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Focused but with ease I sit
in a spring-cushioned
armchair coated in
soft leather, dyed
a rich bordeaux.
Cigarette in one hand,
Negroni in the other,
Joint prêt sur la table.

The Ouroboros woman lay
across from me on the
méridienne.
Our eyes not breaking sight,
we're opposite anchors.

Pegs pulling
piano wire.

As the smooth tapestry
of her milky skin is caressed
by one wondrous instrument affixed
upon her slender forearm,
with extensions most
sensual, the other
one implores
herself in
glorious
fervour.

Joie de vivre,
as close as you
can get, at least.

A tenebrous passion.
As thunderous as brief.
Adieux mon cœur,
ma jolie,
Élise.
eyes of rumbling fire
when she looks at me
with that burning desire
I walk the distance
and bathe in flames for a while.

lips of thundering waterfalls
when she beckons to me
with those Parthenopean calls
I swim the distance
and dance in waves for a while.

the way she claims me
and gives herself to me

skin of icy winds and hailstorm
when I look at her
with a thirst to take in her form
she glides the distance
and I drink her in for a while.

hair of dark shadow and stone
when I talk to her
with trembling voice and tone
she strides the distance
and I steady myself for a while.

the way she claims me
and gives herself to me

hands of red and teeth of white
when she kisses me
with a hunger so full of spite
she cuts the distance
and I give myself for a while.

cries of pain and howls of delight
when I kiss her
with an ordinary, yet ravaging bite
I cleave the distance
and she becomes ravished for a while.

the way she claims me
and gives herself to me
leaves no room for the scavengers
Yuiza Nabin Jul 14
Hold me at the tip of your tongue
And speak not, intimately
In suspension of that trembling scaffold
Lest it crush our unsaid space

Touch me the right way
And say the wrong nothings
That in ambivalence I may stray
To some mistaken grace

**** me over in your dream,
Lay me out, exposed,
And carry out your shrouded theatre
Recompense for your absence in mine

And gently, in your tangled strings of pathos
Tie me at the cusp of your love
Hello HePo. New to hello poetry, have been writing poems since 2024 and have gone ahead & posted some. This, Cusp, is my most recent and probably my favorite. Hoping to find lots of poets who write about similar themes (and probably better than me which is good)

And yes, I can't get over myself.
Izan Almira Jul 10
Metal against metal.
Food is no longer warm against the tongue.
The clink of glasses breaks the white,
still emptiness surrounding the family.
Apprehensive glances are exchanged
when politics are discussed
as the future looms over them like a prophecy
that makes it all feel doomed.
I wrote this thinking of Spain's politics, which are tense- we have literal murderers (people who used to be part of a terrorist group who placed bombs on supermarkets, killed children, assassinated a mayor, and exploded cars on random streets) and delinquents on the presidency, our president is a power-starved hypocrite that excuses his corruption with the fact that his party is the left, and the far-right are homophobic, transphobic, racist and misogynistic jerks. They don't allow us to get over Franquism (A fascist dictatorship that took place decades ago), and they constantly bend the past to their liking in order to manipulate us into voting for them. The people at power act as if, if the right gets to the government, our country will suddenly become fascist again. What’s worse? That I say all of this being a proud leftist, queer person. Our left party no longer defends what it was made to, but only seeks the best ways to get money in their pockets. We can no longer vote without forgiving corruption.

The funny part of this is that it could have been written about any country, specially the US, which is basically the new ******* ******. It is scary to think that right now, I am like a jew that lives outside Germany and sees his siblings get harassed. It makes me sick.

When we talk about politics, I get this hopeless feeling that I will never be able to medically transition and that the only thing stopping a war from taking place in my country is this universal fear of confrontation every hispanian has. Even though I know that that second thought comes from panic rather than objective data. We are so good at ignoring our political situation, that we think we’re doing great most of the time— until it gets brought up.

So yeah, you’ll hear me listening to punk music like it’s the **** national hymn (I’m tired and sick and that is all I can do to rebel)
lisagrace Jul 10
My hands linger on the barrier tight,
Fingers twitching in the failing light.
Blood is drumming, hot and loud,
A whispered thought beneath the shroud. There’s a pressure blooming in my head,
Like every word I left unsaid.
It hums behind my aching eyes—
A silent song that never dies.
Half-lidded eyes, I am silent and watching
There waits the void -
                
         Gaping
                          
                    Calling
                                    ­  
                              Pulling

There's a gravity that pulls me near,
A silent whisper I half-hear
As the yawning void draws me in,
slow and thin,
I can't help but gaze,
its pull a curious haze.
It's promise I have not destroyed.
It sings in shadows, soft and low,
A voice that tells me where to go.

But still I hover, still I stall,
One heartbeat shy of letting fall.
I want to leap, to drown, to fly—
To find out what comes after why.

The wind shifts, and picks up my hair.
I blink and turn—no fanfare.
Just the concrete path, and the noise of life -
the cars, the birds, the sun burning bright.
I shift my weight. The void still calls.
It tugs at my feet, my arms, my soul.
It's hold trembles. The strings snap.
I step away as the chords retract.
The mouth closes. Now threadbare—
fraying, curling...but I don't care.

I am stalwart. I am serene.
No longer caught in what has been.
The path ahead is cracked and wide.
I don’t look back.
I walk.
I try.

Maybe this is why.
First post here.
I wrote this in a moment of tension—between fear and curiosity, between holding on and letting go.
I think I’m still somewhere in between. If you give this a read, thank you. If you do and something pulls within you.....I know.
stillhuman Jun 24
Cig
They tasted better with you
and I could kiss the space
your lips had been
the same ones that would turn to me
and be so sweet

And you would spit out the smoke
from talking lips
take a pause and concentrate
for it tasted the same as me
sharing a cigarette had never felt so intimate
Can’t shut my eyes
Can’t miss a sound
Even if it’s lies
I want to hear it—I found

I catch titles, labels
Can’t stand that
My head is wired with cables
But I feel like an acrobat

Balancing between
Either being unheard
Or unseen
"Politics" is just a word

But it makes me grasp for air
Whenever I hear it voiced
Perceive it as if I am not there
Yearning to belong and be rejoiced

Nevertheless, I pay attention
To all the names and surnames
I feel a tension
My brain’s on fire, I can’t calm the flames
This is about hearing all the complaining about the current state of Dutch politics and listening but not understanding ('cause no one explained it) and also having a very bad fear of missing out
you spoke with your back turned
like nothing was wrong
the kettle sat screaming
its blistering song

your eyes crack with thunder
I don’t look away.
I taste every stormcloud
and swallow the rain

you asked if I loved you
then smirked at the floor
i said it too slowly,
you moved for the door

We fought in the hallway,
your knuckles went red.
You hit without blinking
and meant what you said.

you find every fracture
then press where it stings
You say, “it’s devotion,”
and tighten the strings.

You leaned in, now limping,
your voice raw and rough.
We clutched like survivors
who'd suffered enough.

Your hands then remember
what you never confessed,
you kiss where you hurt me
and ask for the rest.

but still, when you’re shaking,
and all fury’s gone,
I gather your pieces
and whisper a song

I stitched up the silence
you gave me to keep
and rocked us together
til sorrow found sleep

We curled in the ash
what didn’t survive,
and found even ruin
leaves something alive.
Consilius May 11
I live between two worlds,
with my pain I weave the bridge.

In on I am, in one I wish,
in both I drip blood stitch by stitch.

If you want to know where I am,
look for the intention behind the font,
outreach of what we want,
the tension in what we don't,
when we reach out for the water in the pond.

To sip from the stillness's flow,
one must stand and one must go.

For that's the contract between the living and the soul.
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