Poetry Poems
"the process of removing toxic substances"
by Soulayma A.
Why do I write?
.
Is that because writing is the act of being alive as Ryad said?
Even when I cannot breathe, I can write what suffocates me before my heart stops beating. I would point to the sun and make my last poem out of rays instead of words.
Is it because I’m still not healed yet?
But how much does it take? Three years of medication, 3 thousand words per month, 3 colors of dying, 6 new haircuts. I’ll break the record if I kept changing, I’ll break the record but I will not be healed.
Is it because, I write cuz I can do nothing about my rage, the rage that I don’t even recognize?
Writing is my "detoxification", but what if I was made of poison? When will I be healed?
......
Be Drunk
by Charles Baudelaire
You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it--it's the
only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks
your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually
drunk.
But on what?Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be
drunk.
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of
a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again,
drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave,
the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything
......
We Refugees
by Benjamin Zephaniah
I come from a musical place
Where they shoot me for my song
And my brother has been tortured
By my brother in my land.
I come from a beautiful place
Where they hate my shade of skin
They don't like the way I pray
And they ban free poetry.
......
Pullman Porter
by Robert William Service
The porter in the Pullman car
Was charming, as they sometimes are.
He scanned my baggage tags: "Are you
The man who wrote of Lady Lou?"
When I said "yes" he made a fuss -
Oh, he was most assiduous;
And I was pleased to think that he
Enjoyed my brand of poetry.
He was forever at my call,
......
Instill Blind Sodomy Scrolls Suez Canal Yourself in Concentric Locks and Will Her Legs
by Alex Roth
Open a hermetic editorial pen in your mouth outburst beverly hillbilly oil well it is getting Death
Clouds of mercurial quick liver worst singing sting liars cackling advice columns of jokes
When crops of ruddy recollection grow burgundy
infections within sin THEY are ripped smiling
in beige, black, or creamy ivory envy…
Gag rotten ruth sooth crooks and nannies straddling ghosts’ cocks crowing in the after-gloom
High alone some like a weak pitch to howl ivory gelid croon smoky gray luminations torn pant-
Legs in the journey’s water to acrylic yin and yang phallic dominion layer of iconic deference
......
"the process of removing toxic substances"
by Soulayma A.
Why do I write?
.
Is that because writing is the act of being alive as Ryad said?
Even when I cannot breathe, I can write what suffocates me before my heart stops beating. I would point to the sun and make my last poem out of rays instead of words.
Is it because I’m still not healed yet?
But how much does it take? Three years of medication, 3 thousand words per month, 3 colors of dying, 6 new haircuts. I’ll break the record if I kept changing, I’ll break the record but I will not be healed.
Is it because, I write cuz I can do nothing about my rage, the rage that I don’t even recognize?
Writing is my "detoxification", but what if I was made of poison? When will I be healed?
......
through the eyes of a stranger
by Rikske Kessner
Through the eyes of a stranger,
I walk the crowded streets,
My thoughts hidden behind
A façade of indifference.
Always writing under breath
Each step the rhythm of a song
I listen for the murmurs,
The stories left half-told,
And with borrowed breath,
......
The secret of heart - Alexis karpouzos
by alexis karpouzos
In the quiet chambers, where the soul resides, There lies a sacred wisdom, where true knowledge hides. Beyond the realms of logic, beyond the mind's vast art, There blooms a deeper knowing, the knowledge of the heart.
It whispers in the silence, in the spaces in between, In moments soft and tender, in visions deeply seen. It's felt in every heartbeat, in the rhythm of life's song, A truth that's pure and timeless, where hearts forever long.
This knowledge needs no language, no words to understand, It's written in the actions, in the touch of a loving hand. It sees beyond the surface, to the essence deep inside, A bridge that spans the distance, where souls can safely hide.
For in the heart's own knowing, there's a wisdom vast and true, A guide through all the shadows, a light in every hue. It teaches us compassion, to see with loving eyes, The beauty in each moment, where grace and wonder lie.
So trust the heart's own wisdom, let its knowledge be your guide, In every step you take, in every tear you've cried. For in the heart's own keeping, there's a wisdom pure and bright, A path to deeper meaning, where day transforms to night.
The knowledge of the heart - Alexis karpouzos
by alexis karpouzos
In the quiet chambers, where the soul resides, There lies a sacred wisdom, where true knowledge hides. Beyond the realms of logic, beyond the mind's vast art, There blooms a deeper knowing, the knowledge of the heart.
It whispers in the silence, in the spaces in between, In moments soft and tender, in visions deeply seen. It's felt in every heartbeat, in the rhythm of life's song, A truth that's pure and timeless, where hearts forever long.
This knowledge needs no language, no words to understand, It's written in the actions, in the touch of a loving hand. It sees beyond the surface, to the essence deep inside, A bridge that spans the distance, where souls can safely hide.
For in the heart's own knowing, there's a wisdom vast and true, A guide through all the shadows, a light in every hue. It teaches us compassion, to see with loving eyes, The beauty in each moment, where grace and wonder lie.
So trust the heart's own wisdom, let its knowledge be your guide, In every step you take, in every tear you've cried. For in the heart's own keeping, there's a wisdom pure and bright, A path to deeper meaning, where day transforms to night.
Friedrich Nietzsche
by Mario Odekerken
Friedrich Nietzsche, ein Denker der Widersprüche,
die Herausforderung an die Moral,
die Idee des Übermenschen,
ein Ruf zur Selbstverwirklichung.
Ewige Wiederkunft, der Kreislauf des Lebens,
Schmerz und Freude, untrennbar vereint,
die Suche nach Sinn im Chaos,
und die Freiheit, das eigene Schicksal zu schmieden.
