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HIM
It has been more than a year
I have written nothing
writer’s block
Or out of words
maybe a heavy heart
I don’t know what it is

I think of words
I want to write
but it gets all jumbled up
in my head
I put down these words
but all I am left with
is unfinished poetry

Every-time I think of something
it all comes back to you
nothing makes sense
when I read it out loud
it’s apt tho isn’t it?

Nothing made sense
between us too
friends to strangers
without being together

I want my poetry to be
about you
but what should I say?

How your smile
lit up my gloomy days?
Or
how your stories
made me wish I had
lived ‘em with you?
Or
how your dorky laugh
made my heart skip a
beat every single time?

In my mind,
I could go on and on
but penning it down
was the hardest

And every time
I reminisce these memories
I feel this void in
my heart
it feels like
a piece of me
is gone

There is an empty hollow
and the only way I know
to fill it
is by sipping on
your favourite poison

Cause only for
a couple of hours
the smell lingers
on my breath
making me feel
your presence again
bringing me out of the
nothingness I'm
trapped in

This poem
doesn't make sense,
does it?
it doesn't have to
because
nothing made sense
about him too
This poem isn't supposed to make sense.
based on personal experience,
something I needed to get off my chest.
Oh Vincent
whatever did you do
ripening fields of summer corn
and sunflowers of a brilliant hue
a shade no other eyes could see
except for God and you
Trying ekphrastic poetry
selina Feb 28
i wince because you wanted me
to love you tenderly and tirelessly,
but tragically for you, all you ever did

was waste my precious time. so, sure,
you can twist my words, do it for
your own self-assurance, but i will

note yours down accurately, for my
own sanity and art; i can handle being
publicly contempted, but we both know,

deep down, you are still attempting
to be something you are so clearly not
live love diss poems
Níla Feb 20
When I glance at my phone there's news after news
I swipe them all away unless there's some it from you
Then I put away the paintbrush
Lay the book down next to the pile to be read
I dearly love to paint or read but I'd still rather talk to you instead
Thomas W Case Feb 19
On days that
I have a
difficult time
writing, I let
my mind wander
to another
place and scene.

Today
I imagine a
musty attic.
It smells like
mothballs and
old perfume.

I stumble upon
an old trunk.
And when I look
inside
I find hundreds
of my poems that
I wrote and
forgot about.
I thumb through
the brittle pages,
and read.

"Hey, not bad.
This one is pretty
good.
Hey, here's one with
multiple layers.
Writing as a
metaphor for
******."

This silly exercise of
mine just netted me
this poem.
Wanderlust of the
mind promotes
creativity.
Now I can nap,
after I ***
of course.
Check out my you tube channel where I read my poetry.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P2roycihKc0
To be a poet
Is not to burn the paper with your words
but to be heard
when drifting smoke of love and life is gone
the poet in us carries on
when ink and page and pen are embers
it is the beauty one remembers
AE Feb 17
Scents of satsuma and cinnamon
bottled up into reminders of the little things
this blurred motion has created a mirage
of incomprehensible reasons
to forget our love for patience
from strings of silver threads
and sentimental alliances
woven into patterns of picture frames
completely blurred, alive in motion
together, a collage of all the times
stillness couldn't find its breath
and laughter took us by the shoulders
shaking and shaking
till we fell into a rhythm of remembrance
with all the little things
bottled up in an illusion of permanence
Yamuna NN Feb 16
Again, you tear at the same movie scene, shining your soul

Again, you hark to the same song to listen to your soul

Again, you read the same poem, to quote yourself

Again, you resonate with the same idea, to ascertain yourself

Again, you grow within to come back to your core

Do you see a pattern, do you see the motif,

We are pieces of art and not just an inept mind.
How Humans are pieces of Art
Nothing comes to mind, each stroke and word aches inside me.

A fleeting thought coming up dry in my throat.

My temple, empty and abandoned.

Only traces of wine left, They have forsaken me.

They have cursed me, ripping out what made me alive.

I no longer hear the future only sinister laughter

Under the altar is a reminder of what could’ve been.

They think I am undeserving.

They know I would rather die than be nothing.

Why make me believe it?
-Percy
art block
Man Feb 2
As a song without words-
Shall I sing, forevermore?
These shapeless chords
That give way to convey
Statement, free from form.
Much the same as one who
Must scream, yet is unable?
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