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Go, walk away
With your coward’s gait
Trespassing shamelessly
No intention to stay

How dare thee
Point fingers, blame me
Abandon me like I
Was your property?

Go, walk more miles
Wasteland; piles on piles
Yet you think it is I
The one who beguiles?

Nay traitor, ponder again
This love is a sin
One of many crimes
Where I have given in

Go find another bait
Somone who can equate
What I have given you
Until then, I shall wait.


poem- heard


Shawn L. Bird

Her words

weren’t heard

His dreams

were empty screams

Her wishes

were lost in riches

His sight

was bathed in light

Her trials

left her reviled

His loneliness

was his holiness

Their relationship

let sensations slip

They tightly gripped

their well-worn scripts.

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This person
Reflecting through
Cracks of a mirror
‘Tis you
Years upon years
In its form derived
‘Tis arrived
The way you formed
Now forged
For this is not just who you are
This is who you are to be
You must stand up
A monument
No movement
Standing tall
Staying strong
Stuck and
Progress is overrated
Over ambitious
Just be you
The you we know
Nothing new
Just be you



She was drenched
in her misery
soaked in the pouring rain
He gave her his raincoat,
swept her under his umbrella,
and took away all the pain.

Wine and Tobacco

Locked in a bathroom stall
Tears are all she has left
The war inside her will never end
And she has no more strength to spend

She has tried razorblades
And she has swallowed pills
But still at night she can only cry
Her deepest desire is to die

I want to hold you close
Kiss you and dry your eyes
You make butterflies inside me dance
Allow yourself one last romance

I’m not trying to change
Any part of your soul
I want to be your own umbrella
And shield you from rainy weather

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My dear friend wrote this masterpiece and I cannot help but reblog it. He beautifully fuses Hardy-esque Nature and Eliot meets Manto Modern literary aesthetics, that is so appeasing to the senses. I grinned, I sneered, I spat, I grunted, I agreed, I disagreed, I felt, I thought and I immersed myself into his words.
Happy Reading! x

Young Man In Spats

It isn’t music unless appropriate seduction precedes and meaning proceeds it, while ”it” remains indefinable experience.

When, after crawling hours of rolling flashing, grey sky stops pelting rain
This mountaintop terrace’s steel railing, plastic chair and plants drip crystal colorless ether of pain;
A dull ache that seeps deep to the roots of 1300 year old trees, throbbing ancient rituals
Of blood and sweat and porn and sperm and massacres of potential heavenly visuals
Darkly thick wool hangs low above, oppressively condensing thoughts demanding space
Slaying a sentiment, a whispering, pleading ambition to tumble it off a cliff with grace
Seeing this mutely shrieking mourning, hidden in the audible, visible silence
Lying in every tearful leaf and sheltered shivering birds’ hearts with ominous elegance;
A silence I could not allow pass through my bones, like the shredding wind, its ally
Witnessing all this from under a shade on the terrace…

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Angel of Death


Infect me with your sadness
Inject my veins with melancholy
Tear my ribs apart and
Hold that ruthlessly beating
Battered life pump
Hold it in your palms
Hold it and trace the vessels with your finger tips
Caress the red walls of throbbing silk
As the warm sea oozes all over you
As your fingernails slash into the fine satin walls of my heart
So tell me love, can you feel it?
Through my screams and through your laughs


I never knew someone’s smile could be nebulously profound to me. Yes, of course there is this elating feeling that follows the smile that you bring to someone’s face. But this was special in a way I was not fairly accustomed to.
Somehow, she seemed important. She had developed this place that ensured quality and importance. Her aura was original. Something about her soul shouted out loud that she was not someone to be taken lightly.
There was something about her eyes that plead to be understood… Oh! Her eyes! Those beautiful eyes shaped to perfection. The warmth radiated from them with all the world had to offer. They danced animatedly when some spark lit up within her. They dimmed like a dying amber, the spark then remotely dormant, with ashes and coal to mourn for…
They were not the eyes of an angel, no. They were the eyes of a human, who felt, saw and showed everything that was humanly possible. And if you looked in to her eyes long enough, if she’d let you (which she rarely did), it would be like staring into the broken pieces of a mirror.
The girl who so fondly indulged in solving mysteries, herself was a mystery; not to be solved. A paradox, perhaps. For letting someone glare at your soul, with all it’s scattered fragments, is dauntingly horrifying! What if, God forbid, someone attempts to lay a finger on the spot that ached the most? All the years of concealment would drown; all in vain! She’d dare not let that happen. Because vulnerability is vile.
So she smiles, rarely co-ordinating with her eyes. But when her eyes shone, no smile could be compared to that shine, that light; that iridescent moonlight. Her eyes had so many stories to tell, and all I wanted was to read those stories, absorb them and live them, one at a time, for the rest of my life.