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Victoria Kiely Oct 2013
The rain beat the pavement as the man ran to a nearby bus shelter holding a newspaper over his ragged hair. The rain hitting the glass was nearly deafening, but there was comfort in the sound. A public transit bus comes and goes, recognizing the bleak figure immediately. This was, after all, his commonplace - the closest thing he had to a home in the past two years.
"Get a job", people would say, as if it were ever really that easy.
He had been diagnosed with depression after his wife’s passing nearly four years ago and suffered alone as he mourned and pushed through what most people see as a normal life. On the outside, it was unapparent how miserable he had become, unable to share the world with another as he had now for so many years. He came to his cubical on time each day, he worked until the late afternoon had came and went, and he left without a word. He was the unnoticed face in a crowd.
All at once, he lost his drive to live his life. He stopped showing up to work, he did not pay his bills, he didn’t answer the door or the phone. The clear print reading “EVICTION NOTICE” had meant nothing to him. He took only the essential things with him as he left behind an empty house behind. The last thing he put into his bag was a copy of the Odyssey, worn now after so many years of attentive reading.
The tattered copy sat open on his crossed legs, the moment passing by. The walls of the shelter sheild him from the wind and welcome him into their embrace. the adequecy of lighting was questionable as the sun descends and the world loses its colour. A streetlamp flickers to life and casts an ominous glow onto the street beneath it. He continues to read about the long journey of a man trying to find his way home, not unlike himself. What’s happening on the page is disconnected from thepart of the world that he is trapped on; he watches his secret world become a vivid painting beneath his hands and turns the page.
"Hello," said a man waiting for another bus to take him to a far off place.
He didn’t respond.
"I take it you like the book, judging by the condition…" The man tried again to grasp his attention. His dark figure loomed on the other side of the glass.
"I do", he said.
"What’s your name, son?"
He paused, turning to fully look at the man. “Its Tristan,” he said, contemplating the man as he stepped into the light. The man shuffled into the shelther gingerly, leaving behind the loud clack of his cane. His clothes chaffed against the skin on his legs, and he carried his fedora in his hand. He creased his face in pain as he sat beside Tristen.
"My name is Connor Wright", he breathed heavily, struggling to continue. "I have a spare copy of that book myself, laying around at home. No use to myself. Would you want to have it? I can bring it to you the same time next week"
"How do you know I will return it?"
"Perhaps I don’t want it back"
The silence stretched. “I would like that very much, sir” replied Tristan.
A dark blue bus pulled up to the stop without warning and stirred the stillness in the air. The headlights shone in their eyes and caught the edge of the mans thick-framed glasses. “I will see you next week then”
Each week came and passed as Mr. Wright began to bring Tristan books frequently, exchanging each new book for the last. “Why do you treat me with such kindness when I have nothing to give?” Tristan would ask him each week, never recieving an answer.
A year passed by in the presence of the silent agreement. Mr. Wright would often bring Tristan a warm container filled with soup, or a sandwhich left over from lunch to accompany his reading for the night.
On a cold night in april, Tristan waited at the bus stop for the greying man. He spotted him across the street as he waved to him. Tristan, flashing his increasingly more common smile, returned his vivid wave in the direction of Mr. Wright.
"Hello Tristan", he began as always with a bright smile. His distinct aroma filled the hollow bus shelter - a mix of burnt wood, but also new paper and musk, and apparent paradox. After a brief conversation, Tristan took the book out of Mr. Wright’s frail hands.
The bus arrived shortly thereafter and Mr. Wright borded the exhausted vehical, taking his time going up the short stoop of stairs.
This book was rather unlike the other books that Mr. Wright had given him in the past months. His books had usually been full of journeys abundant with creatures, or filled to the brim with a quaint scenery, embodying an allegory in a far off place. The book he held in his hands was called “Darkness Visible”. It was a self-help book for those in the winter of their lives, much as Tristan was, though he hated to admit it.
He opened the page of the book and the spine cracked as the smell of fresh ink and paper filled his senses. This book was new.
He read with curiousity at first, which later turned to deep interest, and later still, turned into inspiration. The following week, Tristan returned this book to Mr. Wright as he told him that he would not be returning to the bus stop with any more new books. “I wish to see you again in the future”, he said, handing Tristan a slip of paper with his name and phone number on it.
Many years passed by and the two men kept regular contact, discussing the endevours of Tristan and his success in his new life.
"Doctor Spense, you have a visitor" his secretary informed him in her usual airy tone.
"Send them in, please"
A man with strong lines creased into his face turned the door handle and entered his office at Kingston University. Commonalities were exchanged and the man fought back a solemn look as he took a seat across from Tristan. The armchair engulphed him.
"Doctor Spense, I’m sorry to inform you that Mr. Connor Wright passed away this morning as he succumed to his long fight against cancer", he spoke as though he had said these words in practise. "I am here because you were included in his will and we need to speak about legalities".
Mr. Wright had left him his entire collection of books, including that first copy of the Odyssey that Tristan had cherised so many years earlier when he had had nothing else. As he opened the familliar book, an envelope fell to the ground.
He stooped to the ground to pick up the white sheet and put it in the pile of other loose pages when he saw in handwriting, “To Dr. Tristan Spense”.
He read the words and tears filled his eyes, prickling at the corners and pooling in the clear canvas of skin before his jaw.

"The greatest disease in the West today is not TB or leprosy; it is being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for. We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair, and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread but there are many more dying for a little love. The poverty in the West is a different kind of poverty…" - Mother Teresa
I treated you kindly holding the knowledge that you would have nothing to give in return because I saw something I once saw within myself during the darker days of my time. I helped you because I knew your soul would rot and perish in a sickly way should you go unnoticed. I helped you because I hate faith in you and knew you had the kind of illness that could be taken away with the love of a friend. I hope that I have been able to give you the medicide loneliness, desparity and hopelessness and that your cabinets are stocked full. Remember where you have come from, and remember that it is always darkest before dawn.
Your friend always,
Connor Wright
Babylona Bora Apr 2014
Monochromtic.
Those gleaming eyes.
Filled with dreams of the universe,of the unspoken world,
The golden smile you wear is a beauty which can't escape; the eyes of your admirers.


'You have valued me,reinforced in me your good virtues.
Loved me in good.
Cherised me in my bad.
Don't you get tired?

'Don't you feel like breaking this bond and running away?
The girl who has always beared me and will continue to do so till the world comes to an end,
'You'll be my bridesmaid'
Said she.
Those lovely words made my heart skip with joy.
Of chimes and beautiful music,
That beautiful day will come,of your marriage.
To my dear bestfriend,PB.

Special thanks to Filzah Belal and Dikshita Phukon.
Christian Feb 2011
a  relished cherised sometime almost perished relationship
which continues past the hands of time,
A well crafted sculptor of making things come true.
I remember warm summer days and criss crossed lawns
¨No you don´t do it that way¨
No common sense you once said, I hope I proved you wrong.
Homeless jobless schooless kid,
He´s got soul though, I felt It I know it I seen it there,
Always proud,
A strong hand firmly pushing forward.
It doesn’t have to stop now
I remember long work days and never coming home
I gave a friend an oreo, just one
You laughed with me, our heads touched the floors
We´d swallow music and throw back legs
to relax on leather sofas that never could calm down
It was one dog promised one dog received, she was mine you know, at first
It was a bitten finger; I never let go,
Another peeing dog,
I stopped talking to you for a week
I remember a tire swing but no trampoline
Climbing up trees with knives between my teeth
Digging up concrete slabs, they were only 6 inches deep
Smoking herbal teas, pretending to be bad
I remember red walls dappled with sponge marks and ripping out carpet for cold floors
I never liked my room after.
Wobbling was a bad way to keep a secret
I got scared when a knock knock became a come on in
I can see your bed side lamp pouring warm colors through your face,
You held a book
I wondered if you read or if it was just some art
Have I told you that reality doesn´t always feel real
It seemed a scene painted on city streets to remind us of something, the mayor would never know
The ¨are you okay¨
The ¨yea just tired I think I´ll go to bed¨
Or the ¨where are you going¨
With the ¨just a cruise to feel the wind¨.
That wind wore church parking lots like empty streets smoking grass
I remember you asked me to stop
My answer was the cops
With cracked beers in Wyoming hot tub blues
Baby boy wasn´t so much a baby anymore.
Made mistakes, failed, disappointed, disagreed maybe didn´t do anything at all
Our faces weren´t always perfect
I´ve see a few frowns, they like to hide deep far down
And I wouldn´t change a thing.
you´ve taught me to sculpt so lets imagine again
Cause those sad times made the bad times go away
And I remember more sun shined teeth then any lips pointing towards the ground
In underground city hums where suburban mischief was the cause of what we are now.
It is my momma´s 50th birthday today. This is the present she asked for, a poem. This is the past which has molded our present, like I said, I wouldn´t change a thing.
tami Jun 2014
what is love?
is it the times when
you feel butterflies, or
the times when
you cant even breath

what is love?
is it the times when
you feel cherised, or
the times when
you're on the loo

what is love?
is it the times when
a day is more than a day, or
is it the times when
there's no more somedays

what is love?
is it the times when
you get to fly so high, or
the times when
the world seems to shallow you

honestly, what is love?
is it all about the happiness, or
the pains?
or a combination of both?
Manisha Uniyal Jul 2015
Art
is like worshiping god
With the purest of intention
Of surrendering to master
Pouring the love in the form of art as a mark of devotion
Art is melting oneself to the mould of the form
Lifting the soul to reach beyond the worldy consideration

Art is beauty in the eyes of the artist
It is love beyond comparison
It is promise unbreakable
It is the faith and believe of one's existence

No rewards and recognitions matter
When it's deeply pursued from heart
Love and devotion feeds the soul
When cherised in the form of art


Manisha
aniket nikhade Sep 2015
It’s better to go ahead with the flow rather than look for a change and desire for something new
Agreed, luck favors the brave, but not always
Especially, when the tide is against you.

It’s better to seek help when needed and in doing so, also learn something new
Expertise and experience come along with time
Something of which everyone falls short of over a period of time

It’s better to cope and deal with the changes in the present rather than lamenting upon something that went wrong in the past
A thing from past will always be remembered as a part and parcel of the past
Move ahead from the past to get aligned with the present moment of time.

At a given moment of time when the need of hour is fulfilled
Sooner or later present moment will become a thing of past
Still it will always be remembered and cherised for a long period of time.

Moments and memories from the past
A few glimpses from the past
Not only do they fill the vaccum of life, but also they give a new meaning to life.
"Life is all memory, except for the one present moment that goes by you so quickly you hardly catch it going." - Tennessee Williams
poopoo Aug 2019
Crude brown-plaster'd brick walls
Layed without proper solder or
Mold or mud or water
A pit of curdled old-heavy blood
And sinewous joint hinge-pins
Of hard goliath, giant's muscles
Heads seemingly shrunken
But blimped to a surley saturated to an
greater-than original size
Their skin peeled off long ago
Bones meaten'd down and scaled-up
The center of this gore-pit
their hellish home
Butcher paper and amish quilts
Thrown in to produce
A dense coagulate
Fine milk-colored, powdered substrate
Bone-meal and motor oil
Plasma and marrow
Worm-wood
Genteel feathers
From a bird that poisoned
The creek-water of a now-lost
But powerful mexican tribe
Jigger meal from a child's feet
And an old mans
In Afrika
The skin dead and leather'd
The insides rap't of those terrible
world's tiniest insects
Macro-scale germs, most toxic fleas
Coca-Cola boiled down
Into a solid black ichorous
Malleable glucose material

And the umbilical chords
Of Two hundred fifty
New borns
Steamed and broken down
To a mushy substance
With a feathered appearance

To the tactility of even the most calloused and rough

Digits
Whether human

or proto-, pseudo- or neo-
hyper- and pre-
Hensile

The seeds of a million poppies
Cowardly, feverishly tossed into this

Horrid ***
Milewed down into a fine
Addition to the general rot, of this
Yet another putrid addition
The ***** from the second stomach
Of a calcified pterodactylus
And a dragon's mouth below the drain
In the center of this certain,
Gross sess pool
Lies a carv-ed Dragon's skull
To catch this sacred druel
Made out of greenheart
Black ironwood
And for the teeth, obsidion and
Caspian tiger bone
Together spliced and mal-formulated
To create a most
Septic funnel
Cone
All if it drains and
Gurgles down

Into a forged
Glass-Vial
Made in ancient, archaic
Olden times
But for this very abjectly
Evil trial
And he throws the switch!
The gurgle wrought
By this very motion of the level,
The level thrown by most
white un-sunned
Wizard-Warlock hand
It travels down into the vial
Mixing through emerald-hoses
With arsenic
And tainted possum spit--
--infused with cud
From cows thatnot
Even Cherised, prideful
India would permit!
And so a mustard-seeded gas
Also thrown into the mix
Clashes, bonds with
Stupid fluids

Made from the umbilical plugs of anencephalic and

Profound Down-syndrome
Czecho-kidnapped
Stolen'd infants

As their bones rake and smash through
The grinder that eats ANYthing
It goes down a rifled fluted core
Of Balsa-wood
God permits!!
Slimy
Messy

Filthy
Nasty
Hole in the witches den
From which spells are NOW born
To take the world
In a sanguine
Magick-whirl wind!
Mukesh kataria Aug 2016
Let us burn a lamp of knowledge
for those who are egoist and small,
Small neither in age nor in wage,
But potted & brittle clays those,
who are miles away from the God.

The God who is omnipresent & omniscient,
but, innocent like a nascent child,
In the divinely stretched and limitless sky,
Like an aloof but flying & singing kite.
We are most often fools,
But he is always wise,
He lives close to us
But, unseen and unrealized.

Away from the God, I mean those
who are confined to self & supercilious in this zoo.
The zoo not only of birds and animals
But which comprises all i.e.he, she, me & you.

Let us,
Share our cognizance with them also,
if not the whole then, just a little mole,
As it may facilitate them in achieving MOKSHA( salvation from physical existence)
a long cherised life- goal.

Methinks, then,
It would be the beginning of a new era,
All around people blissful & stout,
The whole world whirling in mirth,
and nothing to be worried about.

Mukesh Kataria
Looking at widely prevalent ignorance and arrogance all around in society, I had penned my above feelings in my school days in year 1992. I have produced these verbatim.
Sonny Jan 2016
Art
He was a work of art,
Bright, beautiful, unique
His head back, pulse visible in his neck
Sunkissed skin and brilliant eyes
Dark lips and blinding smile
He was a work of art
And art should be cherised
Atta Apr 22
i cherised ourselves in silence breeze
at every corner of crowd we've cultured together
and on every personalities i've dictaded
i've grown my trees on you

yet you put an end to my tree

i should had known you're my lumberjack behind me
brought axe sharpened behind my corner
you'd warmed me by the fireplace
branches by branches

from the trees i've nurtured on you

at least i still get warmth for a second
a milli if i could tell
at least i still get warmth

and i asked
and i asked you
for once
you said
you put effort on your tree
you cared too much for me
you've watered it down
with sweet sweat with sour tears
for me

but i still smell me on your fire
mahogany vanilla, fresh autumn
orangish purple, i could visioned

and i asked
and i asked you
million times
all you said was
it was your tree
your ******* tree
your tree that you couldn't named of
what was the wood what was the fruit
what was it? you didn't know
lame

i extinguished flame you engulfed
that only affected on us
your option was go and go away
some i couldnt choose
i let myself stranded in your tiny little miniature
of towns you've built over my anxiety
by words youve trashed down
on my feelings
if i stay, i'd soaked my soil with my ***** tempest
if i go, i 'd walked on invisible string gagged and blindfolded

i choose to stay
growing trees on anger
i bow down
if i stand up
i could see all direction
and i could see you watering down
your tree on your person
such a gardener you are
It's mwe Feb 2019
A girl created her own deep hope
When she is broken,
She put her feelings into poems
And she listened to every single silent of her soul
And jumped into a buried smile
And gathered all the sparkling frustration
And disappeared in a covered damage;
She is a master of a nicest holocaust

Until she discovered her own contentment
And destroyed the unfortunate events
of herself
And cherised a timeless adventure
And rewarded an aimlessly silhouette
And pondered an untouchable bliss;
She is a master of a wildest serendipity.
Hannah Dubrow Feb 2018
This is what happens
When a Hope meets a Dream

A Hope wants something
It yearns, desires, and wishes
It survives on progress
A Dream is a fantasy
It's fragile and cherised
It survives on delusion

But when a Hope meets a Dream
And the Dream looks
A little like progress
And the Hope is
a little deluded

It can seem like a miracle
Until they both destroy each other
A knock at my door of hope left a message meant for my heart...
A picture of the life I know with a forcast of a storm I seen slowly start....
"To whom it may concern the jurisdiction of your trials cannot be placed
Like the jury will deliberate a guilt contained in your face
Exhibit a thru z all have your marks and are known to the truth
A charge of negligence cannot be lessened because of ur youth
Prior records all will be weighed
But a bail plea is yours to be made
You can be placed at the scene of your crimes
The evidence is too strong to be wrong every time
May I suggest you settle this with a letter you should have sent from the start
So a restitution payment of pain dosent break your heart
I assume this notice will be enough to make it clear
That you will not be allowed near the ones you hold dear
So as a counsel to your cherised estate
Please don't tempt the supreme court of fate..."
Lacey Jan 2017
We're all born with purity in our hearts, one day it'll all fall apart
Lies written across their faces, doing it on a day to day basis
The rare ones cherised, too scared that they'll perish
Their thoughts trapped inside, they're out of their minds
Without a care in the world, we're used to being told
You're all alone, there's nobody to hold
If only they could trade places
but they can't fill eachothers spaces
Waiting for the day to come
when there will be no one
Sk Abdul Aziz Nov 2020
The things I used to see I now see no more
Has humanity now become an eyesore?
Where are you now..?
..The positivity..the brotherhood..the glorious dream
Why are people threatened and punished if they question and scream?
Justice and equality...why did you become virtually extinct so soon?
You don't show up now even once in a blue moon
Kindness..compassion...Where have you gone?
Why are you looked down upon?
You were qualities once admired and cherised
It seems you have now deceased and been buried
May be I'm wrong
But it's been a while since I've heard your sweet song
Why have you become so rare now?
Have you gone into hibernation?
Do you need resurrection?
Why are you in hiding?
I miss those words of love and empathy
I miss those gestures of kindness and generosity
I miss those humane hearts
So dear humanity...
...Please come out and show yourself..I beg you..I plead with you...The world needs you
I still believe in you
Just give me your hand....

— The End —