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#poets
composingmywords · 25 minutes ago
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The edges burned on paper written in deposits of the past as the hand drifts over with a pen. Tomorrow is waiting in ink. It does not exist but the fear is driving on the road.
Hide behind the curtains. Pray to an all powerful being to stop the creeping ash, kiss your skin bare hoping it does not burn. The fire holds the edges as it eats the table like a slow wave of fire ants.
Tomorrow does not exist. then why is it so easy to cast doom. The ink catches fire rustling away at the canvas spreading across every surface dancing, dancing, moving with a gentle sway.
Heavy breathing gives the fire a chance to reflect back what words could not convey.
What would it take to invite the sea to take it all away?
I Can't help but Start Fire.
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tkpoet16 · 2 hours ago
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Big monster eat small ones
Ruin good ones
News as always late and sad
Tears cheaper than anything make you feel okay
Love selling like medicine
Limited time
Unlimited pain
Your heart is black
Your blood is blue
You are red
Someone is screaming
And someone is begging
Sun is shining
We are dying
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composingmywords · 3 hours ago
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To the depths   I found you in a current   as if you were an anchor  waiting.   Grabbing my hand you    gained gravity.
The dark engulfed us flinging us where stars  couldn't be seen. But your hand grasped  my hand so lightly  unmoved by the   strain of everything around,                whirling.   Lovely kisses   held fast to neck rubs and tender fingers  engulfed by tears. You're   here     always
Even still    now in the   shallows, we can see the moon   and the arriving      sun.
The Gravity of Soft Rocks
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kiwieuropasblog · 5 hours ago
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3 and 4*
although in my mind it’s feels like gibberish; please understand this is me figuring out who I am with a peculiar way of delivering it 3 spilling emotions into my work; easing my heart from the actual hurt every day I try to make sense of what I am doing; conceiving the conquering of everything I am pursuing on a journey to tranquility, even though life mostly has been on a mission to defeat…
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writelikefools2021 · 5 hours ago
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Electric Crickets - R. Trenaman - day 10
There are electric crickets in my skin they wanna dance wanna yell wanna fuck fuck fuck all night long they chirp hey! hey! wanna fuck? how about you? how about you? all night long they don’t ever fucking go to sleep they just wanna crawl and jump and fuck
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iamktb13 · 5 hours ago
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A writer is a writer before the connections and the
handshakes and the pre-planned interviews.
Before the standing ovations of fancy suits who
know better than you. Before the numbers and
widely agreed upon reviews.
Before the “follows'' and the “likes” from the
‘framed-liberal-arts-degree’ types.
Genius is what you have after the fact. Tall is what
you are when they put you on their pedestal, give
you something shiny to hang on your wall.
KTB
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persephoneshellhounds · 7 hours ago
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we are a highway kiss away from madness — tonight, you burn what's left of my breaths and i stay and sit and hold the matches to this roadside fire in total awe, darling
like an angel after his fall.
some things, too raw to die for heresy — some things, too raw to be an anomaly.
— fray narte
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poetrybysumedh · 8 hours ago
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i am very raw, just like an unripen mango, when it comes to writing poetry. i am like a half-grown tree that takes refuge in the shadows of tall great trees like robert frost, john keats, emily dickinson, sylvia plath, byron, shakespear, whitman, rilke, bukowski and many more. i am growing slowly and steadily in their companionship. but not to forget, i have to find my own voice while reading them. most of the time when i read keats and i rhyme like him, i read shakespear and in my poetry you replace with thee, i read byron and i stuff mythology in my poetry, i read bukowski and my poems stink of stubbornness and boldness. and that is why i keep telling people who tell me that i write good poetry that it's not my own voice. i am yet to find it.
nowadays, i came to a realisation that i am writing rarely and whatever that I am writing, I am writing less poetry and more ramblings. ramblings that i want to let out just because i think people will like them not because I want to write them. at times I don't even feel like i am writing poetry but still i keep adding these pieces into a stock of meaninglessness. poetry loses its meaning and value when it is written for others and not for the self. even after knowing this i let these ramblings out to clear the space, hoping that more beautiful poems will occupy that space, poems which will be more meaningful to me rather than others.
i am not the kind of a poet who is obsessed with poetry. no, i won't lie that I can't live without poetry. i am selfish bastard who turn to poetry and who likes to feed on poetry only when i am in a dire need of it. be it writing poetry or reading poetry, i do it when i feel like doing it. often, i get this feeling that i am betraying the art but i don't really care. when i force myself into writing, i create more ramblings and less poetry. i detest the poetry that i write for the sake of writing but when i write for myself, a heavenly feeling of satisfaction takes place in my heart which help me go through a few weeks without writing anything. and that's why i jumped on a conclusion that has been written by a great poet like robert frost years ago. that 'to be poet is a condition, not a profession".
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whoopdyprompts · 9 hours ago
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Before I snooze my alarms 2 times. Now I just wake up at the first and daydream until my second alarm goes.
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modern-wilde · 10 hours ago
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I was wearing a silk dress and a pretty bow in my hair, writing poems for my lover while he looks at me, the way i look at the moon. I was finally in love and looked at him, gesturing for a kiss. I tilted by head to kiss him. I was about to reach his lips and kiss him but, then the alarm clock started shouting.
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headlightsforever · 10 hours ago
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Ada Limón, “The Raincoat” from The Carrying
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headlightsforever · 10 hours ago
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The truth is: I don’t know. But sometimes I swear I hear it, the wound closing like a rusted-over garage door, and I can still move my living limbs into the world without too much pain, can still marvel at how the dog runs straight toward the pickup trucks breaknecking down the road, because she thinks she loves them, because she’s sure, without a doubt, that the loud roaring things will love her back, her soft small self alive with desire to share her goddamn enthusiasm, until I yank the leash back to save her because I want her to survive forever.
Ada Limón, “The Leash” from The Carrying
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nightingale-taylor · 10 hours ago
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Of course I'll hurt you...
Habit– Walls, Louis Tomlinson 2020
Letter to Natalie Paley– Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (1900-1944)
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mega2wheellife · 11 hours ago
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time to walk
sunny afternoon
just past warm
as the air hung heavy
there was silence in the bar
we were sucking on slow sorrows
I spoke to fill the gap
this piece I’d read
on the human condition
& this one said
fella you are so full of crap
& it’s not like I was quoting
Solzhenitsyn
or god forbid Nietsczche
I gave him the long look
waited ‘til he looked aside
said ok fellas
have it your way
it was time for me
to walk away
neil benbow
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mega2wheellife · 11 hours ago
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we’re off to
I heard you don’t like George
he says at my door
we’re off to fuck him up
you in?
& I cry off say: I got shit to do
what I don’t say
if I had a real problem
I’d fix it without a mob
but no
why add myself to the shit list?
by suggesting
only cowards hunt in rat packs
need each other for nerve
run with the crowd
& later
I will have to listen to excuses
why they let him off
gave fair warning
for another time
because not one there
could strike the first blow
& that is how you know
to never run with the crowd
neil benbow
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lackingabilitytodothing · 12 hours ago
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sitting here crying and laughing after referring to Oscar Wilde as ‘the daddy’ in a rant about Poetry theory to my friends 
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