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nidhibhasin · 19 hours ago
It’s the kind of pain
that never goes away
and I don’t even know what kind of pain that is
It’s like cancer in my bones
I cannot kill it
cannot remove it, throw it away
and crying doesn’t help
it grows and grows, as if trying to swallow me
-Nidhi Bhasin
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soulless-sultry · a day ago
Something in the rain
There's something in the rain
That washes away my pain
Everytime I soak myself in
I feel my lost was soul revived
There's something in the rain
Everytime I soak myself in
It creeps down to my spine
And make me feel my youth again
There's something in the rain
Everytime it falls
It makes the flowers bloom
And makes the blue bird sing
There's something in the rain
Everytime it falls
It makes everyone on earth rejoice
And everything it touch comes back to life
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prasannawrites · a day ago
first attempt at being almost truthful.
the first time you spoke my name – years after, i wondered if my name tasted bitter to you – did it feel waxy? like you bit into nostalgia for the first time since two-thousand-and-something, and something was always the matter with you – there were wildfires for you to tend so when i was ready to ignite, you weren’t there. the first time i saw fire – i offered myself up as kindling, because deep down i knew that it wouldn’t burn hot enough to keep you warm – toxic? yes, but i put myself second always. you and i both know why – you were always meant for something greater, if by the end of it all, i were a footnote in your autobiography, then that means for a brief moment in time, i carried enough weight to impact you.
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soulless-sultry · a day ago
nothing but pain
it's how I feel
when you left
by my side
no medicines to cure
for the heart
that bleeds
for the love
that was pure
trying to surmount
the unbridled anguish
when the twilight comes
carmine sun
is about to fall
here on my window
sedulously waiting
for you to passby
just one stare
my heart stops
you're the reason
why I breath
my source of joy
and happiness
but now you're gone
can't find
any reasons anymore
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prasannawrites · 2 days ago
cherry blossom serenade
your cheeks pinken like cherry-blossoms coming to, on a warm spring morning, on this crisp may morning. i can pluck the poems that branch from your smile, and i'll graft it straight into my arteries, and blossom poems for you all year round – as long you provided all the warmth, sunlight, and water i could possibly need. and when you shed your flowers under the weight of monsoon or its winds – i'll be there, to collect them all and press them into your journal. you're meant to bloom for more than a month.
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poetbitesback · 3 days ago
always driving, tires keeping close  to the double yellow lines 
and it is hardly a road trip  if there is no starting place  to look back at or a destination  for sights to be set upon-
but we’ve always wanted to escape, haven’t we? 
my love for the wind  and the rain and the speed and  the feel of flying that comes from driving too fast  on a dark, slick road when no one else is out 
I’d crash if I could and you know it.
but you, my little secret pocket of anxiety, keep me company and keep a toe on the brakes driving driving driving
maybe we will make it somewhere. eventually
- Lost on I77 // Olivia Larson 
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prasannawrites · 3 days ago
a fish’s love.
swaddled by light, you set the night sky aglow, when you skim by the waters when you dance playfully – frolicking like each day might be your last. you know how precarious life is, and i've only known the depth of my own ignorance. i watch you, mouth agape, wanting to materialize wings to chase after you through a sky brimming with hummingbirds.
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prasannawrites · 6 days ago
may dreams not come
i added praying that i don’t dream of you to my nighttime ritual, it’s not that you’re not welcomed in my dreamland – it’s that, with each occurrence it gets harder to wake up, the line between reality is blurred. had i not dreamt of you last night – i would’ve spilled poetry tonight, by the bucketful instead, i spend hours examining your verses in the light – they’ve always been iridescent, but the light offers perspective: it never mattered what you did, you tethered yourself to my dreams early on. only sisyphus would be intimate with this cruel punishment.
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prasannawrites · 7 days ago
april was antonymous of you.
april, with bloodied fists, heaving breath finds respite where your clavicle meets your sternum, you will bandage her fists and send her back on her way, and by midpoint of her journey – you’ll vanish. year after year, i try to stop the hemorrhaging but to no avail, it’s like you were never there. and as fleeting the pain is, i'm ripe with yearning. i don’t remember the world before you, and i don’t want to learn the world after you; in between i'll exist – mourning your absence in secret.
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spilledjournal · 8 days ago
Never belittle your poetry once it’s re-read by you years after it’s been written.
You might have forgotten what it felt like, but poetry is just that; a preservation of an undying love, a bittersweet ending or a stab-in-the-back type of hate. Poetry is an eternal keep of the promises, laughs, cries and tears of what we felt back then.
Always cherish it.
— S.Aj
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prasannawrites · 8 days ago
you; a loud reason.
tell me why i feel more holy in your palms than praying to any of the gods?
tell me why i’ve never felt smaller when i rest my head on your shoulder?
it doesn’t take much, it’s always the little things that set me ablaze. why do my desires run rampant when i catch the morning light in your eyes – tell me why do i desire?
and if not your eyes –
it’s everything else, the way the wind plays with your hair, the way the sun tenderly kisses your skin.
it's you.
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prasannawrites · 8 days ago
you are like the stirring waters of the sea, salt-wind licks your hair and tousles it in a fit of childish love, but you are not moved. foolish to think cusping my palms and drinking you in, meant i knew you in your entirety but that’s not the truth –
i know nothing of the ecosystems you house, i know nothing of your seabed. all i know is what you present on the surface – i see the sea-foam and think you’ve finally written back but the truth’s far simpler; it’s everything you didn’t want to amalgamate.
i dreamt of getting caught in your tides – the pulling and pushing, the violence of it all,
maybe that’s why i thought love was meant to be violent, something tumultuous and why i quake with a need to bleed for you.
is blood love?
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prasannawrites · 9 days ago
hold me in the palms of your hands and shred me apart as if it were a first draft of a poem you’re not too fond of - there’s too much of me; i’ll take up residence in your heart like dandelions running amuck in a usually kempt lawn. i will flower at first, and go to seed, you will pluck every last bit of me and make a wish. and a few weeks later, you’ll have trouble finding a single blade of grass. and for that – i apologize, even as a child i had trouble colouring between the lines. maybe i didn’t do a good job sealing the cracks every time i've broken, i always feel like i'm spilling, leaving a steady trail everywhere i go. you’ve always been the balm to my cracking, but i cannot ask you to bare that burden anymore. sometimes a flower is a flower, and a weed is just that –
a weed.
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prasannawrites · 9 days ago
a morsel of longing
we are scar-tissue; we’ve been wounded but internalize the pain. i will let myself bleed for you but you rather suffer alone. it’s all you know, being vulnerable is foreign to you – and that’s okay. i'm plenty vulnerable for the both of us. there are more important things you need to acquaint yourself with like how to concede a little illuminance so the moon and stars can have a chance – yes it’s selfish of me to be the only one to worship your light, but the cinnamon in your eyes is too tempting. you always leave me with my heart in throat –
maybe that’s why all my words beat soundly to your heart.
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prasannawrites · 10 days ago
you smell of poetry again. the world has grinded to a halt, and you smell of poetry. a child was born a year ago, and knows nothing of outside, to her the whole world consists of just her mom, dad, and those four little walls, and yet you smell of poetry. the world has left that man newly widowed with no children, his only living relative is on the other side of the world and they seldom talk, but you smell of poetry. that doctor you once made small talk in the elevator of your cousin’s building, has just pronounced her sixtieth death this week but she stopped counting months ago, and you still smell of poetry.
tell me –
how have you not lost your voice?
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prasannawrites · 10 days ago
i am, but soft in your hands, and your hands only. like red clay in the hands of an experienced potter. there is warmth here, there is love here.
i am profound in your palms only, you wish to mold me, there is something intoxicating about the unknown, but that i am not.
you know me by every dimple, every nook and cranny, you are far more familiar with me than i am of myself or with you.
this is longing –
this is throwing a fish back into the sea when you are starved.
this is a gentle reprieve from a kiln. this is martyrdom, this is –
this is all i can muster.
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