#modern poetry

[wutheringvibe]

Let my suffering be for love, my joy be in love, my purpose be love. Let me leave this world with nothing left to give, my love spent like the last coin of a beggar who believes in something greater than hunger.

…….……

I will love, and I will love until it burns holes through me, until there’s nothing left of me but the love I leave behind. That is my work, my worship, my reason to rise. I will love like an open floodgate, like the ocean spilling onto the shore, refusing to be contained. I will love desperately, overwhelmingly, so much that even the stars will envy the way I give myself away. It will hurt, it will hollow me out, but it will also fill me, spill over, and remake me every single day. I will love in excess because that is how I was made, not to withhold or measure but to give without keeping score. My love will not wait for reciprocation or acknowledgment. It will simply be. I will care for the world, for the people who stay, for the ones who leave, and for the ones who pass through like strangers brushing shoulders on a crowded street. I will care in the unseen moments, in the way I remember someone’s favorite song or the way I pour tea just the way they like it. I will love in the small, quiet gestures, in the way i memorize the scent of a place or how i keep the smallest of promises. Because I was made to pour myself out until my hands are empty and my heart is light. To love is to live is to be holy. I will love so deeply that my care will not need a name, it will seep into your being like sunlight through cracked glass. I will feed you with my hands, write your name in the steam on winter windows, and leave pieces of myself sprawled all over your life. I will hold my love up like a mirror to the universe and dare it to meet my gaze. I will love with the ferocity of someone who knows that this is what they were built for, that this is their life's work. When I meet God, I want to stand before him with my heart worn thin from giving, with hands that tremble from holding so much. I will show him what I did with the love he planted in me, the joy it brought, the wounds it left, the emptiness it sometimes filled. That my love, my suffering, my joy, all of it, was woven together in a tapestry so intricate that even he would pause to admire it. I want him to understand that I loved so much it broke me, that I loved so much it healed me, and that in every moment, I stayed true to the love he made me carry. I want to be able to say, “I gave it all away, and I do not want it back. I loved the world, I loved them all, and I loved myself too in the end.” And even if I have to show him my scars, if I have to say, “This is what it cost me,” I want to meet his gaze without regret. I want him to weep for what I gave and to tell me it was enough. If there’s suffering in my love, let it be holy. If there’s joy, let it be boundless. And if there’s anything left of me when it’s all done, let it be the kind of love that echoes forever, the kind that even time cannot erase.

[sweatermuppet]

Blessed Be by Sol Rios, published in Ghost of my Ghosts

[luciferslilith7]

"They both failed at the end-She couldn't hate him and he couldn't love her" ~Anonymous

[sorata-ayumi]

El sol y sus flores, Rupi Kaur

[mkhancock]

“A Life on Paper”

By M.K. Hancock

We start so small,

Charming zygotes, ganglions, cells

Sparks of electrical communication

Joining together and making new

Formations that bind us together

We live if we’re lucky

We grow tall or short, until we stop

And then we begin to shrink

The space between most

Currently living skeleton’s discs

Disintegrates little by little

If we don’t care for our bodies

They shrink rapidly, with our backs and necks

Curled downward to our core

As though ready to leave at a moment’s notice

Snuffing out the light inside so

The soul can join again with

The electric Earth,

The body to the soil,

Warm in the sun

Soon to grow

New life

[whattheduckjules]

arm's length

we were standing on your balcony under the starry sky

and smoked cigarette after cigarette

this was the perfect time

to tell you my little secret

that you're the one I really like

but I chocked on my words so I didn't say a thing

and as you took my hand I felt ashamed

that's when I noticed I can't cope with romantic feelings

no even worse, I'm afraid

and I can't talk about feelings without cracking a joke

feeling guilt and acting immature

comedy is my protection shield, that's my mechanism to cope

I can't allow myself being vulnerable and because of my avoidant behaviour I react with misplaced humour

-Jules

[bones-ivy-breath]

Inward by Yung Pueblo

[nwarrior777]

Remember i said i writing a poem

[pomegranateandcoffee]

Forough Farrokhzad poetry for today

[coffeexxcigarettes]

I don't want nudes.

Tell me why you cry

On that random Tuesday in April;

Why you were born with a dusting

Of stars across your cheeks,

And who taught you to hide them.

x

..

..

.. @nosebleedclub Dec 1st; Dusting

[mylittlepoemworld]

when did I stop looking up at the sky and wondering about the endless space? when to beauty did I turn a blind eye and youth's sparkle disappeared from my face?

was it somewhere down this sinuous road that I lost track of who I was before? was it when I began to bear this load that I noticed I was enough no more?

I want again to lay under the sun like a kid, play and lose track of the time I want to run through green hills and have fun and don't give a damn if my verses rhyme

I want to change, to be worthy of you I want you to know the child I once knew

[wutheringvibe]

i wish you loved me to the point of insanity, to the point where flesh meets dust, where skin becomes memory, where the air crackles with something that isn't quite a sound but a vibration, a pull, a calling. love me to the point where heaven becomes hell, where the lines blur and the fire in your eyes is all i can see, all i can feel, all i can know. to the point where existence becomes nihil, where everything outside of you and me crumbles into irrelevance, like the static between radio stations, like the spaces between stars. i want it to be a love that isn’t about you or me, not about words spoken or actions taken, no rights, no wrongs, no questions, no answers, no fights, no reparations, just the sheer force of it, the madness of it. love me like a storm that doesn’t care what it destroys. love me like the roots of trees splitting sidewalks, like the sea eating the shore. i don’t want it neat or polite, i don’t want it reasonable. i want it raw and feverish, the kind of love that burns everything down just to light a cigarette off the ashes. and my love, i want to love you back just as madly, with no beginning and no end, no borders, no sense. love you until your breath becomes my breath, until your thoughts bleed into mine, until i can’t tell where i stop and you begin. love you in the way that defies everything we were ever taught about love. just love. mad love. the kind that turns the world inside out, leaves it unrecognizable, leaves us unrecognizable.

[sweatermuppet]

What if I’m Simply a Dirty Earthworm? What If I’m a Dirty Man, What Then? What If I’m Nothing But a Sexless Worm? by Megan Borocki, published in Beaver Magazine

[Text ID: Do you still think of when I was small catching earthworms in my socks, face smashed in the mud, my soft fingertips digging for wet bodies to throw at my brother? I still miss your voice. Do you remember when you would hold my wrist above my head hissing grow into a clean woman? /End ID]

[e-mptyflowerfields]

I’d crawl into his ribcage if he let me, like Leonardo DiCaprio in The Revenant, I’d curl up in him like he was a dead horse and I was desperate for warmth

[laurachouettepoetry]

A writer’s heart

Does not only hold scars caused by love,

But also those that cross

The lines of unsaid words

And fully-lived, unspoken feelings.

Life is merely a tragedy to a writer,

Something that must occur

Like the final line of a book,

And like an ink stain that inevitably

Taints the fingers of a poet.

Real love, too, must be attained

In the same way.

- Laura Chouette (Book: ETHEREAL SOLITUDE)

[mkhancock]

An Artist’s Strategy

By M.K. Hancock

Fear is a simulator

A painful illusion

It doesn’t tell the truth

Only possible outcomes

Aim for where you want to go

Don’t brace for pain

Embrace your journey

This life

An adventure

When you dive in

Choose the deep

Explore and search

Free, open, and focused

Grace is a given