025 at 1:06 PM UTC

Biket

La volonté est une force de l'âme

La volonté est une force de l’âme, Forte, puissante, elle anime les rames. Sur les flots de la peur, le navire tient, Face à la grande ardeur, La terreur n’est rien.

6

La vie est belle comme un jour, il naît, resplendit et s’assombrit. Mais alors dans la vie quand il ne nous reste qu’un jour, il faut le voir comme une naissance, qui à jamais resplendit.

0

Nov 29, 2025

Nov 29, 2025 at 1:05 PM UTC

Biket

La vie est belle comme un jour

La vie est belle comme un jour, il naît, resplendit et s’assombrit. Mais alors dans la vie quand il ne nous reste qu’un jour, il faut le voir comme une naissance, qui à jamais resplendit.

2

La vie est comme une rose, dans toute sa majesté, La plus belle des choses, qui parfois peut couper. Pour ne perdre aucun pétale, et vivre intensément, La rose dans le vase, survivra bien longtemps. Mais l’eau qui disparaît, les pétales en même temps, Doit être valorisée, pour pouvoir vivre pleinement

0

Nov 29, 2025

Nov 29, 2025 at 1:00 PM UTC

Biket

La vie est comme une rose

La vie est comme une rose, dans toute sa majesté, La plus belle des choses, qui parfois peut couper. Pour ne perdre aucun pétale, et vivre intensément, La rose dans le vase, survivra bien longtemps. Mais l’eau qui disparaît, les pétales en même temps, Doit être valorisée, pour pouvoir vivre pleinement

6

I Espace, espace, ô espace infini, Laisse moi plonger dans tes eaux immenses, Et me poser sur quelques cailloux pour scruter cette jolie terre. Je cherche une Rose, quelque part dans mon pays, Rose qui dans mon cœur, souffle comme un vent de Provence. Espace, Espace, ta beauté toute entière, Ne saurait égaler celle de cette fleur, remplie de majesté. Ô Espace, Espace, ton étendue m’offre le repos, Et l’horizon infini constellé d’étoiles que tu es, Me rappelle tendrement, Ces yeux si beaux, dont la belle Rose est pourvue. Espace, Espace, Qu’elle puisse m’aimer, penses-tu ? II Tes yeux bleus dans les miens, Ta main dans mes cheveux dans le bus romain, Le vent que je ressens n’est pas l’effet du temps, Mais ton souffle délicat que j’entends. La Rose que je cherchais, je l’ai trouvée. III. Ô illusion, ô déception, cette Rose ne m’était-elle donc pas destinée ? Il me semble, très cher Espace, que ma vision ait été troublée : La fleur qui était une rose, il me semblait, s’est révélée être une orchidée : L’orchidée de l’amitié, il me doit donc de ne pas la couper, et de l’oublier.

0

Nov 29, 2025

Nov 29, 2025 at 12:57 PM UTC

Biket

Espace

I Espace, espace, ô espace infini, Laisse moi plonger dans tes eaux immenses, Et me poser sur quelques cailloux pour scruter cette jolie terre. Je cherche une Rose, quelque part dans mon pays, Rose qui dans mon cœur, souffle comme un vent de Provence. Espace, Espace, ta beauté toute entière, Ne saurait égaler celle de cette fleur, remplie de majesté. Ô Espace, Espace, ton étendue m’offre le repos, Et l’horizon infini constellé d’étoiles que tu es, Me rappelle tendrement, Ces yeux si beaux, dont la belle Rose est pourvue. Espace, Espace, Qu’elle puisse m’aimer, penses-tu ? II Tes yeux bleus dans les miens, Ta main dans mes cheveux dans le bus romain, Le vent que je ressens n’est pas l’effet du temps, Mais ton souffle délicat que j’entends. La Rose que je cherchais, je l’ai trouvée. III. Ô illusion, ô déception, cette Rose ne m’était-elle donc pas destinée ? Il me semble, très cher Espace, que ma vision ait été troublée : La fleur qui était une rose, il me semblait, s’est révélée être une orchidée : L’orchidée de l’amitié, il me doit donc de ne pas la couper, et de l’oublier.

25

En fait, je ne lui dirais pas tout ça Je ne lui parlerais ni de tes yeux, Ni de ta voix, ni même de ton sourire Je ne lui décrirais pas la chaleur du creux de tes bras, Ni la douceur, ni la saveur de ton cou. Je ne lui parlerais pas des tourbillons que je ressens quand je te vois. Ni même du vide quand je ne te vois pas. C’est à toi que je devrais dire tout ça… Mais je ne trouve pas les bons mots. Je lui dirais simplement c’est comme ça.

0

Nov 12, 2025

Nov 12, 2025 at 2:28 PM UTC

regis

Simplement Toi

En fait, je ne lui dirais pas tout ça Je ne lui parlerais ni de tes yeux, Ni de ta voix, ni même de ton sourire Je ne lui décrirais pas la chaleur du creux de tes bras, Ni la douceur, ni la saveur de ton cou. Je ne lui parlerais pas des tourbillons que je ressens quand je te vois. Ni même du vide quand je ne te vois pas. C’est à toi que je devrais dire tout ça… Mais je ne trouve pas les bons mots. Je lui dirais simplement c’est comme ça.

10

Au milieu du silence Une brise Quelques feuilles rougies Frémissent Glissent Fragiles Un souffle léger Sur ma peau Un frisson Un battement de cœur A peine perceptible Ton cœur Sur mon cœur Si près Ta voix Douce Un murmure Un clignement Ton regard Immense Perdu Dans ton odeur Dans un rêve Dans la nuit Dans ma nuit Seul

0

Nov 11, 2025

Nov 11, 2025 at 2:18 PM UTC

regis

Tant d’absence

Au milieu du silence Une brise Quelques feuilles rougies Frémissent Glissent Fragiles Un souffle léger Sur ma peau Un frisson Un battement de cœur A peine perceptible Ton cœur Sur mon cœur Si près Ta voix Douce Un murmure Un clignement Ton regard Immense Perdu Dans ton odeur Dans un rêve Dans la nuit Dans ma nuit Seul

26

Depuis longtemps Trop longtemps Un cœur retient Ensevelis Ses sentiments Ses tourments Qu’aucun mot Ne reflète vraiment

0

Nov 11, 2025

Nov 11, 2025 at 2:13 PM UTC

regis

Silence

Depuis longtemps Trop longtemps Un cœur retient Ensevelis Ses sentiments Ses tourments Qu’aucun mot Ne reflète vraiment

8

Longtemps La page est restée blanche Dans le cœur Trop de douleur D’incertitude Cette fichue incertitude Qui pèse Et m’empêche De coucher Ce que je vis au fond de moi

0

Nov 11, 2025

Nov 11, 2025 at 11:49 AM UTC

regis

Untitled

Longtemps La page est restée blanche Dans le cœur Trop de douleur D’incertitude Cette fichue incertitude Qui pèse Et m’empêche De coucher Ce que je vis au fond de moi

10

Entombé dans mon amour Noyé dans l'echos Captivé dans des cercles de mon réflexions Être dans ton cerveau Est une punition suffisante

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Nov 6, 2025

Nov 6, 2025 at 9:18 AM UTC

yesterdayslunareclipse

Aftermath

Entombé dans mon amour Noyé dans l'echos Captivé dans des cercles de mon réflexions Être dans ton cerveau Est une punition suffisante

5

*What feeds a writer’s art? Why feed a writer’s art - when the appetite’s clearly insatiable? I think in stiches, rows, paragraphs and stanzas, and I’m not one to undershoot a thesis. I can’t seem to just write a paper for school, I have to craft some kind of narrative - it’s practically involuntary.* Last week was ‘All Saints’ school break. It was a week in France that, like fall, shifted the temperature - cooling the pace, so Peter (my bf) and I could take a breath and metabolize the changes of the past few weeks, where we both moved to Paris - changing schools and jobs. We’ve had big feelings - it was a lot. Peter’s content with my tireless run on the hamster wheel of education - he has a PhD, so he understands the grind and my often prickly, acerbic and deeply abstracted school-day moods. He’s on a steep learning curve himself, these days, living suddenly in an all-French world, where every sign and menu is semi-unreadable. We’re working on it - we’ll get there because his tutor gives excellent rewards for effort. . . Songs for this: Take On Me by Josh Whitehouse Poor Boy - Nick Drake Window - Still Woozy

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Nov 3, 2025

Nov 3, 2025 at 12:52 PM UTC

anaisvionet

deeply abstracted

*What feeds a writer’s art? Why feed a writer’s art - when the appetite’s clearly insatiable? I think in stiches, rows, paragraphs and stanzas, and I’m not one to undershoot a thesis. I can’t seem to just write a paper for school, I have to craft some kind of narrative - it’s practically involuntary.* Last week was ‘All Saints’ school break. It was a week in France that, like fall, shifted the temperature - cooling the pace, so Peter (my bf) and I could take a breath and metabolize the changes of the past few weeks, where we both moved to Paris - changing schools and jobs. We’ve had big feelings - it was a lot. Peter’s content with my tireless run on the hamster wheel of education - he has a PhD, so he understands the grind and my often prickly, acerbic and deeply abstracted school-day moods. He’s on a steep learning curve himself, these days, living suddenly in an all-French world, where every sign and menu is semi-unreadable. We’re working on it - we’ll get there because his tutor gives excellent rewards for effort. . . Songs for this: Take On Me by Josh Whitehouse Poor Boy - Nick Drake Window - Still Woozy

17

Tense audience members, in active learning auditorium classes, all crammed together. In the first few days there were times that I felt genuinely lost. I wasn’t used to processing everything, especially technical things, in French. On day two, one guy, looking askance, said, ‘That was confusing, right?’ Which was a relief. On day three, Charles, watching me via the rear-view mirror, said, “Trust the process, kid-0.” And eventually, around day four, I started to find my footing. Shall we wax, free-versely, poetic? Who has it worse than a physician? There’s no sleeping in that business, and the physician’s wisdom, press'd with caution, is seldom desired or given careful attention. Surely, I’ve heard it reasoned, those who applaud pristine health are but abusing God's patience. But what else remains, for learned men - the priesthood, with its beguiling, terrestrial proverbs? That idea’s a purgative. And I am female. Besides, they’ve erased much of the good will that came out of Nazareth. . . Songs for this Welcome to the Jungle (808 Remix) by Freedom Dub Easy Way Out (version française) by Mariama

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Sep 18, 2025

Sep 18, 2025 at 10:48 AM UTC

anaisvionet

auditoriums

Tense audience members, in active learning auditorium classes, all crammed together. In the first few days there were times that I felt genuinely lost. I wasn’t used to processing everything, especially technical things, in French. On day two, one guy, looking askance, said, ‘That was confusing, right?’ Which was a relief. On day three, Charles, watching me via the rear-view mirror, said, “Trust the process, kid-0.” And eventually, around day four, I started to find my footing. Shall we wax, free-versely, poetic? Who has it worse than a physician? There’s no sleeping in that business, and the physician’s wisdom, press'd with caution, is seldom desired or given careful attention. Surely, I’ve heard it reasoned, those who applaud pristine health are but abusing God's patience. But what else remains, for learned men - the priesthood, with its beguiling, terrestrial proverbs? That idea’s a purgative. And I am female. Besides, they’ve erased much of the good will that came out of Nazareth. . . Songs for this Welcome to the Jungle (808 Remix) by Freedom Dub Easy Way Out (version française) by Mariama

23

Je me fonds en Elle que même lorsque les grillons cessent de chanter je me retrouve toujours allongé avec mes myriades de pensées à la contempler, La nuit. Et Vénus se marie avec mes yeux, reflète verte dans mes pupilles Elle me dit de m’endormir mais, j’en suis incapable Voilà des années que je la regarde sans jamais pouvoir la sentir Et pourtant, elle mourra avec moi,

0

Aug 29, 2025

Aug 29, 2025 at 10:45 AM UTC

Mouldy_Strawberries

Mon femme

Je me fonds en Elle que même lorsque les grillons cessent de chanter je me retrouve toujours allongé avec mes myriades de pensées à la contempler, La nuit. Et Vénus se marie avec mes yeux, reflète verte dans mes pupilles Elle me dit de m’endormir mais, j’en suis incapable Voilà des années que je la regarde sans jamais pouvoir la sentir Et pourtant, elle mourra avec moi,

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