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Aadya 27m
Are humans a miracle or a curse?
well, even stars are just scars of the universe.
et mon dernier
acte d'amour
serait de me
forcer à ne plus
jamais te parler
ash 6h
the curve of your smile, as it meets the edge of your eyes.
salty shimmer, like that of burning sunshine in the heat.
i grasp at the sparkles, like a child grabbing onto bubbles—
except you never quite leave,
and so the magnificence stays,
claiming its own small place in my very being.

and the locket sticker i've got tattooed on my arm—
i know what name it carries.

you've got a shadow in your vision—
my own, if i were to keep it hidden.
but it resides, like in a cage behind your beauty.
the imperfections, the mess—
all of me in its chaotic glory.

fingers tainted with melted dark chocolate,
the cranberry bits in it painting your lips.

i ask if i can put pinwheels in your hair.
you tell me i could, as i should.

the faint traces of your hand against mine—
would you paint them with my tears as i cried?

i'd like to carry symphonies spoken amongst us,
settled like candy secrets in the pit of my stomach.

the epiphanies that you've brought in between
whisper to me, like you'd beckon my spirit.

walk with me, to a path leading nowhere.
unhindered.
the sun fell across my room through the window at a certain specific angle today

i'd write you poetry if you were mine
Pouya 6h
Woke up floating today,
Pulled in different directions.
My mind — a restless sea.
A storm is coming
to wash away the silence.
Farwa 10h
Rain patters on the skin,
Saint of many good deeds

Wind makes it soft,
So it fly
Leaving its shell of emotions on the petrichor

Oh my my,
It's love at first sight
The rain is just an excuse,
likewise

-lona
( I wrote this while I was grieving the sun, and at that,  petrichor made an appearance, hence it was love)
Perhaps one day we will rise from the deepening pits of penniless bad manners, of deliberately provoked wild-**** Tahoeism, into which we were pushed primarily by more famous, word-wielding people as a kind of primitive, bargain-making, compromising corduroy. We will jump up like the hopping, modest grasshoppers from the watery, swamp-smelling puddles of assertion. One day we will safely jump to our feet from the webs of everyday propagandistic lies, in which we have been lying increasingly indifferently and sluggishly for many decades now;

We listened to the pleasant yet utterly false and ambiguous words of "the fence will be made of sausages" and how we had to constantly mock sports, because anyone with just a single, unnecessary lump of fat or a crackling fat-snag is not worthy of being friends with or accepted as a human being. Whoever said "what is in their heart is in their mouth" was first given a deliberately reduced salary increase, later his invisible bonus, cafeteria, and vacations that only existed on paper, and later they just beat the poor unfortunate man in the face with a broken jaw or two.

Maybe we'll get up one day, if we don't just lie there quietly, if we've had enough of the fast-acting brainwashed rascals who have reduced us to - we're often at the point where, with the push of a single nuclear red button, even professional magicians can make half the world disappear, just because the interests of the great powers demand it.

We'll rather repaint the hypocritical posters of cynical, skeptical poster forests into some kind of still-life-scented idyll, where, with an idyllic mood, everyone down to the last human being can be happy and satisfied at any time; later, we can proudly, perhaps with a shrug of the shoulders, make the secrets public, so that the newly objectified facts, actions, and consequences can be researched by the wellheads of future ages who want to think!
RM 18h
My homeland smells
like freshly pressed olive oil,
like sweet fig jam,
like warm bread.

My homeland smells
like salty seas,
like endless deserts,
like ancient trees.

My homeland—
the place my soul resides,
my memories.
Mine.
For those who carry home in memory, in taste, and in scent.

This one is for my homeland.
For all the places that shape us, even when we are far from them.
Kngblaq 20h
Heavy is the head that wears the crown,
A crown of blood, of love, of frown.
He fights the demons, in and out—
Such is the man who soars with doubt.

Provider, Protector, Pontiff, King—
Each role a weight, a stinging sting.
The price is steep, the path is grim,
It strips the soul and hardens him.

Parallel lives now blur the norm,
Behind calm eyes, a quiet storm.
Smiles conceal the tears they hide —
Each man must pay, with self and pride.

"Be bold," they say. "Be strong. Be brave."
Yet none can see the toll it gave.
The pain, the shame, the silent cries—
That is all that is left when honor lies.

In mirrors cracked by time and years
He sees a face he can not revere.
A man of strength, yet worn and torn,
By battles fought since he was born.

And still he walks, though limbs may shake,
For others’ peace, his own he will break.
A living myth, a silent vow —
But who will crown the weary now?
~Kngblaq
The struggles of young man trapped between love and family
Narco 1d
One beer and then another,
adults standing in a circle;
Life always seemed better.
Sat in the corner with the other kids;
watching how they smile and cheer while they chugged another.
Thought to myself: “When I grow older, I wanna be just like them; smiling and drinking and always happy.”

Time passed and I turned 18.
Had my first beer;
wasn’t as good as it seemed.
It was bitter and sad;
yet the adults always seemed to want another.

Couple years fly by.
Was invited to a party;
seemed like a good time
We adults stand in a circle;
jolly as we talked about our lives.
Beer after beer;
it seemed like a great time.
Yet deep within;
something felt missing.
Smiles and cheers;
yet no one seemed happy.

That’s when i realised.
The beer was bitter;
but not as much as our lives.
We smile and drink;
to feel something—
or at least act like we do.

Out of the corner of my eye,
a kid stares—
with the same glimmer I had in my eyes.
Beer has had an interesting story for me.
As if aiming, huddling ever closer to the wall; he draws his superstitious eyelashes into a slit, thus peering at the deceived, continuously manipulated world. Forced to constantly measure the shortest distance between sincerity and lies, he measures, like some eccentric arbiter, the weight of the stake, which is a nest of betrayals and lies. Backwards in the stream of eternal moments, thinking himself over once more, he decides to look away after all. Inside, in the secret depths of his soul, he still keeps his seeing eye open; he still faithfully preserves the ability to see truly, which is not polluted by materialism or superficial exhibitionism.

He knows and suspects: only in the depths of the soul can the romantic dance of the one flame take place, which he has perhaps dreamed of his entire life, - he would immediately regain it if he could have that second of memory that was still liberated and free from everything, because inside there is an irresistible power over instincts and emotions, even the silent, mute human words, which do not need to be spoken at all.

- Like a desolate cauldron, the creative silence surrounds him, which - nowadays - is increasingly difficult to gain in a dignified manner. Like interstellar frontiers, humility and will would lie under a giant dome for days; melancholy, meaningless, petty worries and troubles swim in a large carnival crowd, like so many fish embryos in a crowd. He will slowly and subtly consume his spirit, every drop at a time, if he is not careful, because truer human stars are patiently waiting in the garden of golden hearts for them to be admitted.
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