#poems By me

[mera-mann-kehne-laga]

I made some coffee today.

And refrained from putting much milk in it

So that it resembled the colour of your eyes.

It tastes bitter, but I'm used to it now.

I can't look into them anymore.

I just can't bring myself to do it.

Because i fear if i do,

I'd again drown into them,

This time breathlessly, deeper.

And this time nobody'd be able to save me.

No, i don't want that. 

I thought love stays. That it stays no matter what.

I was wrong. It didn't.

Maybe it wasn't even love to begin with.

Maybe i was fooled by those eyes, 

By your kindness, by your love.

Maybe i was too blinded

By the hunger for affection.

Maybe i was in love with only your love.

Maybe it was never YOU.

My heart is all blue now. 

Blue's your favourite colour right?

You've always loved painting

me with its darkest shades.

You might remember it's mine too. 

And always will be.

My heart misses beating to the rhythm of your heart.

[wooftphr]

shot dogs and roadkill

[thatcatinthewindow]

I thought that

in leaving before

you could get attached

I'd be saving you;

I've condemned myself to

a lifetime of

essentially

loving a ghost

[davyspoetryjournal]

who would of thought

that life would bring us together

at the right place

at the right time

exactly when I needed you

- divine

[clotpolesonly]

(x)

transcript:

a prayer to an empty font

every day you learn the lie anew, a noise knock knocking in your chest, a moth green-brown and helpless in the warmness of your ribs, a flutter on your tongue, a flinch of wafer swallowed down with knock knock knock, your ribs locked tight, wings flap against the gun cocked here you learn, his fingers in your hair, long fingers warm, sun- browned and holy soft, held to your head, held to your mouth, a noise upon your lips, the lie that lies behind your teeth, knock knocking, green and brown and swallowed down with holy wine to flood the ribs and drown the flutter-wing of moth and mouth and mother Mary, mother may I, lay my head upon the ground, all green and brown, and where you found your open ribs like bony fingers reaching for the sky, knock knocking on the pearly gates, shut tight, you wait and bite your flapping tongue with bloody teeth, wing slick with knock knock knocking on your broken-finger ribs, red-brown, and every day you learn to lie anew

[leospoetryendevours]

Wings

If I had wings, I'd let you preen them

because I sometimes view myself

as nothing better than an animal

I am baring my soul in a way

that is both terrifying and liberating

This piece of myself is not just important or special

it is something so intricately woven

into the fabric of my being that

to expose it feels like tearing myself open.

I am not just human in this moment;

I am a wild creature, raw and instinctual,

howling in the depths of my spirit.

This vulnerability is a fierce and

primal part of me, pulsing with a life

and energy that demands to be seen and felt.

It is my truth,

my essence,

my untamed soul laid bare for all to witness.

- Leo M

[sldgefactory]

Morning's mourning

The glow of the day timidly seeped through the curtains of my room, signaling that a new morning had knocked on the grim calendar of my wretched life. It grew increasingly difficult to grasp a real sense of the world around me, but as long as the sun continued to peek through, I knew everything was alright.

With soft and inaudible steps, I reached for my cup of coffee. I had grown so entwined with my own solitude that I saw it as an additional companion—a precious one I felt compelled to protect at all costs. After all, it was solitude alone that embraced me, consoled me, smiled at me, and stood by me. My solitude was my muse, my only lover, someone who would never flee from my tempestuous temperament or the impossibility of my personality.

I grew up under the sigh of sadness—my other great muse. She had extended her hand to me at a young age, and as time passed, she became like a splint on a broken bone. The more I pressed her to myself, the harder it was to let her go. Now, in my adulthood, it is impossible to imagine my life without this harrowing sadness that pulls me into the deepest depths.

Naturally, happiness was never my friend. It was as distant to me as an unfriendly classmate. We observed each other from afar, superficially, ensuring we never delved too deeply into each other’s essence. Happiness rejected me early on. The lower I sank, the more mocking laughter I received from her. She humiliated me, made cruel remarks behind my back, and shared her derision with her closest ally: Love.

Love—what does this word mean? I suppose love and I never intended to cross paths. We avoided each other as much as possible, knowing little more than each other’s names—which, ultimately, amounted to nothing. I cannot conceive of recognizing or defining love. I have never known it and doubt I ever will. I am not the type to seek love, primarily because I cannot understand or feel it, and secondly because I renounced to it before even attempting to approach it.

The burning heat of the coffee in my hands pulled me back to reality. Delving into the depths of my inconsolable thoughts had become an increasingly natural habit, and it took something as sharp as a burn to return me to the present.

Perhaps the problem lies in my preference for living in my little dream world, where my rational capacity is all that matters, rather than acknowledging the sun that beats harder against my window every day. Being a person devoted to rigid logic is undoubtedly easier than making even the smallest effort to engage with the world. After all, I do not know the world. I exist within four walls that shield me from a jungle filled with people I will never understand.

My knowledge of the world lies on my dusty shelf, where books pile up, and in the small window that allows a glimpse of light in the morning and later in the afternoon. Long ago, people began to feel alien to my own nature. I knew it was wrong to speak of humanity as something external to myself. Eventually, I stopped looking at myself in the mirror because enduring the reminder of my biology—that I'm also a human—was something I simply could not face.

What grants me the title of being human? Cartesian rationality might explain it through my principle of reasoning, but what proves that I am thinking right now? How could anyone demonstrate that what I am experiencing is not simply the voice of my solitude manifesting itself through me? These questions only seem to generate more questions, leaving my initial unease unresolved. Renaissance humanism and Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man mean nothing to me. I refuse to grant humanity the repugnant anthropocentrism it so proudly flaunts. If I cannot understand what it means to call myself "human," then I suppose anything related to that phrase holds no value for me.

Let poets, playwrights, and anyone celebrated for their sensitivity by society plunge into the darkness of the underworld. The impossibility of love in Romeo and Juliet is nothing more than a meaningless cliché to me, and the theater’s drama, with its audiences clamoring for more and more, is incredibly irritating. I am a simulation of a person, filled with antipathy and reflecting the deepest disdain for others. If these trivialities bring joy to a society sick with culture, I will oppose them all the more.

After all, people seek to laugh and cry through entertainment, to quench their inner thirst with lies. They do not want to live the pain of impossible love but wish to see it on grand stages. They do not want to mock the privilege of their political elites but seek someone else to do it for them. Perhaps I do not wish to confront the world or touch it with my own hands, but I know I would loathe living my life through a stage curtain rather than through my own suffering.

So call me boring, sickly, lonely, or whatever you want to. I will not resist nor take offense. I am any negative adjective you wish to bestow upon me. I know I embody everything humanity rejects because my very existence is the result of that rejection. I am unpleasant and easy to hate; no one cares about my existence. The only companions who sleep beside me at night are Solitude, Sorrow, and Sadness. Good for me. Am I a bad person? Even better, because I would hate to fit into the established mold of what makes a person likable.

Perhaps the sun’s rays can clear the clouds. Perhaps they will help me find solace for the melancholy that burdens my soul.

[as-nowilove]

we have quickly come so far, 8/20/24

[my-7-thoughts]

I am a simple man.

I want to chug sweet cherry wine.

I cannot sit idle by, with you at my side, I find no peace in it.

I must be known

I must be known.

I crave some desperate indulgence, I want you to know me.

I need to be seen.

I need you too see me.

I do not fear perception, I crave it, with such an acute yearning that I cannot, at most times, bear.

Look at me.

Look at me.

LOOK AT ME.

Who am I, if not yours? And what would become of you, if you were mine?

The terrifying ordeal of being known, I must know it, I sit far too still.

I must be known. I must be known.

I tire of this game.

That like children, we play.

We don't know.

We don't know.

I can't hold back, I feel my spine splintering.

I must feel. I must feel.

I am an animal.

A beautiful, revolting, freak.

A simple man.

I feel, I feel, I feel it kick and thrash and wrythe within me.

I feel my inhibitions melt away.

I feel, if only for a moment.

It's always ripped away, by the guilt.

You think the world of me but you deserve better.

You think the world of me but,

I cannot be someone's moon and stars again, the weight of godhood hangs heavy from its clamps on my collarbones, it drug me down once, it'll do it again.

I cannot be responsible.

I cannot be held.

I need you to swallow me whole but your body couldn't hold me.

[patheticparadise]

1am

1am Is for the poet's mind For the artist's inspiration And the writer's creativity

It's not for the lover's moments For the movie marathons And the late night cuddling

1am Is for the people who crave more than what's given So instead they give what's craved by others

1am Is for the poets, artists, and writers For those who find only safety and comfort In the night's quiet embrace

[yourslovingly-arya]

A Letter in your Memory

Your letters penned down your love, your emotions, your past, your present, your future, your life. And in every one of them lies my presence.

The pen in your hand knows me well, my name engraved in its soul.

Every letter was not just yours but mine too. And yet why is it that you made your way past me, past the pages and my love, in silence, letting me stay beside you only in these inks.

-Arya

©01 July 2024 Arya Nanda Ajith @yourslovingly-arya

[poeticallydisgraced]

A cough, burning lungs, burning home, burning hearts.

They will make use of what flesh I may have, they will use my death for their survival.

Scavenge across the bone and fat of this decaying carcass.

Don’t let this decayed being of I hinder you: it will be the start of you.

Check the barn, the stew, the grave.

Survey said scene like a vulture in this war.

This will just allow us to become what we always were; just flesh and bones back to flesh and bones.

Find what makes me what I am,

Collect those sick little milk teeth: the sign that I will no longer grow.

Collect those dog tags and cage those rabid dogs that famished me, become your own becoming.

[davyspoetryjournal]

when will you notice

that I’ve been here all along

waiting sincerely for you

even when you never looked at me the way I looked at you

- divine

[magdamateo]

[shinowadh]

Burning

I can't take it anymore!

It hurts, it burns!

But it's too late now.

I lit the fire.

And now I can feel its flames,

Growing, blazing inside of me,

The heat scorching my lungs.

And vital air now feels like acid,

Burning down my heart.

My heart, my cruel heart.

In this ache of yours,

You shine somehow brighter than your flames.

Why do you enjoy this,

Tormenting flame?

- Shinowadh

[leospoetryendevours]

Smitten

the word smitten is

derived from the word

Smite

smʌɪt

1. strike with a firm blow

2. Defeat or conquer (a people or land)

3. (especially of disease) attack or affect severely

4. be strongly attracted to someone or something

smite is a devastating word

and smitten means struck

with a devastating affection

my heart is consumed by

a powerful and all-encompassing

affection for you, my darling

the mere thought of you

brings me to my knees

in pure and complete adoration

- Leo M