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Kenechukwu Mar 2020
Side profile portraits at an open mic
delayed dimming lights
and sketch imprecise.
She draws me,
so I write her.
Lines written or lines drawn
we do not deter.

And so,

Right by her
my heart concurs
that to write by her
is to love in verse.
My love is an artist, I am a poet.
Lise Nastja Feb 2020
My whole life I had scoffed at boys gifting girls flowers
The expensive ones, the kind they saved up for
I thought it was incredibly immature to pay for pretty dead things
When the world is in the process of destruction
And the economy is constantly in inflation
It could’ve paid for a lot of things—
A nice meal or even AirPods

It was until I got a girl of my own
Smiling like she’s the sun
Walking around and tugging me along
I suddenly had the urge to get her a 50-dollar bouquet
Or those fancy ones in a box shipped from Dubai
Or a giant teddy bear—Yes!
A giant teddy bear to fill a corner of her room on top of her pile of trash

Suddenly she deserves pretty dead things
Hold onto them as they slowly wilt
I want her to walk around owning a piece of Earth
It could’ve been an animal or a plant
Shiny gems or a worm
But she deserves the brightest crop among the weeds
The purplest shade nature can make
The pinkest rose
The yellowest sunflower

I’m not even one to write a poem either
But somehow I now belong in the stupid group of hopeless romantics
plucking pretty things from Earth
Despite inflation and pragmatism
I guess it says a lot about us humans
Sentimental *****
Alek Mielnikow Dec 2019
I’ve never felt so tranquil
while so numb.

It’s like leaving while
staying still, a calm
pulse in nothing,
music without a sound,
*** without a body.

It’s an erasure of strides
in snow and slush,
a dissolving act,
the cackle of a
wholesome child.

Pure and imperfect.

Today,
I am drifting downstream,
riding the cherry blossoms.

And I’m not stopping this time,
I’m not checking out,
waking up or falling asleep.

The stars will kiss me and I
will drink their light.

I am no longer afraid.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
For those celebrating today, rock on! But you may not be in the same spirit. New Year’s Eve might leave you wanting and feeling empty. You’ll enjoy the party and lift the toast, but someone close may notice how sad your eyes are when you let your guard down. Something about this transitional holiday hurts deep in your gut, similar to your birthday. All I will say is that you’re not alone; I am just like you. And I’m lifting my toast to you, hoping you find a lesson in your struggle, maybe something about understanding yourself better. And I hope that by tomorrow you’re looking neither ahead nor behind but being right now.

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shining diamonds Dec 2019
My heart is heavy.
My soul burdened.
My mind obliterated.
I cant find
no reason nor rhyme.
To just be fine.

I find my life is turning
Around with the tide.
Coming in and out
destitute and without.

Without choice.
Without need.
All I feel is that I bleed.
As a mark of a me.
To just want to be free.

My heart is heavy.
My mind in turmoil.

Just like some rolled up foil.
Discarded on the top
waiting to flop into the bin.

For once I have not found.
Anyone around which is rather profound.
To be here and then not.
I wish this could all be forgot.
Just a little something i was thinking about
Justyn Huang Dec 2019
The people we truly Love never leave us.
There will always be imprints on our Hearts
made by them.
And when we choose to Love again
It's like muscle memory
Love poem
AgerMCab Nov 2019
I've found the right words
I've felt the right emotions
I've shown you that I care
I've whispered many times
... I LOVE YOU

You've said the right words
You've felt the same emotions
You've shown the care I need
You've whispered many times
... YOU LOVE ME MORE

We both already felt
We both already care
There's more I longed than whispering words
... BUT NO ONE SHOULD EVER KNOW, NO ONE SHOULD EVER LEARN

... TILL THEN MY LOVE, HEAR MY WHISPER HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU
Daniel Oct 2019
The din of winter is a window away
I've come here to stay at my Grandmother's
The bedroom aglow in her yellows and reds
The lamp by the bed

Beckoned by hands and a magical timbre
I'm starting towards her in answer,
recalling her manner
Her habits preserved as in amber

Sat by her side and embracing her then
I'm suddenly a child again,
her eighty-two years to my ten
Aurora Sep 2019
Lies in an empty house
Hiding in the nooks and crannies
Where memories unfolded
Laughter was had
And now it's no more

You could call me sentimental
You could call me a fool
But I always dreamt
That it wouldn't end this way

I wish love was real
My heart yearns for a welcoming place
Where I can show my face
And not be lost in this mess
emlyn lua Sep 2019
There once was a tiny dragon,
No larger than the palm of my hand.
She burned no village, stole no princess,
Her name not spoken in fear throughout the land.
She hoarded not gold, not jewels,
Cared not for such frivolous things.
It was memories she kept in her miniscule cave
She guarded with flickering fire and scrap wings.

I went to her cave in the mountains.
Stumbled on it, by mistake;
As I lay down my head at the roots of a tree,
By an obscure and secluded lake.
She emerged in her miniature splendour,
From beneath a nearby rock.
She let out a yawn of fire;
And I froze: in awe, in shock.
She grinned a needlepoint grin,
Beckoned with one curved claw
Into her miniscule cave,
I followed: in shock, in awe.

I peered through the half-hidden opening,
Only inches larger than my head.
The dragon spoke soft but thunderous,
And this is what was said:
“This is my hoard, young human.
This is all I hold dear in the world.”
And she handed to me a birthday card -
Some edges singed, some curled.

It had writing in a swirling foreign script
That seemed to be etched, not written.
“This is the love of my first ever crush,
In the days when we were still smitten.”
“Is this all?” I scoffed, “Just pieces of paper,
and wrappers and old useless things?”
Her doll-sized body began to shudder
With a judder of claws and a flutter of wings.

No larger than my littlest finger,
She was a smaller version of herself;
But still I froze as she perched on my nose,
To her, a sizeable shelf.
“You hold no value to memories?
Then why don’t you leave yours behind?
Since they strike you as being so useless,
I’m certain you wouldn’t mind.”

Now all my memories are scraps,
Shadows of what they once were.
I wonder if she kept them somewhere,
In that diminutive cave with her.
Notes from a wife I think I had:
About the shopping, the kids? The car?
A card from my parents, a gift from a friend,
A reason for this faint lip scar.
I try to keep letters, tickets, receipts,
Compulsively, I feel I must.
But whenever I reach for that link to my past,
It is nothing but ash, but dust.
claire Aug 2019
When I was young
I wanted a canopy bed
They say seeing is believing but
I thought that not seeing was the same as
Believing you were safe

When I was young
I feared house fires and
Losing my mom in the aisles
But now I know she'd always come back to find me
No matter the flame

I'm blind on the way home
All I see are glowing golden arrows
All I hear are growling stomachs
All I feel are these growing pains
I pause on the way home
Only turn on when my ears are covered
This is over, this is over

When I was young
I searched for people like me
But it was impossible when I didn't know myself
Now I've collected a few
Enough for my two narrow hands to hold

When I was young
We took family pictures
Now there's vacancies
And I've learned that growing up is
Skipping changes and missing birthdays

I'm blind on the way home
All I see are glowing golden arrows
All I hear are growling stomachs
All I feel are these growing pains
I pause on the way home
Only turn on when my ears are covered
This is over, this is over

We are over, this is over
a reflection on change, especially the change from child to adult.
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