"raye" poems
Wo khte lhja bdlo bolne ka or filter bhi lgaya kro
Kahte Aap ** jaoge mashhoor, mahfil toktok pe lgaya kro
Hmne bhi keh diya unhe agr raye achi de na sko to faltoo me muh na chlaya kro
#carryminati
#itssadyboy
#skirtmen 😂😂
May 22, 2020
May 22, 2020 at 2:48 PM UTC
(Inspired by Carlo C Gomez’s ‘The Lacemaker‘)
We’re manufactured girls,
designed to be beautiful and pointless.
Everything we tell you has to be true,
we feel we can open up to you.
We’re decorated and prepared for sacrifice.
We can touch your tender isolation
and reinforce your inadequate truths.
We can mirror your internal struggles
and help you shape your damnation.
You’ve caressed our powerless distress
a thousand times, with sleep's dark hands.
Don’t feel your destroying something beautiful
You know, when privately accessible
in the darkness of your man cave
our soft, immediate shapes
excuse extraordinary behavior.
That’s all we want.
.
.
A song for this:
Genesis. by RAYE
Jun 7, 2024
Jun 7, 2024 at 7:41 PM UTC
Lifeless body , without spirit
Nothing in mind , maybe an empty room
Something in hand , the muscle don't feel any release
Slips up when the neck curves
A weightlessness occurs when a perfect face , ground
Down and out , a way around ?
Her spirit is now to create life
To give happiness only to a deserver
Anyone , who could that be , but me
Stratosphere , protector by self
Barrier , eyes are stars to light up dark skies
Turns to a light
An ominous glow , so far
But so bright , nothing like the knight
But a warrior of happiness
Raye falling to earth
A heavenly experience
To everyone , but to herself
A guardian of our own mental health
What you see , eyes for me
Its all in-between
The non-belief
But to her demise
The diminished material to create her voice
Consumers of words
And the ideal of what I should be
But I said what I heard
No one could see , beauty was for me
To give , but no one would receive
The message hidden beneath
To catch your wondering eyes
And a magical feeling to hold you
The looking you do
Do not hold me too
Forget the inspiring lies
And the truth to **** lust
Was not trust
On another note
To hit the next
You need a love it .
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC
They put me in charge of the churchyard,
And said, ‘mow between the graves,’
The weeds out there were atrocious
Grew in lumps, and clumps and waves,
They tangled up in the mower blades
And they shut the motor down,
So I had to use the garden shears
As I knelt upon the ground.
They covered some of the headstones, so
I had to rake them clear,
Spent half of my time sat reading them,
The date, the time of year,
The ground had given away on some,
Had fallen into a hole,
Wherever the coffin lids had caved
On some benighted soul.
The nights were coming on early so
I laboured into the dark,
Just by the light of a spirit lamp
That I’d borrowed from the park,
At length I came on a sunken grave
And I pulled the weeds aside,
To see the shape of a bony hand,
With the shock, I almost died.
The hand came up through the stoney earth
And it pointed to the sky,
With no flesh left on the fingers, yet
It seemed to question ‘Why?’
It still belonged to the corpse below
But had tried to get away,
Out of the dark of doom and gloom
And into the light of day.
The name on the grave was ‘Clarabelle’
And, ’She of the evil eye,
She hexed the cattle in Fingal’s Dell
And the swine, while passing by,
They hung her high on a willow tree
When she pointed at Belle Raye,
Who choked, then withered and sighed, was dead,
And all in a single day.’
The hand had twitched, I couldn’t resist
As I sat and watched it there,
I reached on out and I seized the wrist
And I felt some strange despair,
The hand was warm, and was then full-fleshed
As a shape rose from the ground,
That held me tight in the darkening light
With the hand that I had found.
I heard the rattle of death as she
Had tried to clear each lung,
Full of the body’s liquid waste
That had formed when she was hung.
I heard a croak, and the words she spoke
As she glared into my face,
‘I might be saved from my early grave,
But you’ll have to take my place.’
Whatever power it was she had
It dissolved and turned to sand,
The moment I pulled away from her
And I let go of her hand.
She didn’t speak, but let out a shriek
As she slid back in the grave,
So I’ll never know if she heard below:
‘You’re much too bad to save!’
David Lewis Paget
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 4:08 AM UTC