#wnq-writers

[wnq-writers]

They called me a dreamer like it was a bad thing, until my dreams started to come true.

Ekta Somera

[fy-perspectives]

“Because here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship—be it JC or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles—is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.”

David Foster Wallace, This Is Water: Some Thoughts, Delivered on a Significant Occasion, about Living a Compassionate Life

[almaaspoetry]

In English we say, "I miss you," but in poetry we say, "Your absence is a hollow ache, a silent echo that reverberates through my days and nights."

I walk through the spaces we once shared, and the world seems dimmer, the colors muted. The laughter that once filled the air is now a distant memory, a ghostly whisper that lingers at the edge of my consciousness. The scent of your presence still haunts the rooms, a lingering trace that clings to the corners, refusing to be forgotten.

The days stretch long and empty, each moment a reminder of your absence. The sun rises and sets, casting long shadows that stretch across the floor, mimicking the void within me. The stars at night seem dimmer, their light no longer enough to chase away the darkness that has settled in my heart.

I find myself searching for you in the little things: in the way the wind rustles the leaves, in the quiet moments of dawn, in the fleeting smiles of strangers. Each reminder a bittersweet pang, a reminder of what was and what is no longer.

Your absence is a melody that plays softly in the background of my life, a tune that I cannot escape. It is the silence that follows a symphony, the quiet that lingers after the music has stopped. It is a weight that I carry with me, a part of me that is missing, a piece of my soul that is incomplete.

In poetry, I say, "You are the unspoken verse, the missing line in my song, the empty space in my heart that only you can fill."

[k-writesometimes]

I want to be the coarse grain of sand on the beach that sticks to the soles of your feet. The tiny, stubborn presence that, even if you wash them, some still remain on the sides of your legs, or in the crevices of the clothes you wear when you lie down. I want to be that tiny presence you cannot ignore, a small inconvenience that always brings a smile to your face. Because in finding a trace of me, you’ll remember that, on that summer day, you were happy.

[soulfulreverie]

bittersweet is the place where we rest our sore feet after dancing all night with a bottle of serotonin, oxytocin, endorphins, dopamine risky and raw on your cousin’s kitchen floor, a place where your hands find its way to the arch of my back,  with you whispering, “I can’t breathe”, only for me to catch you smiling. bittersweet is how  you tell me you admire everything about me in between inhales and exhales, sounding like a drunk person eager to have the next sip. bittersweet is when that bottle is empty and all that’s left of the bottles are wines and whiskeys and more nightcaps to sip out, what we both do not want to take away– like the night and the memories combined and the love that grew bitter and sour like the colors of wine. bittersweet is when you love me and i love you and we still couldn’t be together.

[savvysomethingxo]

I want the emptiness to ache

When I can no longer feel,

The wounds to stop bleeding,

But never disappear.

I just want to feel the pain of being alive,

So I won’t still wonder,

How it feels to die.

[inmyownwordz]

You shuffled me around your board until you ran out of moves. Just a pawn in your game, a victim to your ruse. You filled me up with love, empty promises mean nothing. Told me forever, like you believed we’d be something. Those wounded and weak, often search for a place of relief. Came in and stole my heart like a cold calculated thief. The sorrow is in knowing all my intentions were pure. The pain is in knowing for you, I was merely a cure. A place of peace for you to take a moment to pause. Refuge for you to rest and dress your wounds in gauze. But I was never a place where you planned to stay. The time was long overdue for you to walk away.

I wanted to be more than “your peace” | K.A.M ( @inmyownwordz ) | All Rights Reserved 2023 ©️

[yusha-rizvi12]

" I have seen many falls, when will I see my first snowfall? "

Yusha Rizvi

[fairywithapen]

my newly found love, Jane

[poetryandpanties]

Temptations

I don’t want your flowers

if they come with conditions

I don’t need a rough draft

With all these revisions.

For, I never looked for love

In all the wrong places

That’s like —-

inviting the devil into spaces

that are sacred.

Those snake eyes

And warm smile

Always has me smitten.

But, it’s the audacity for my heart

to question my intuition.

Yet, if I was submissive

Would you get on one knee?

And if I said no, would you know how to leave?

But, I never looked for love

In all the wrong places

That’s like —-

inviting the devil to spaces

that are sacred.

[starspouredoutintohearts]

Sometimes when pain gets too frequent, stays too long, it's not pain anymore. It's just the news.

What should I do now? Should I write poetry? Should I edit my writing more so that people will read my pain if it's shorter? If I listen to music and write essays and send emails and go for a run and paint and switch off the lights and close the curtains and play music really loud will everything become okay? Will it reverse time and undo what happened? How much can I talk about this? Where should I draw the line? What should I do? Tell me what I should do.

Today I saw a video where a British surgeon held back his tears when he was talking about Gazan children's deaths. I don't know why, but it awoke something in me. It also put something in me to sleep. I've boycotted everything I know at this point I'm wishing the cats get fucking adopted just so that I can donate some money to somewhere where do I even pick, Gaza? Sudan? One of the 6 other genocides going on right now? How do you choose? Should I recover from my heartbreak and my assault, should I mourn over the death of my parts or should I mourn over the death of these children and the parts of these surgeons that will never revive? Should I focus on the rescue I have right now or the assignment I'm supposed to submit tomorrow? Should I put my energy into worrying which dating app well-intending person will be my next assaulter or should I worry about how I'm going to afford next week's cat food if I take this cat for a chest x-ray today? Should I tell my story to every single person I meet so that they *want* to cut me slack even if they end up not? So that I can explain my behaviour? "Draw a diagram of your sorrow and grief so we can approve your 2-day leave. No, not like that. That's too graphic. People don't like knowing that stuff." So that they look at me with eyes of pity that have a 48-hour timer of sympathy where our interactions are just long enough to feel like they did something good but not long enough to help ease my pain?

This time, am I allowed to just be sad and useless? Am I allowed to lean on the shoulder of loved ones without them asking me to tell them what they should say to support me? Or should I be turning my pain into art? Can I find a single loved one who will not ask me to carry the weight of their vicarious pain?

I'm not sure what to do now. I'm not sure if anger is the right word for what I'm feeling or if helplessness and grief are vast enough to describe what I'm feeling. I'm tired of feeling. I can never feel one thing, it's always 8 things at once, at least. And then I'm told I'm too much. Too much too much too much. How can such a small body hold so much? The truth is, it doesnt. Some of it is outside of me. I overflow. I run over. I am a vessel, full and hollow at the same time. If you think I'm too much, how do you think I feel every day? I wouldn't wish being me upon my worst enemy.

[vent-it-out]

If anyone needs to share anything, I'm here.

I remember the time when my life was not going as I wanted it to go, and it was during that time I found peace and solace by sharing my feelings with a stranger.

So if you want to share or vent, I'm here :)

[myxoxo87]

The truth is, were all going through something...

Our approach to challenges distinguishes us from those who lack resilience.

[almaaspoetry]

Softened memory.

Like edges of a well worn page in a beloved book,

I stare into the sky in echoes of a whispered look.

Like secrets of a familiar place,

In the embrace of time’s gentle grace.

Beneath the stars, where memories dance and sway,

Each twinkle a tale of a bygone day.

In the quiet night, the past finds its embrace,

Softened by time, yet leaving its trace.

[k-writesometimes]

Always adored, never loved

always the flower plucked, not watered

always looked at, never touched,

I am an island

wild, flourishing, and alone.

[savvysomethingxo]

I was heartbroken, and that’s okay.

But, sometimes you need to give yourself

Permission to feel the pain.