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Diya Ganesh Jun 8
Just for a day,
oh, I wish I could die,
see who shall cry,
who would wish it's all just a lie.

Among all who I know,
to whom shall my demise bring sorrow.

Who would it bring pain,
who would have to try to keep their sane,
who would be happy with the choice god made, the choice they wish that been made sooner,
who would rejoice.

Who would regret, words they said,
now that I'm dead.

Should I worry about those who'd cry,
those who would do anything to see me smile,
those who I know just to see me, would walk a mile,
I don't know.

Just for a day though,
oh, I wish I could die,
be able to hear what people would say,
who would cry,
who would be happy it's finally time for goodbye.

Just for a day,
oh, how I wish I could die.
Let’s not pretend
That's in the back of your mind
In the darkest rooms you visit
Or the dead of night
You’re not trembling.

For the monster under your bed,
Is the one lurking behind the mirror
And every day you give up,
Its image becomes clearer.
We all have dark sides; some of us flirt with them more than others, yet fear what's on the other side of that. Universal Monsters (Wolfman, Dracula, the Mummy, to name a few) all taught us these lessons, we were too busy eating popcorn to listen.
Resin glazes
soft, buzzy lips,
like oozing droplets,
of fine, dark sap.
A flash, of dancing tangerine,
tangoes, absently,
before bleary,
red-rimmed eyes,
as I light up
and burn down,
the entire rainforest...
just a few little leaves, at a time.
What if today I took up space,
Decided it’s okay to love my face?
I’m allowed to scream and shout,
Don’t have to fake it, or hide to pout.

What if I told you you’d caught my eye,
Instead of waiting as moments pass by?
Would I then be viewed aggressive?
For knowing what I want, deemed obsessive?

Maybe I just want my needs fulfilled,
To show you I’m here, and equally skilled.

What if I let myself laugh too loud,
Not worrying about standing out in a crowd?
Let my opinions spill like wine,
No apologizing for these thoughts that are mine.

What if I danced alone in the street,
Made strangers smile at my untamed beat?
Would I still be called too much,
Or would someone finally crave my touch?

What if I didn’t talk myself down,
Lived my truth without fearing your frown?

I could say whatever comes to mind,
No more stitches, my lips now unbind.
I’ve made myself so small these days,
But I want to be big, have my turn on the stage.

This time I won’t even perform,
I’ll give a speech, I’ll change my norm.
Maybe it’s time to be unhinged,
To let myself out, chase a few whims.
What if I dared to love myself?
it's a collection of intrusive thoughts,
you've been taking care of it for so long,
developing an attachment to it,
putting other attachment issues on hold.

it's the most worthless precious thing you have,
the rest of them might not see it, but you do.
the rest of them overlook your worth, too,
so casual you're not even sure it's still there.

such a funny story until it's not,
an impossible theory no one can prove wrong,
it's a collection of intrusive thoughts
that you've been in possession of for so long.
Nosy 3d
My thoughts never
get tired of me
They feel the winter
While I live the summer

I never get to have a chance
A certainty meant to last
A love undone of the past
Four wheels on pavement so fast

Not to be stopped or taken
Just to be lived and laughed
Bristles, glide delicately...
over cold refuse.

Random bits,
of detritus:
and your broom devours them,
indiscriminate
a placidly lurking monster,
with an unchoosy palette.  

It's almost a mindless,
shuffling dance,
with failure, for a willing partner,
while regret, lingers sulkily,
in a dark corner of the room,
and watches the two of you
locked,
in a very forced
minuet.

The world feels like it's over,
and every brush stroke, feels
like its own humdrum ending.

Then,
all at once,
when you least expect it, to


your agitated trash ,
lifts its papery little wings,
takes flight,
and flutters gently away,
in a storm of linen,
beige, and white.

The faintest flicker of hope,
rises, from the discard pile:

a wildcard moth
seeking its own, besotted flare,
of quavering torchlight.
This literally came about, because I was sweeping the floor, thinking about this old drawing of a woman who accidentally sweeps away part of her own shadow, and, while daydreaming, my "trash" kept escaping the broom bristles. What I assumed was persistent, papery garbage were really just very aggravated moths.
Sam 4d
i.
icarus died smiling
hot wax still dripping down on his thigh
a feathered autograph in cirrus cyrillic
signed in sky like a rebel flag on the moon
i was here
nicole 4d
6-25-25   1:56pm

I'll see your favorite number
and the moon will look back at me
the barista saying your name
or our song coming on the radio

maybe it's the univer playing tricks on me
who knows
either or
you're still all I think about
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