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Why Poetry

Someone: hey, why do you love poetry so much?

Me: because poetry is a very complex at the same time beautiful language that only few people could throughly understand. It’s more like decoding a spy message or a pirates treasure clue. When someone reads your poem to they may not get it. But that’s just the beauty in it- the obscurity and a thousand metaphors. It gives me the two things I really love to express and to be heard. Without them getting exactly what it is and me not having to explain it.


-karylle heart ❤️

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And die

Can I pour out the pain

And fill myself empty

Uncover all the wounds

And let it bleed


Can I drown myself

And not feel the world

And swim away

And stop existing


And die

And die

And die

And die..


-karylle heart ❤️

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Nine

Taste my simple sweet

as it beads across my body

and runs toward the corners,

the fingertips and toes

and drip–

drip–

drip.


Listen to my breath

as you glide across me,

traversing the plains of my body

so

expertly– so–

well mapped even if you’ve never

felt your way from my lips

to my hips.


I want your teeth around my name,

let it fill your mouth

as your tongue teases my lobes

and the earrings adorning them,

flick and lick and breathe heavy,

make my toes curl

with just your exhale.


And claim me, own me,

know me better than any and all

and taste our collected sweet,

the nectar of our bodies

mixing as we crave more

and more,

and more.


My body is yours,

and all you need to do

is take it.


9/30

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I do not need to joke that we’ll jump the fence - 

it’s not locked. 

Deep green lake, veridian, oxide, 

fire wheel and aster, fold in the universe, 

just a strip of dirt behind the parking lot, but 

the ground rises 

around us, swelling ox eye bright

even in autumn. 

The bee has no natural predators. 

I, too, am a slave to sweetness.

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clickin’ along on this novella! it’s taking approximately my whole life to write, but i’m getting there u g h 

snippet:

           He shrugged. “I listened. I don’t remember the songs. Forgot your name.” Guitarist’s hands tucked into his pockets, head tilted. His hair had been trimmed, accentuating the line of his neck. “Would you remind me?”

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Upon the raft of read.
Lillies dug by deer tracks.

Didn’t know how fast it’d go.
This offer’s not a light into,

a lost clearing. When you
stood on the crest of hallow

hold: the pinking sky, the slow
weakening body into seeming

like the stone would never sink.
I wasted, the only way I knew

how to love. To be, to cast this
tincture around in spattered paint

and not know how the picture
nor who made it. Last night,

I dreamed of bloody sheets and
glass and my friend died in prison.

What I’m doing in my head.
Don’t worry, the unlicensed

seems to be a fleeting fire,
a smoke chimney home,

the limit from which I can rise
just as you did, as you’re doing:

the consequence of many years
asleep, we awake, we can see.

How your blood went in this spirit,
didn’t come from me: a better day

to be hallucinating the dread near.
I can’t say I’ve been remarkable.

Another feather swaying without end.
Already calling the police on myself.

The sound from not sounds like
your voice. I can hear your smile.

There’s nothing to say. Yet I keep
talking about your hands & feet.

They’re the same aren’t they.

Passed through the knocked dawn,
whereby our rain makes clouds
whereby our tears make weight
unto staying atones,
the less is lifted too.

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one day at seventeen you’ll meet a boy at a time you’ve wrung yourself out, stretched your skin taut, spilt all the love you thought it possible to carry with fractured fingers
and when the poison always dances in the bottom of the bottle, in the middle of your palms, in the depths of your conscious,
he’ll touch you like a prayer, look at you like you were carved from the moon herself
so when you’re nineteen and the world once again beckons, calls your name in wispy winter song,
instead you dance in the fire with a body never meant for coal. blister. peel. the skin never fully heals.
you gave your soul away the first day of spring to the first boy who doled out a quarter smile
remember:
you were still moonlight before he claimed you
still threaded with scripture before he learned to read
the world will still beckon long after you’ve whittled flesh to ash so / answer

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My pony Laila

I named her Laila. I haven’t seen a pony quite like her. Her eyes are sparkling blue, and her jaws are perfectly aligned that it looks like she is smiling all the time. She has silky silver hair that sways as she runs around our backyard in a carefree manner. Laila loves hay very much. Our house servants feed her hay thrice a day like clockwork. I also let her graze the grass in our garden. Every evening I take her for a ride in the race track behind our house. She is my best friend. 

I used to have a human best friend. Sheila was my best friend since elementary school. We were partners in crime. We grew up together, attending the same classes and playing together after school. We were inseparable. Ever since my father got super rich for representing one of the wealthy companies, she stopped hanging out with me. She probably thought I wouldn’t be the same anymore. But I haven’t done anything for her to entertain such a possibility. Nevertheless, I didn’t stop reaching out to her. I tried to walk alongside her in the school hallway on the way to our classes like we usually did. But she sprinted and disappeared on me. I tried sitting next to her in our class. But she made sure that I never found an empty seat around her. I kept calling her home every evening after school. No one picked the call. Even if someone did, they never let me speak to her. She completely iced me out.

I was sad and lonely for a very long time wondering what went wrong. I kept blaming myself for her leaving me. It got so gloomy that I refused to step outside my room, let alone attending school. That’s when my dad promised me to get anything I wanted in an attempt to cheer me up. I asked for a pony and voila! I got Laila. Who needs Sheila anymore when I have got Laila? 

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Nuestros enemigos están celebrando su victoria, alzan al aire sus copas colmadas de satisfacción mientras transcriben en sus hojas llenas de maldad lo bien que les ha ido en la batalla. Han ganado sobre el amor, sobre la eternidad jurada, sobre los sueños y sobre nosotros. Estamos muertos, y ellos no han hecho nada, sólo esperar a que el tiempo haga su trabajo.

“Todo termina. Nada es eterno. Pero, ellos se lo creían, lo gritaban y lo escribían. Hoy les pesa hasta la vida para escribir de amor.”, lanzan carcajadas tras carcajadas de glorioso orgullo, mientras nosotros —ja, nosotros— yacemos en el pantanoso río de la muerte preguntándonos por la insensibilidad que nuestras almas sufren. ¡Estamos muertos, carajo! ¡Y ellos, nuestros enemigos, han ganado!

Esu Emmanuel©️

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“I used to deny all sensations but joy, now, I’ve let all emotions remain, because how could the seeds we have buried bloom, given sunlight but none of the rain?”

Me (JNH)// All Feelings I Can’t Detain

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