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#poetry

Frustration turns your insides black
A few steps forward in to a million back
You compare yourself to those around
Better or worse, slim, rotund
An example was this man who wrote
But was going nowhere on a holey boat
He tried and tried to better himself
But was always forgotten, left up on a shelf
Everything and anything, he did try
But ended up in square one, always asking why?!
“Why oh why am I stuck in the mud?”
Getting more annoyed with boiling blood
Left and right, he’d see others live
Whilst he got nothing, what more could he give?
Some people were better, some people were worse
But so many had more, was he part of a curse?
“Maybe I’m doing everything wrong?”
He must have been if it had been for so long
But he lived in a habit, of being himself
But he was always told to “just be yourself”
Things had to change if he was to win
So he started a plan to spread his wings
He didn’t know how or where to start
At his wit’s end, a change of heart
He looked on his laptop for ideas and thoughts
It was a losing battle but he fought and he fought
Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months
He was still going nowhere, but he was on the hunt
Finally, peace was on the horizon
He was starting shine like the sun rising
He’d been searching for answers on how to be better
But his saviour was in one simple letter
“Do not compare yourself to another
Because you are different, so please do not suffer
Some may be richer, some may have more
But they all have what you have, they all have their flaws
You may not be what you wanted to be
But the fact that you’re reading this will help you see
That you’re on a mission, a mission of life
There is no pressure, you have no design
You’re making an effort and your worry is fine
Because you know you want more, your time will shine
So don’t look at others and wish you could do what they do
Because maybe they think the same about you”


By David C Thomas

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You store your wrath for a more opportune moment, biding your time before the eruption. Master of temperament, how dangerous you have become. There are no sharp edges left in you. You flow with an unmatched ability to meet despair with steadfastness. The monsters do not frighten you anymore.

You bite into your fire-white rage but have no desire to swallow it. You only do so to remember the taste of what you bury. To remember it is still there. To remember it is enough.
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4.8.20 - 3:28 AM

“Please hold me close

When the moon shows itself

And when the sun comes up

No matter the lows


Don’t leave me alone

I know I act cold sometimes

But I am not ice at my center

You know this from what I’ve shown


The difficulty is expected

But my love

We have never been weak people

And we’ve already connected


Let’s build our home in our hands

In our arms

In our love

When the airplane lands”

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Unidentifiable

TW:Bright Colours, Angst Art and Poetry

image

I don’t know the name,

But its eating me up inside.

A funny feeling creeping its way up my spine and through my brain,

Nestling in right behind my eyes, lodging itself in the back of my throat.

And it begs for freedom

Because it hurts to try and remove,

To try and push back to where it came from

And keep the mask up that houses a porcelain face.

Pretty doll smile, pretty doll nose, pretty dull eyes.

Pretty easy to tell if you cared enough to search.

Gluing the cracks doesn’t hold forever.

Pritt stick wasn’t made to last.

Tears stream from a never ending facade of smiling faces,

I’ll carry on and take the ever constant blame.

So until the familiar spill, I’ll push it down once again,

That beautiful unidentifiable.

—————————————————

Was in my feels last night so I wrote an angsty poem to go with some very weird art, and I kinda love it. The meaning is very on the nose but it’s one of my favourites I’ve written. I’m kinda new to the poetry world so any critiques are welcome.

Big thanks to @kawaiipotatuh for helping me get confident enough to share some of my poetry, you mean the world to me dude.

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To Littleroot my own mini Emerald City
To the little LCD’s that lit up my eyes

Comfortable with your rain and shine
Your weather that can’t quite decide

Wrapped in green and wild
So much like my own

This pixelated world
More home - than home

A varied land full of wonders
Rife with enemies and adventures

Hours upon hours spent, so much to explore
And in my head countless, countless more

My partner by my side every step
A friend who always had my back

Through an endless, haunting night
A tiny accompanying light

Even now glows inside
Always - till my end of time

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… #poet #poetry #poetrylovers #explore #poetryofinstagram #poetrygram #rap #reading #art #artist #poeta #writing #writersofig #creativewriting #writingcommunity #writerslife #poems #lovequotes #quotes #ASMR #spilledink #author #explorepage #instapoetry #spokenword #prose #typewriter #wordporn #creative #poesia
https://www.instagram.com/p/B-waEV_FYEW/?igshid=1wdfu6wefeaah

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Marina Tsvetaeva, from “Poem of the End”, Bride of Ice: New Selected Poems

weltenwellen
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i wish i had a better memory, so i could remember every little detail of all the good moments you’ve given me

so that i could replay them back to you and show you just how much those moments mean to me

but it’s like those paintings made dot by dot. the ones that take far too long to create, that seems perfectly unremarkable to a passerby.

each little moment, every time you’ve brought me joy, or made me laugh, or made me want to keep going on… its a dot. and eventually theres so many that they fade and blur together into this… masterpiece. this picture that illustrates just how amazing and awe-inspiring you are.

and i can’t remember every dot in perfect detail but maybe the important part is just the knowledge they’re there. maybe ive just reached a point where i can trust in your kindness and thoughtfulness because i know it’s there, and i don’t have to pull up the receipts anymore.

i guess im at a point where i don’t need to trust my memory, and i just trust you.

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Apr 7. Think of a piece of art that has made you feel better when things have not been. Describe it. #NaPoWriMoxNidhScraps

Le Petit Prince

I put together a puzzle last week

My parents helped me

We set it outside,

On a glass table

In a makeshift frame


I made the first few moves

Found corners and edges

Carefully spelled out His name

Proclaiming His arrival

Antoine de Saint Exupery’s old friend


Dad formed His beloved stars

Set them aside in the wings

Waiting for the moment

They could take the stage

The twinkling ensemble


Mum oversaw the project

Moved some pieces here and there

Started piecing together space

His neighbourhood

Always familiar to those who look for it


Slowly He emerged

His faithful Fox by His side

No rose

No matter

His presence was enough


Dashing in His royal uniform

Sword in hand

(We took our time arming Him)

Then we were faced with the blue beyond

That vast extension of sky


Not inky black

But dreamy blue

Melting into lazy cream

Stars in place

We let them rest


Our puzzle is missing a piece

Our spare piece does not fit

No edge

No matter

Smiling, the little Prince reminds us


“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly;

what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

.

.

.

image
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ukdamoText

Carol Ann Duffy


In his dark room he is finally alone
with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.
The only light is red and softly glows,
as though this were a church and he
a priest preparing to intone a Mass.
Belfast. Beirut. Phnom Penh. All flesh is grass.

He has a job to do. Solutions slop in trays
beneath his hands, which did not tremble then
though seem to now. Rural England. Home again
to ordinary pain which simple weather can dispel,
to fields which don’t explode beneath the feet
of running children in a nightmare heat.

Something is happening. A stranger’s features
faintly start to twist before his eyes,
a half-formed ghost. He remembers the cries
of this man’s wife, how he sought approval
without words to do what someone must
and how the blood stained into foreign dust.

A hundred agonies in black and white
from which his editor will pick out five or six
for Sunday’s supplement. The reader’s eyeballs prick
with tears between the bath and pre-lunch beers.
From the aeroplane he stares impassively at where
he earns his living and they do not care.

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hometown

the smell of rust, of rain-soaked soil;

the feel of dirt underfoot, and

picking worriedly at flaking paint chips;

the sounds of midnight meadows and

breezes in the summer heat.

there’s a tether to this place

an umbilical cord, connecting me

to where i grew tall and uncertain.

i ran from it, in my youth and splendor

(there’s safety in a place with

no memories to drown in)

my body will not go back, but my thoughts

have feet of their own. every night

they steer me, unfailing, unwavering,

to my hometown.

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