Drink. Drink. Write. Write.
Think. Think. Fight. Fight.
Drink to get drunk.
Get drunk to get angry.
Get angry to get passionate.
Get passionate to write.
Write with passion.
Write with soul.
Write with honor.
Honor thyself.
Love thyself.
Love your thoughts.
Cherish them.
Especially the thoughts
That make you crazy.
Too much thinking results
In too much entanglement.
Break free from the webs
Of hopelessness.
Fight your way through them.
Fight the demons in your head.
Fight the problems as they
Come along.
Fight the living on sour ground
In this bitter world.
Fight to keep to writing.
Fight everything until it is faded
Or gone
Like the smell of your woman’s
Cheap perfume.
But this bottle of wine is here
To stay.
And no amount of sleep will
Dissolve this hangover
I have today.
No editing, no giving lots of thought- just putting whatever comes to my head down and posting it. Completely raw.
347

When Night is almost done—
And Sunrise grows so near
That we can touch the Spaces—
It’s time to smooth the Hair—

And get the Dimples ready—
And wonder we could care
For that old—faded Midnight—
That frightened—but an Hour—
  1d Val Vik
Lee
The smoke drifts up a pale blue
making ribbons in the lone lights spread
above our panting heads.
We built ancient temples in the forest green
and dug holes for warming hands on fire rocks.
Do you understand?
There is no time here.
Sleeping in the cold grounds embrace,
I kiss the sky goodnight through the holes in the roof.
Lost in the eternal emerald of this season, SAvaGES was our cry,
beating hearts howl out in a brooding bark.
Lick your wounds,
bleed your blistered hands chopping saplings.
This room is finally complete.
I,
I am content.
You,
You're as angel pale as the moon,
by its light I see your curves.
Touching soft till the morning birds.
No air between our lips to feel the words.
Its rum in our bellies
that sweetened southern swill.
The trees groan in the breeze
I groan rapped between your knees.
This forest is aphrodisiac enough for us.
  1d Val Vik
Meera
He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come
That's how true poetry comes into existence
Val Vik 1d
I don't know if this is authentic...
but my soul... yearns to say it..

each risen and fallen sun.

In the end into the new beginning,
My body lies in savasana.
I've mastered a pose
at least in one phase of life
  Jun 7 Val Vik
J
Her eyes mimicked
the beckoning moonlight
refracting in the
stillness of the ocean;
revealing a wondrous
depth, and all the
walls I built came
crumbling down.

Fear and courage
skirmished inside
my head as I drift
deeper into the
dark of her eyes;
equally liberating
and terrifying,
knowing I might get
lost in it...

...but I won’t close
my eyes, nor will
I ever look away.
Beckoned by the moonlight.
  May 29 Val Vik
Pagan Paul
.
Snow drifts down
     laying a lawn cold sheet
across the frozen ground,
          creating art reliefs
like acid etching glass,
open space rolling and undulating,
in small hills and depressions,
     bedecked in a veil of white.
The silence is deafening,
quiet having been enjoyed
     and surpassed,
briefly punctuated by the call of a bird,
     A sharp whistle that shrieks
and attacks the silence.
The fresh smell of snowfall wafts up
     as it settles and glistens
in the light of silver moonbeams,
randomly peeping through clouds.
The taste of peace,
                     tranquility,
in the frigid air,
sends imagination soaring
from the desolation of isolation
to another time and place.
          The snow falls,
     falls,
in a relentless race for the ground,
               all is still,
               nothing stirs,
as the moor welcomes its quilt
and sleeps with a cold heart,
     dreaming,
                       of being kissed by the Sun.



© Pagan Paul (28/05/18)
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