Tag Archives: poems

Sunday Morning

“I am not a Sunday morning inside four walls
with clean blood
and organized drawers.
I am the hurricane setting fire to the forests
at night when no one else is alive
or awake
however, you choose to see it
and I live in my own flames
sometimes burning too bright and too wild
to make things last
or handle
myself or anyone else
and so I run.
run run run
far and wide
until my bones ache and lungs split
and it feels good.
Hear that, people? It feels good
because I am the slave and ruler of my own body
and I wish to do with it exactly as I please”

― Charlotte Eriksson

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Six Degrees Of Separation

If I were to kill myself tonight I would do it to get into hell
And from that eternal consuming state
I’d wander 3,000 feet below your toes 
And that, to me
Is the apotheosis of everything I couldn’t say
Because you weren’t ready to hear it
Or maybe because I fear rejection
And showing nothing means feeling nothing
I wish I could mutter the words
To bring you back
To have you crawling from under my bed
And finally, realize you were the monster in my head
The idyll in my dreams
The reason I’ve turned into an insomniac sleepwalker
A wrecked lifeless being
Who later took this nothingness and despair
And transformed it into poetry
With which I hoped I could make you mine
And force you to remain in our realm
Built on demons and sleepless nights
And inner peace
To get by.

Six degrees of separationby Vlada Bunescu

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Pairs

Things of importance,
Are always in twos I presume.

Sadness, joy
And then
Sadness resumes.

Moments shared with you
Are always lived twice.

Once what angered me
I laugh at it and rejoice

And then I remember
The rainy December
We’d laughed till we got
All tired

Now I looked back at that time and cried.
I live my every moment with you
In two alternating shades

Once with you
And then again
As your presence fades.

— “Pairs” by Iqra Aslam 

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Study

…people.

You will learn a lot by absorbing and observing.

…nature.

It’s essential. It’s life.

…places.

It will come in handy sometimes.

…history.

It will help you to understand.

… art.

…music.

…culture.

It will add value to your existence. Broaden your horizon and enhance your perspective. 

…yourself.

It will make your life a lot easier.

Life is a never-ending learning process. Don’t be stagnant.

(Sleep deprived thoughts of a paranoid insomniac- January 15, 2018, Monday Belgium)

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Daily Prompt: Study

A Fabulous Wonderful Christmas And A Sparkling New Year

Let the new year roar,
With Glitters and twinkles …
Sing, jump and enjoy,
Do not choose one, do it all

Make a party every day,
Seize every moment
Dance like the stars in heaven,
With all the nice people you meet

Just keep on dancing
In a wonderful new year
Sometimes on your own,
But more often with each other

My wishes to all of you.
Are love and attention
When you need it but
Most of all when you less expect it …

Happiness, joy
And making fun
All you want and can,
In your own special way …

Lights, lots of lights,
Shine with each other
And that they let you sparkle,
Now and in the coming new year!

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Relate

I surely can relate to this:

I’m homesick for a home that hasn’t yet been built
That has no foundation
Except for the tears that I’ve spilled
A home where my dreams start to breathe
And my wild things can dance
And twirl in the wind
And believe in romance
My heart aches for a place that’s been only a whisper
A thought I haven’t had but can clearly remember…

— Deanne Tiffany

How about you?

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Mushroom

The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants – (1350)

BY EMILY DICKINSON

The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants – 
At Evening, it is not
At Morning, in a Truffled Hut
It stopopon a Spot

As if it tarried always
And yet it’s whole Career
Is shorter than a Snake’s Delay – 
And fleeter than a Tare –

’Tis Vegetation’s Juggler – 
The Germ of Alibi – 
Doth like a Bubble antedate
And like a Bubble, hie – 

I feel as if the Grass was pleased
To have it intermit – 
This surreptitious Scion
Of Summer’s circumspect.

Had Nature any supple Face
Or could she one contemn – 
Had Nature an Apostate – 
That Mushroom – it is Him!

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Proxy

THE REAL ME

I‘ll leave for a while but I don’t know for how long or where?
My fill-in will take over while I’m not there
She doesn’t laugh as often and her eyes aren’t quite as dark
Please be patient with her if she seems aloof to you
Her demeanour is serious and her social skills aren’t great
Instead of partying, she’d rather sit home and contemplate  

Before you judge her and tell her she’s not fun
Remember she has a lot to do and she wants to get it done
I loathe coming back from trips like this, to undo her damage
I think she’s worse each time I leave (and it’s getting hard to manage)
This time, before I left, I wrote down traits of the real me
The things I am, the things I’m not, the things I long to be
So here it goes, written down in prose, my personality:

Loves to laugh, to dress with class, though simplicity is a need
learning to dance, longs for romance, and to smile is to succeed
A personal critic can lean towards cynic, perfectionist if you will
Has a sharp mind, should ignore it sometimes, listening is my skill

Nonconforming- music-adoring- perpetual little child
Loves dirty jokes and happy folks, and longs to just go wild
A leader of men, skilled with a pen, who finds it hard to bend
Blessed with a soul not much self-control can be anyone’s friend

My fill-in does not meet the requirements of this list
Inside her mind you’ll find only a trace of me exists
Sorry I had to go, I don’t know how long I will be
But please be patient with her!

Sincerely, The Real Me

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Tame

Every night, at 2 a.m. I go smoke on the balcony
Everything is frozen and foggy
I look around and the world is standing still.
Every night, at 2.05 a.m. a black dog arrives
He stops, stretches a bit, looks at me and then leaves
Between 2.05 and 2.10, I question my purpose in life
Sometimes I try to remember the past and I see the fog surrounding me
At other times, I try to be brave imagining the future
I tell myself: don’t worry, something will arrive.

At 2.10 a.m. a trolleybus passes
And that is the weirdest thing
Not my inconsistent memory
Not the shadow of the dog
Not my habit of smoking at night when it is incredibly cold and white
A trolleybus at night at 2.10 a.m. is the weirdest thing
Because there are no night trolleybuses in this city
There are only night buses
It is as if you expect a dog and you meet a wolf
It is something strange about my expectations.

As if I expect myself to be a wild horse when I am just a deer looking for shelter
Every night at the same hour
I dissolve into to landscape and I question my hopes
From the height of my balcony.
After the trolleybus passes at the same hour every cold night
I start questioning my present
I became a bit savage
I talk about poetry and art all the time and I stopped carrying about anything else
I am sometimes joyful.

And at other times stiff, grumpy and sad
I cannot bend down anymore in front of life
And from this island in the snow that became my shelter
I observe time passing
At the same hour every night.

Laura Livia Grigore Paintings and Adventures

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