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I'll have no use
for empty rooms
or houses devoid of life

I'll close the door
shake the lock some more
So ends this book
on wife

I'll start over again
just like before
with pennies
for my thoughts

Our love once steel
has turned cast iron at will
and wrought
it's core so full of flaws

It's okay ,
what is there to say
Except that I'll
be moving on
 Jun 2017 kailasha
Sandoval
Poetry
 Jun 2017 kailasha
Sandoval
They tried to break me, but this

blood that runs in me, is made of ink.

And these unbreakable bones, are made of poetry.


*Sandoval
i wanted to write a poem,
but didn't know where to start.
with a
striking sentence maybe or
a word from the heart.

because sometimes, writing could be difficult
when your head is nothing
but an echo of a myriad mess,
like untangling strings of blurred words
just so you would d r o w n less.

and i wish to ask those poets
who could write so hauntingly.
crimson hearts tattooed on paper
souls for the world to see.

but then, poetry would never judge,
it'll just call, saying:
' darling, your emotions crave me
grab a piece of paper
to set yourself free. '




'i want to write a poem
pencil on hand, an old paper from my bed stand
sits empty
for wherever should i begin?'


i still don't know.
I wrote this when I was around 14 (needs tweaking, i know), right when poetry began to mean more than just a hobby to me. It became my outlet, my safe haven, my refuge. And now as a young poet I will continue to hold it dear in my heart and continue my passion.
 May 2017 kailasha
Poetic T
Running in a field of wild flowers,
                                               she sees her mother
looking happy in the distance. As footsteps take
little motions palms gliding on long grass.

Wild flowers spill across the field like a
                                                            paintbrush
wove them in to a certain place.
Gleefully she picks a handful to give to her
                                                    mummy with smiles.

They wander home, petals falling behind.
    
             "Mummy do you know why petals fall?
                                  
Smiling at such an inquisitive question she answers.
            
     "Yes darling because we picked them from the ground
no longer getting there substance they slowly fade.

"Mummy no,
                   "Its because we took them from there family,
"And each petal that falls is a sorrow for those left behind.


The mother walks on, tears caressing her cheeks, she wipes them
away so her little petal can not see. Holding her hand tightly,
never wanting her to be plucked from her field of loving care.
 May 2017 kailasha
Jo
I've spent what feels like a lifetime
trying to ease my way into an English world.
The world of Chaucer and Eliot
and vocabulary only Merriam-Webster knew.

I declared a major.
I don’t know if it really matters anymore,
because when it’s dark
and the campus is empty
all I can feel are the forgotten words floating overhead like stars,
whispering for me to go home,
rectify the official white papers.
Become something else;
become anything but this.

Become who?
Someone who can’t feel anything
but the weight of the leaves
as they crunch under the lilt of their laugh?
Or the one who cries outside their advisor’s office,
because they read something so beautiful
yet still so small,
an unshared treasure?

Why write? Why speak?
I don’t know the answers to either.
Because when you are writing, you are speaking,
and one is almost as good as the other.

But when the words get caught in the back of your throat
and your feet are blocks of concrete,
unable to move
or think
or feel —
Is writing any better?
Will writing save the invisible,
or the insignificant
or the unheard?
The ones who disappear?

I've spent what feels like a lifetime,
trying to force my face into the light
and take a major that isn’t really mine,
dashing off poorly executed poems and flash fiction,
grasping for something that might work.
But in the end it’s nothing
and I am still just as
lost.
 Apr 2017 kailasha
Poetic T
We will always exhale sunsets,
but breath a new day.

When our eyes seek retirement
for contemplation.

As a sun arises on our reflections
awakening the prospect of
                           a less clouded day..
 Apr 2017 kailasha
ALYA
Dear Love,

Hereby I solemnly pour down all my feelings for you in the form of a writing; waiting for you to read it.

Tired, sad, and mad.
Anger, emotions, and fatigue.

We've been through many things together, yet we haven't been through everything. All that we are is just an insignificant speck of dust around gigantic stars with planets worshipping them relentlessly; but I'm sure there's nothing and no one in the world who could worship each other more than us.

Despite everything, despite the madness,
despite the distresses — thank you for staying.

With love,
Detha
I haven't written anything for you in a long time, I think my skill is a bit rusty now. But worry not; I'll practice.
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