Poem: The Cycle, by Cheron Turnley

Genre: Philosophical/Life, Rhyme

 I came. I saw.

I laughed.

I cried.

I lived. I died.

I pondered the why’s.

Then I had an inkling. Cycle reprised.

 

 

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Poem: Loving with an Arrhythmia, by J. NACALABAN

Genre: Love, Romance, Relationship

 I have mastered the act of looking calm,
When my brain floods with dopamine,
And the sensors in my head transmit messages
To the other parts of my body, particularly my heart
To beat wildly and fast like an out of control drum
That it hurts so badly, but it will never show in my face.
I am the master of disguise,
That every time you’d look into my eyes, or touch my hand,
Or say my name – I’d look as neutral as I could.
Even though my chest screams in pain
Because, hey, this little acts of affection can make my heart beat faster,
So fast it forgets the rhythm that it should be beating in.
And somewhere inside my head, a loud sigh and an audible
“Here we go again,”
I can’t afford to be overjoyed and so I try not to think too much
On how beautiful you look when you laugh at that not-so-funny joke that I’ve
made,
Or how you tease me when I become childishly stubborn;
I can’t feel too excited, looking at you walk towards me
Because believe it or not, this dysfunctional heart can kill me.
But no matter how I try to suppress,
Fighting back with thoughts of dying,
That every time you lean your head on my shoulder,
Or look into my eyes, or touch my hand,
Or say my name – I’d risk skipping a beat,
If that’s what it takes for me to show how you make me happy.
If that’s what it takes for me to show how I love you.

 

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Poem: Romance, by Peter J. Frady

Genre: Rhyme, Romance

 
The Dance of Sensual Sensation.
Given to US to break daily Frustration…
A rushing of Hot Blood
As the Waters of a Flood…
Through our veins, until She
Intoxicates, Bending rational thought,
In Our Brain… All along feeling shame…
Sometimes causes Erotic Complications
To Our Worldly Self Declaration…
Is This Emotional Feeling Overrated..?
And to Our Lives make more Complicated?
Rocking, Rolling or Midnight Strolling,
Looking for another Dance,
With the Dizzy Thought of Sweet Romance…
Not the Hot Feeling in Your Pants…
Please.., Don’t hesitate for Your chance…
Taste the fruit as You Dance,
All brought to You by, Yes
Aaaaaahhhhhhh, Sweet
Romance….
 

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Poem: I Close My Eyes To See, by Anjum Wasim Dar

Genre: Philosophical

 every moment a tiptoe sounds

I close my eyes to see

as I feel the page

as words take shape and form

my thoughts encircle the song

inside the circle of the dance

is it the dancer or the dance?

Ah! only my soul knows

Only my heart can see-

I close my eyes to look

up from the book

at the love of purity

which is but a scent sweet

I reach out to touch

Nothingness ‘

Ah The presence in Nothingness’

Love of Eternity ‘

Close…

closer than the thorn is to the rose

growing from dust

glowing in the dust

dust to dust we rose

engulfed spirits in time

destined together to repose…

arms spread out to receive

like the scattered petals

of the beloved rose…..

my eyes on the book I close

the dancer moved bent and rose….

life went on, life goes….

 

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Poem: Innerpeace by Anthony Yandell

Genre: Self, Society

 
Once waiting. No longer.

Her heart had grown stronger.

Her mind was confused from those who had wronged her.

As time passed on, she felt the warm fire.

An itching and burning. Intense with desire.

Her purpose was clear. Their actions mattered little.

A sweet peaceful feeling she felt in her middle.

She dropped to her knees to accept what she’d found.

Flowers and butterflies fluttered around.

When all’s said and done, she found her new lease.

A life full of joy and true Innerpeace.
 

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Poem: My Panic Life, by Amanda Beyer

Genre: Mental Disorder

 
I am trapped in an eternity of all consuming nothingness silently praying it is a nightmare from which I will soon awake.

What is this, anyway? This life? We wake, we cry, we love, we sleep…but for what purpose? No one person has a true destiny…a true course. No one can be given an answer. We are all one single insignificant spec in this universe. Completely unnecessary. Completely confused. Completely left in the nightmare. The vaccuum of monotony. Life. For what?
 

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Poem: In the Stars, by Marcus G. Taylor

 Genre: Love, Inspirational

 We talked through the night with our hot cocoa on the coffee table
She said, can I tell you about this crazy dream I had, if I’m able
I said, by all means, share with me your awesome tale
She said, you may think I’m crazy but you’re here now so oh well
She continues, so last night I had a dream that I burst into a billion stars
My light washed over the universe, and I was healed from my scars
I felt this latitude of freedom that we always wish
But that felt natural: like air to a bird, water to a fish
Don’t you think that would be cool if it actually happened
And I said, when they commission for the phenomena’s point of origin, I will be the ship’s captain

 

 

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Poetry: The Light Shines Brightest In the Dark By Shenita Etwaroo

Genre: Rhyme, Life

 I know the tear soaked pillow all too well.
My heart hurts for your despair.
I’ve worn shoes much like yours before.
It hasn’t been that long since I’ve been there.

The feelings of helplessness, suffering and sorrow
Do nothing but drag you down.
But I’m here to tell you from experience
You can (and will) turn your life around.

Because without pain, there would be no healing.
Without darkness, we wouldn’t know the light.
Without the endless challenges and setbacks
We would never learn how to put up a fight.

Despite a road full of blocks and bumps
Our obstacles help us to grow.
It’s easy to get hung up on the ‘why me’s?’
But those answers, we’ll probably never know.

You are strong and capable.
Your spirit unbreakable and irreplaceable.
Although your past is not erasable,
May your future be optimistically faceable.

 

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Poetry: THE BALLAD OF JOHNNY RAY SIXPACK by John Ervin

Genre: Rhyme, Political

 
inspired by the John Ervin screenplay “The Look of Hate”
available for free download at https://filmfreeway.com/project/904563

This here’s the ballad of Johnny Ray Sixpack
He’s gonna teach the world the meanin’ of payback
With his Trooper Thrust Street Sweeper
And more guns to make liberal-losers weepers
He’s a warrior for The Honorable Donald J. Trump
An alt-right Pit Bull – when he barks, snowflakes jump!

But, hey, he knows how to loosen his belt
Watchin’ hardcore porn till his face melts
He likes a good beer
When he’s pumpin’ fear
In the hearts of them coastal elite
And immigrants, hell, he’s turnin’ up the heat
He’s guardin’ The Wall, to make sure they go back
Or else they’re gonna learn the meanin’ of payback!

This here’s the ballad of Johnny Ray Sixpack
 

 

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Poetry: Where Roses Grow by Zainab F. Raza

 Genre: Relationship, Love, Hope

 
The buzzing fluorescents flick on, and my door is locked.
I do feel less vulnerable, and it’s mostly because I’m alone,
I’m not with ones that are on the other side of this door,
mostly because I need to see something, and
bathroom’s are best for doing so. If that makes any sense.
Not sure how to feel about myself anymore,
but if time is capacious just for me, I’ll find that nudging
epiphany of emotional remark somewhere amongst the
convolutedly, personal judgments streaked on mirrors.
My heart is arid like a transient desert, but often when
the concreted dirt cracks, it cracks with light peering
out as liquid to fecundate these thoughts. And these thoughts
are like little children of divorce, and kids of infidelity, and abuse,
but they’re in nature so pure. Quite possibly innocent too.
They’re a reflection. I’m looking at myself in the bathroom,
my feet cold on linoleum, my blotchy skin becoming more obvious.
This is reality. This is what it’s like to be me, pimple scars
weighing heavy on the left and crows feet enhanced as
though they’re welcome to stay. Disproportionate lips,
and a ball of for a nose. I’ve got facial hair that I’m too
scared to remove, and lashes that are short of aesthetic
standards. This is me, this is what it’s like to live in the
real world as me. It’s not so much painful as it is painstaking,
while I try to get to know what it is that I’m here for.
What I want to be here for. It’s like there are two sides of me,
and they can’t stand each other anymore.
Right now, I’m here to take a shit. But if phosphoric streams
were to ever raise this camaraderie of pieced words,
then maybe my heart would be a forest. I’d have trees in evergreen,
I’d have trees in yellow, and orange, and all of autumn.
I’d have all four seasons to imitate each state of emotion
behind closed doors. But to grow life, it’ll take as long
as it should, and that will be a long time, because as of now,
I’m still bearing not sunlight, but sun-heat. It’ll take a lot of
rainy days for rainbows, where each drop pushes itself
through gray matter; where those judgements exist.
Convoluted. Where lately I’ve been understanding myself
more than what the night has to indoctrinate and day has to teach.
I’m still in the bathroom, not ready for others, because
everyday is like a comparison and I see no beauty.
Nothing there for me, but these empty, shallow lies I keep
insulting myself with. “You are pretty; you are unique.”
I mean, unique is good, and this certainly isn’t about fitting in,
or dismissing differences; it’s about lies. It’s firstly a knowing
to feel about myself. And nobody is that original, nobody.
So why the fuck am I still in the bathroom, not ready for others?
Everyday shouldn’t be a comparison, yet I see none of that beauty,
and yet I see me cheating on myself. Falling for anything other
than who I am told to be. These “groundbreaking” epiphanies
should be saving me, so where is the fucking enlightenment?
See, it’s a bad place to linger before that time we carry like bags
on our shoulders, that weight in our chests, that pressure
in the head, demises. That time we greatly speak of, stretches
to when we’re popped out like drops, and locked in like
treasure in a box, it’s one fluid move actually.
But gray is a dangerous number to dance to, gray isn’t
supposed to tell you much, gray is just supposed be a
catalyst of consistency. And darkness is to the moon and
day is to the one essence of lucidity that many, many sets
of today’s lingo claim relevancy to, all trying to teach
something as we get older. I’m not sure how I feel yet, but there’s
an emotion retorting to all of this at the pit of my belly; poking me.
Telling me I’m not as dead as I anticipated, and telling me
I’m as alive as I want to be, with veins as rivers, telling me my
heart is a pool of red. Where roses grow.
And I thought that maybe it would snow here, and each
snowflake would lay light on tired shoulders to whisper
wholesome news in my ears like music. Maybe float onto
my head like dander, or sneak for warmth in my cleavage.
I thought it would get cold like linoleum in the late a.m.
I thought I could move to the words, and sway to twirl.
I thought this place could be a tundra or a jungle or the
capacious space. I thought it could be everything,
everything, it could be the universe. But I didn’t think I’d
be mother to a garden, pregnant with an emblem
of this beauty I tried to dismiss. This is my daughter. This is real.
I look in the mirror, and I balance two of these
rare-coming thoughts or epiphanies or feelings,
emotions, ideas; it’s good to accept, and it’s also
great to bring a change to accept. It happens when you’re
in the darkest of days, somehow I may not be completely
original, but it is ok. Because I am one with the
others that are waiting in line to take a shit. But I’m still here.
Looking closer at the streaks, because they’re little handprints,
little fingerprints comprised of intricately dedicated patterns.
Lines. I see lines. I wasn’t seeing lies. They’re not black,
and definitely not white, but if I look at them carefully,
it’s like I’m seeing myself better. I’m not supposed to
be here that long, someone’s going to knock eventually,
because time will end here, and time will end soon.
My petals are like unique and pretty little kids, and
they’re innocently, purely fragrant, sitting on my shoulders,
in my head, on my chest. I can feel me again.
The way I was, the way I want to be. You may not understand,
but youth is merely a reflection of ourselves, and all of this is me,
and I am impregnably both the day and the night,
the adult and the angel, the mother and her child,
the bathroom and beyond the bathroom, everything
and a garden too, I am everyone and I am myself.
I am two, hatred and love; we’re a couple constantly
divorcing one another, cheating on one another, abusing each other.
My heart had become arid like the trascient desert,
but discomfort calls upon change like seasons,
and it’s been raining so hard, and my heart is
cracking in light of flowers. Red like my blood.
I look in the mirror, and nothing has changed.
My acne is still here along with my circles.
My bottom lip heavier than the top,
and my nose is still as doughy as it was,
but that doesn’t matter.
This is where roses grow.
 

 

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