Artists, writers, builders, conquerors all
require a certain kind of blind stupidity
to truly succeed—the inability to recognize
the improbability of what they are doing
until it is too late, and the world looks up,
and it is done.
Twenty-four rotations, and still
twisting — there are revelations
to behold: recall, realise, then
repent for ruins you will never
rebuild, nor repay for forsaking
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Casting through the sunbeams my
precipitated distaste, not too unlike
an acerb squall that’s breaching June
right as delight has begun to bloom
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In the scorching afternoon
a gentle breeze
under a canopy of trees
I catch my breath
~ Meeta Ahluwalia
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I never know when to fight and when to walk away. I can't believe when I've been deceived. It's like, "Are you foreal?" "Is this how you really feel?" I never take time to process what's been done to me. Instead of feeling the agony, I push it down, and ignore it nicely. I put a smile on my face and say "I miss you." I never walk away. Because I know my footprints would bring you great pain. Even though, I can't find a reason to stay. But, I remember that night. I visit there in my dreams. Or should I say nightmares? I was fighting something dark, I tried to hold myself but I was falling apart. Slipping through my fingers, I called a friend and she told me I'm losing it. "Look at your arms, you're really choosing this?" As I wait for the hotline to ring, I waited for you to pick me. Never realizing I was in competition, I thought you completed me. If not completed, you definitely complimented me. My love looked so good on you. As you tried it on, I made slight adjustments. But, it was tailored especially for you. You couldn't tell me I wasn't the one.
But, I always felt like the two. A sucker for you. Second draft pick, how can I be number two? I felt like I was settled for. Why wasn't I everything to you before? All of me felt broken. It was only hours before we spoken. I didn't want to throw it all away. But, I didn't want the pain. I'm never ashamed of my love or how fast it bloomed. I'm trying to let the past go but I'm consumed. Something is telling me "Don't press resume". I need a break from the world's showcase. I can't seem to get past my mistakes, I feel out of place. Between this and my heartache, everything is causing me to stay awake.
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What time should I start drinking?
It’s one in the afternoon,
which tells me that, with thoughts like these,
I should start drinking soon.
Perhaps by two is proper,
a two martini lunch,
but I don’t wait to wait that long
unless I’ve had some brunch.
Buts Bloody Mary mornings
means I’ll be buzzed by ten,
and honestly, the question is
not if I’ll drink but when.
By four, the answer’s easy,
it’s tea time, if you please,
a perfect hour for bourbon sips
outside beneath the trees.
By five, it’s almost dinner,
and happy hour is here,
so have a drink devoid of guilt,
embarrassment or fear.
By six, I’m pouring vino
for dinner with my friends,
and if the food and drink is good,
we hope it never ends.
By nine, we should be toasty
and telling tales of yore,
by ten, there is a call for shots,
and looking for one more.
By midnight, things are blurry,
and water is your fix,
just don’t forget that alcohol
and other drugs don’t mix.
And if you wake hung-over,
not knowing where or when,
just find that dog that bit you
and start drinking once again.
When shared floorboards are creaked
under carelessly fallen feet, let us each
swear to, at the very loving least, not
ever disturb again
our so-precious peace
by repeating that tread’s
well-stamped negligence — we
owe tomorrow these
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Pour inside me, liquid fire,
see me like no other,
pair up with my exhaled breath,
your heated, vapored brother.
Fill my veins with laughter,
fill my eyes with tears,
the day you kiss my lips for good
is still my warmest fear.
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Two Dollars Short
I had a favorite bookmark,
a crisp two-dollar bill;
the last I had seen it,
it was by the window sill.
Perhaps the wind purloined it,
perhaps it was a man;
whoever took my favorite bill,
knows not how it began.
Some people think it’s silly,
and should be obsolete,
but my two-dollar bill
was not just traded on the street.
I got it from a teenage girl
paying for a book,
but this bill was her lucky charm
and that was all it took.
She died a few months later,
and way before her time,
a shooting in the neighborhood,
another senseless crime.
So every book I’ve opened,
from then until today,
I’ve used that lucky bill to mark
my pages on the way.
The memory of a girl
who died while walking by,
whose life was stolen by a gun
without an answer why.
And so I ask the questions
I cannot comprehend:
how do things go missing?
how come life must end?
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I wish my nights were like an episode of Scooby Doo
where haunted houses are easily identifiable by their
Victorian architecture, bats, and boarded up windows;
where old men give dire warnings of local legends,
of phantoms and monsters and pirate treasures and the
clearly perilous implications of meddling in the affairs
of small town folk and their aspirations of terrifying
unwary homeowners from their properties. I want to
investigate old mills at midnight with a flashlight with
weak batteries, hunting for clues—if only I had a clue—
trespass into the mansions of the wealthy and absent
and knock on library walls to find the trigger to a secret
passage behind the bookcase; just once I want to peer
through the eyeholes of a haunted portrait to spy upon
the unsuspecting, and when I’m caught, give me a chase
scene that lasts forever, where I can pass the same plant
three times without noticing like some metaphor about
the cyclical immortality of childhood. Please, Lord, hear
my prayer and allow me the privilege of unmasking a
villain; but mostly, give me a coed gang of friends who
are always up for adventure or at least a sundae at the
local ice cream parlor, and if conversion-vans ever come
back into style, sign me up, as long as it never needs gas.
I hide behind the broken smiles,
I hide behind the 'I am fine' every time,
I hide because each time I speak
I feel like I am building my shrine.
I play this hide and seek
because I am scared to be that freak
who ruins everything for once and
leave your life with no fun.
Every time you try to find me,
I run even farther
where no one can see me
and where I can just hide
until my life passes away in this tide.
HIDE AND SEEK// by @riddhiiidosomething
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Every so often, it rains,
and the world gets soaking wet,
but you’ve never met a tree
that looks to the sky with regret.
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On the other side
From Pakistan to Sydney to Pakistan to Sydney- the transitions remain a mixed blessing, uniting me to some of my dearest loved ones while taking me away from others.
The possibility of
With all of my loved ones
In one place
In one moment
That lasts forever
Seems now only plausible
On the other side
I know I must die
That is followed by
No unplanned or planned departures
That cut us apart
But till then
I must continue
To let space and time and motion
Spin me around
A round world
Till I am nothing
But a tattered tapestry
Of gaping holes
With no sign of
The gold of each precious time warp
For I have spun it
And am ready to lose it
The possibility of reuniting
With all of my loved ones
On the other side
Does not do us part.
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The hawk descends like an invisible hurricane whose
wind is never felt until the last breathing moment before
its beak tears into your neck, and when daylight was
blotted out by its encroaching form, it was already too
late for longer than a rabbit retains memory of its last
meal, and in that terrifying, primordial separation of
time and future, it became dinner on this blustering
spring day in a whirl of fur and blood, paw and tearing
talons, reducing a once idyllic scenario into carnage—
and every so often, I feel like I am the rabbit, waiting
for the hawk, for the invisible hurricane, which always
drops into the scene without logic, justice, or warning.
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-Bad Girls Wear Black-
Can we be evil for the soul purpose of the color black? Or the sole purpose of you, I don't mean to be rude but this is my honest opinion "Bad Girls, Wear Black" mentally it is a fact. Undress you with a stone cold knife, cut your top, to unleash your sinful breast they drop within both palms I run my cold blade upon the surface of your nipples as your body grows warm. Tiny's seductive eyes gaze upon my soul flesh, I could tell your screaming for more, my blade grows lust hungry to explore your bottom half, I cut from the waist line down your Thick Vanilla Thigh opening up the side and tear the hole, wide so spread them thick thighs so that pussy can receive a prize.
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Whenever I see a small country road lined with trees,
I want to go down it, but a thousand of them have
passed me by at fifty dreams per hour, a fleeting glimpse
off to the right, a lane, a wooden fence, a tunnel of green
inviting me to enter, explore, imagine, and escape, but
I never do for all the usual suspects—time, duty, lists
of things that need to be done right now—my question is,
how come dreaming never has to be done right now?
why is exploration always a plan and not an emergency
burning in the soul that requires immediate extinguishing?
who decided that wandering is comparable to loitering,
as if sailing towards the undiscovered is some lesser
expenditure of grace? Hit those breaks, turn the wheel,
crunch over the gravel into the fully respectable endeavor
of accepting random invitation and satisfying curiosity.
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if love is a wound
ours is still tender
still choking on its own blood
if heartbreak is a scar
ours is still scabbing
still prone to breaking open
when your name blisters my tounge
when your memory skates across the surface
of my skin and tears away any knowledge
i have acquired on
how to summon the unbreaking
and i fight to recall how to heal again
fight to recall
dawn spills over the brim of the horizon
trickles through my fingers
i try to stop the light from over flowing
into the basin of the sky
but I fail
each time again
and in this way I recall your leaving
but it does not
i am so
when the raindrops fell at your feet
did they deliver every love note
i left scattered in the thunder clouds
my mistress of liquid dreams and plenty
are you dripping in my
(writing sensless lines until poetry comes back to me)
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With every passing minute, we lose another
chance at eternity, sixty more seconds lost
that we will never improve upon because
what they never tell you growing up is that
there are no do-overs, nothing is fixable or
replaceable, just more of the same until one
day you figure out that it’s not the success
or failure of any given moment that matters
but the fact that we have any moments at all,
that we’re still breathing, and the consecutive
ticking away of every breath is a miracle in
itself and we should be thrilled that we even
get to be a part of it, even at our very worst,
so spill your coffee, color outside the lines,
smash that fucking photocopy machine with
a flaming baseball bat, and finally grab hold
of the world’s balls like you really mean it.
My mother tells me it is not me she dosent trust out in the world but rather that she does not trust the world with me.
And I learn from a young age what a privilege it is to be endangered.
To be wanted into extinction.
To be desired into oblivion.
In this same way my grandmother tells me that sometimes honesty sounds alot like silence.
That sometimes the truth is quiet.
In this same way my sister teaches me that forgiveness comes when she is ready.
Most days there is only forgiveness.
Cupped in my palms
Trying to stop it from trickling through my fingers.
I sip it every morning
Which is to say I seek forgiveness
Everytime I dare show my face to the sky again.
With the knowledge that I will inevitably break promises I made to me
That I will inevitably transgress against the girl I could become
And every morning I ask for her mercy
But she cannot grant it to me
For I have not granted her existence yet
And in this way I live in sin
Self destruction dares to taste foreign on my lips
Like rotting cherries
But how much easier it is to relearn old habits the second time around
When the mouth still tastes like burning teeth
I flinch so violently at the sound of my name
daring to disturb the molecules of the ether with something so undeserved
Petals fall from grace
It is my fault
Always my fault
Oh rebellious bones
How my blood blisters my veins
I think this is the way
and this is how it ends
the last notes of my blood composed of subpar symphonies finally slip out into the void
my radio static heartbeat fades to quiet
and this is how it ends
in my final moments
the universe sings me to sleep
with one last lesson
my mother never had the words to teach me
and the endless silence of the infinite
caresses me into oblivion.
i exhale one last shooting star
weightless at last
as i disintegrate into the galaxy
with the realization of what a beautiful mercy
to be forgotten
poetry dump of random lines that mean nothing in particular unless you'd like them to
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Here’s an easy one you can write about! Roses!! Please write a poem about a red rose slowly turned into pink and then white when winter comes please? ~X-Over Anon
Hello 👋 Anonymous. Hope you're doing wonderful.
Now that's an interesting concept. Thank you for the idea. I have tried my best. Here it is.
My heart will sing
All individual notes.
All heaven bells will ding
And hit all the right notes.
The flower in your hand
Is a piece of my heart.
You're like a grand
Piece of lovely art.
From seasons to years
This rose will bloom.
It's all yours
Like a personal heirloom.
It slowly changes and grows
Along with you.
Into different colours it glows
Just like you.
From red to pink
And pink to white.
From young love to adult sync
And from that to old flight.
2021, April 8th
I hope you like it Anon! Have a wonderful day ahead 😄
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