Sometimes, you just can't hold it inside:
"Aaj sadmay balaa ke thay, warna dil ki adat nahin ke aaah kare."
- Arslan Abbas
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you left the door cracked as if you might come back
i don’t know how to stop waiting for you
-
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“You don’t have to die to matter. / You don’t have to be covered in blood to deserve a warm bath.”
-Excerpt from Hero’s Death, by Athene Marston (via @ athenes_poems)
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My mother's love is service
She doesn't know how to stop
Always giving without hesitation
Never knowing when is enough
My mother's love is excessive
To the point it suffocates
That things starts to get blurry
Where love inevitably turns into hate
Therefore, my mother's love is pain
For both those who are involved
And I think I inhereted some of her
Since we were carved in the same mold
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ꔫ We’re just girls doing our own thing
Even when it’s unplanned
That’s what makes us be us , hand in hand
These beauties that were made , can never be replaced
Those that men love to love , and those who men chase
As we’ll be having fun with ourselves , playing free
Enjoying the middays float of breeze ꔫ
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she made me feel alive;
like she lit a flame
inside my chest.
we burned together,
but my match burned faster,
and brighter,
while hers only
flickered.
koko.poetry
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When Ashfaq Ahmed said:
“Sabar ka ghoont doosron ko pilana asaan hai, khud peete waqt pata chalta hai ke aik aik qatra peena kitna muskhil hai.”
I felt that.
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A poet's heart
I showed you my poetry
I let you read a part of me
You said "I like it, it does sound nice"
You were blind for the words between the lines
'Cause poetry is not always sweet
Sometimes it hurts and makes you bleed
It reflects the soul in a current state
The ups and downs, the love and hate
You read them and still couldn't see
Why they mean so much to me
Maybe that's the reason we fell apart
'Cause I need a man with a poet's heart
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If I die, the world would celebrate the life and mourn the death of a person that never existed.
Unknown
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my mom used to make us read the air
we'd gotten so good at it we knew when to stay silent
before she even rounded the corner
we learned all of her tell-tales
the tone of her voice even through text
we knew what she was thinking, what she wanted
without her ever voicing a thought
years after talking to her last
sometimes I notice the coldness of the air and
my vague words, my silence
I know I never escaped
that small world we used to live in
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