My soul cries out for shores I cannot reach,
My fragile body bars me from the beach.
I dream of London's chimes from Big Ben's face,
And Rome's old Colosseum, lost to time and space.
The world's a book I yearn to read, my dear,
But all its pages are locked away in fear.
I am broken
that is my simplest form.
Not in shards,
but in folded faults
like paper creased too many times
it becomes soft,
almost sacred.
They called me whole
when I was quiet.
They mistook my silence
for resolution.
But silence
was just the breath I held
between scream
and surrender.
I walked the corridors of other people's love
like a thief in borrowed shoes,
returning everything
except myself.
I am the ink smeared by rain
on the envelope no one opened.
The left-behind syntax
of someone who once
meant something
to someone
but no longer fits their grammar.
I am broken
and so I echo better.
So I resonate truer.
So I bleed in rhythm
when no one watches.
This is not weakness.
It is symmetry,
rediscovered in collapse.
I am broken
and that is my simplest form.
That is how I slip into yours
without splinters.
Thunder, sound above. Found.
Do we need intellect?
O inner heart, resound!
Grill, gain, and genuflect!
Words of the prophet writ.
The serpent deeply bit...
Life's loveless hand scraped me
Blood poured on dry cement
The sun heated it up
Boiling on the ground
But a stain remains there
And a scar on my skin
A reminder of then
A warning for later
Memento on the moon, our demise that’s too soon—
since ancient moral laws, our reasoning had flaws.
The Ten Commandments bold, the wisdom of old told,
its light spread in a rush, but now collective hush.
Man’s creation will bloom, like destructive mushroom
casts the atomic streams over our shattered dreams.
Echoes of progress vast – tyranny’s shadow cast,
encapsulated whim in firmament now swim.
The paradox of Man of should he if he can,
or must he heed balance between greed and lost glance?
Elina is my idol,
She didn't even need a title,
She rides a bus shuttle,
People think it is brittle,
Her fragile heart is in Seattle,
Where her home is in the settlement,
For a more like cathedral,
Someone who is so dearly yet a rival,
But that's not how I see myself in a reveal,
For something so civil,
Just let my drink chill,
I know how it feels,
My movie is in the reel,
Cameras action rolling,
The eggs are boiling,
I am in healing,
I am picking,
Something that is sinking,
My sleep is lulling,
I make myself cuddle,
I am setting a pudding,
No one is judging,
For what I am wearing,
For the fish that I am searing,
Let myself go on styling,
I didn't know that he was staring,
I keep myself remembering,
I didn't know I was the one who keeps on forgetting,
The moment that I am thriving.
Suite Suite!!
Presence of
White Pupuliary reflux
Macromers
endophthalmitis
senile, senile
Piggyback, piggyback!
Her deep shames and insercurties
white claw!
White Claw.
High Steak Royalities
Her self importance
insulted him
as she made him feel
inferior: her male fetishes
where childish amd she
changed the defintion of
mannish to define her charcter
I saw as stupid
but refused to say so that
she would augue that I felt
a brotherly love for herr
I didn't I liked Cuckolding
to keep males straught
He thought himself wiser
and was
He knew that the rules of cuckolding are often unspoken
and they may have been sewn at
places and ages that aren't wise to ever revisit
lacking confidence
and it should never be accepted and it's
teachings may involve those
who aren't aware of being involved.
The Meanest Socail Norm
Shachaph
Cuckoo
or Cuckoldery
LIFTING MY CLOUDS
SELDOM MY HOPES RISES NOW , LIFTING IT IS NOW HOPES NOT
DEAR CLOUDS OF MINE ARE GONE NOW , FILLING THE VOIDS WITH CLOUDS
PLEASE COMMENT AND SHARE
Natural
Some think it’s the beauty that makes the girl. They think it’s the glitz, glam, diamonds, and pearls. Others think that it’s her curls. Though they may whirl and swirl, they just don’t have that perfect twirl. Is it the money that makes the girl? Materialistic, but still a part of her world. No, it’s the music that makes the girl. The rhythms that make her move her feet. With a personality that presents itself to whoever she greets. It builds her up, it breaks her down. Her music of life can sometimes be a sweet sound.
Visual
Some think it's the beauty that makes the girl, they think;
It's the glitz, glam, diamonds, and pearls, they believe.
Others think that it's her curls, though they may whirl and swirl,
They just don't have that perfect twirl, they perceive.
Is it the money that makes the girl? Materialistic, it's true,
But still a part of her world, this we know.
No, it's the music that makes the girl, the rhythms that make her move her feet.
With a personality that presents itself to whoever she greets.
It builds her up, it breaks her down, her music of life can sometimes be
A sweet sound, a melody that sets her free.
He wandered through his days with pockets empty, bare,
His heart full of hope, but weighed down by despair.
He stole from those he loved, their cherished things to sell,
Hoping that his dreams would somehow turn out well.
Desperation led him down a darker, risky path,
From shops and clubs he took, escaping from his wrath.
His soul was lost in shadows, seeking gold to give,
Yet he still clung to the hope that she might truly live.
One night he tried his luck within a bank so cold,
Thinking wealth would win her heart and break his troubles' hold.
But fate had other plans, a bullet cut him down,
His life was lost in vain, his dreams laid cold and brown.
In the same cruel week, she found another's arms,
As if he’d never been, erased without alarms.
His hopes were buried deep, his love now far away,
While she moved on with a smile, his story left to fray.
Now shadows hold his form, a price too steep to pay,
His love turned to ashes, lost and swept away.
And she goes on with joy, without a single care,
While he remains a ghost, in darkness unaware.
In the dense forest, Rama continued his walk
Seetha and Lakshmana following him, their steps slow and weak
Tiredness had spread across both their faces pale
While Rama, energetic, his spirit unbreakable
Seeing this, both asked Rama, with concern and dismay
'How do you walk, with such vigor, come what may?'
He only replied, with a gentle, knowing smile
'My heart finds strength in duty's noble might'
Through trials and tribulations, he led the way
And in his heart, a fire burned, night and day
His spirit unshaken, his will unbroken
His duty fulfilled, his honor unspoken
Frequent flyer miles use can help or abuse.
My son asked that we change and board another plane.
I told him, our passport, can't Havana airport
said he'll use the kiosk, but my FF I trust
counterintelligence needed--laughs to my patience. (meant ticket counter)
Be that discourse of late ill-present contemplate
payment via my card and FF disregard.
Like déjà vu a haiku an à la carte menu
FACTS, NOT FAITH
A secret now exposed, and insight has its price
The meaning then is clear, and all will know at last
With beauty to explore, the final line is cast
For treasure to be found, persistence will suffice
Belief is not enough, no need to throw the dice
What’s owed will then be paid, as waiting time has passed
A secret now exposed, and insight has its price
The meaning then is clear, and all will know at last
So look one time my friend, just once and never twice
The answers that you seek from distances so vast
Such knowledge can dispel that feeling cold as ice
Embrace the facts not faith, a true iconoclast
A secret now exposed, and insight has its price
The meaning then is clear, and all will know at last
He dodged the bullets twice
before his sacrifice...
Specific Types of Alexandrine Poems
Definition | What is Alexandrine in Poetry?