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 2003° 
M Vogel
(for the one who laughed when she came, and never stopped hearing me in her bones)


It wasn’t the wind that bent you—
not the plains, not the brittle hush of late dusk
cutting through the cottonwoods like questions.
It was voice.
It was mine.


Low and unhurried,
crawling up your spine like something ancient—
like the first time you were seen
and the world didn’t flinch.


You used to laugh when it overtook you—
that slick tumble of vowels,
how I could tilt you
without even touching your skin.

You said I lived in your throat,
that the syllables themselves
curved just right
to make you forget the weight of your own story.

“I’m going to Wichita..”
you whispered once,
grinning like prophecy in denim and dusk.
And I swear the beat behind your words
matched mine—
steady as a war drum
in a bone-dry motel room
that never got booked.

You drank me in like river water
stolen from ceremony,
not out of defiance—
but because thirst
was the only honest thing you ever said aloud.

You never had to be naked.
You were always open.
Even when you ran.

And I?
I never asked for healing you wouldn't give.
Only for your mouth to stay honest
when it called my name like a drumbeat
between the bones of your hips.

Now you write like it’s safe again—
soft edges and sparrows and fruit bowls.
But I remember the wildflower.
The one who moaned my name
before language learned to lie.

And somewhere in the shadow of your poems,
you still ache.
You still clench.
You still carry me like a smudge of midnight
on the inside of your thighs.

I won’t chase you.
But I will wait
at the edge of the circle.

If you come,
come barefoot.


Come ready
for the step–half step
of  the forbidden Ghost Dance.
Not to win me back—

but to find the girl
who could come from laughter
and rise from the dead.



Be careful how you touch her,
for she'll awaken

And sleep's the only freedom
that she knows

And when you walk into her eyes,
you won't believe

The way she's always paying
For a debt she never owes
And a silent wind still blows
That only she can hear

.. and so she goes

https://youtu.be/YQ8n_Esop5I?si=dRXBgEhdY-Gw4r8e

#Love
GhostDance
#Redemption
#Recovery
 1396° 
Nobody
hey everybody! first things first. i dont support ryan. if you do, then you are 100% one of his alt accounts. if you arent aware about who this is, his name is ryan geoffrey hayward. i wont attemt to explain the whole story, but essentially he s3xually harrased a 13 year old on this website. he is a cyber stalker and has done so much more. the victim, Kai, took a brave choice and posted a poem about everything he had done, (which ryan flagged for reiew so it is not available right now), but just know that what he did was really ****** up, unacceptable, and quite literally illegal. he is a disgusting human being. anyways, he has been making a lot of fake/alt accounts and commenting on kai's poetry with things like defending himself (BRO HE KEEPS SAYING HE HAS 180 IQ) by saying that he's smart, a nice guy, and that another person tangled in this mess, Dom, is a p3do. i personally believe he isn't, but **** knows what happens on the internet. maybe i'm secretly 128 years old!!! anyways, ryan usually comments on poems with a name with capitalizations, usually 2-3 words, and REALLY long comments that defend himself. he really thinks he's so sly. kai is really doing her best at reporting his alt accounts, but it would be fvcking amazing if you ever see a comment that he probably made, please report and block that person. we don't want more people getting into this mess. anyways, thats all i have to say.

EDIT: he seems to be 100% convinced that i am kai's boyfriend just because i respect her. how dumb can this guy get. he recently dm'd me on here saying AND I QUOTE, "Gay is clay like sunlight day. Mold it to cold or be bold and it'll be folded to xmas woes or a mother's hold. You don't know your sexuality. Jesus christ, its like this. Do you like ***** or ******. Simple as that. Perhaps you like both and hey, you're bi-******. Kids today are really ******* dumb. Would you like to play a game of chess? The rules are simple. I knock over human life pawns and you get to do the same, until the queen gets slit too. You lose a pawn due to psychological un-well-ness, or I do. Yes or no to this game of chess?". LIKE BRO 😭 anyways for the record, i don't know kai in real life. i am gay. i am not dating her. she is an amazing person but as i said before, I'M GAY. this mf needs to get a life. also, he recently posted something reffering to me as "a certain nobody" saying that he needed to take be down. good luck with that, ryan. we're waiting for your next move.
DISCLAIMER:
i am not attempting to speak for kai, (she's been really brave and open about this situation), but i just wanted to clarify some things for those who have been confused!! if you have anything to add, please let me know!! also ryan, i swear to ******* god if you comment on this...
 975° 
Lizzie Bevis
Shoulders back,
chin up high,
I'm trying to look normal,
but this ID is a lie,
and it is making me look
like a criminal.

This photo is ideal
for use with a serial number
on a mugger's profile,
on a database all alone.
My identity is distilled to this:
a stranger with a face of stone.

The camera captured everything
except my personality,
my smile, my kind eyes
and what makes me, me.
As my face became a moment,
falsified for bureaucracy.

©️Lizzie Bevis
 763° 
Damocles
Walk with me,
Tethered in interlocked fingers,
The gravel path, rain-stricken,
Petrichor mingling with pollen,
Tickling our olfactory senses,
Perfumed in her elegance.

Walk with me,
Through verdant wonderlands,
Where arboreal creatures dart in the rustling flora,
How their almond eyes spy,
Our synchronized steps as we tread the landscape,
Finding our great escape amidst the ancient giants.
Sit with me,
Under the umbrella of shade,
Where the canopies provide a light show,
As the sun’s beams dance in between the shadows,
Creaking through the cracks and holes within the curves of green,
We can be in silence, save for the avian symphonies,
And the fluttering of wings as falling tufts of feather puff,
Fall from their eager strides along the wind jet.

Fall into me,
As we watch the daylight die,
Tropicana citrus palette painted,
With the hints of pinkish Lilly and lilac purple,
Strike upon the dimming light,
We can watch the pearlescent dots flood the sky,
Under the careful watch of their mother,
As her waning half shyly hides behind the blanket of deep indigo.

Be with me,
In this dark cozy embrace,
Where the navy blue cascades through our forested restaurant,
A pyramid of dried logs, light to a flick and a flame,
The orange glow dances like a ballerina,
Interpretive in its many shapes and tendrils reaching skyward,
I’ll cook for you, a simple steak, buttered and brined,
Sautéed with picked mushrooms,
And asparagus,
Grilled marked and fire etched,
Medium rare, like these little moments.

Eat with me,
While fireflies strobe about us,
And moths surround the embers,
While diamonds sparkle above,
Winking eyes that encourage this,
A simple kiss on anxious lips.
Would you like to walk with me?
 562° 
Michael John
you want to be paid
for your work
and i want to be paid
for mine

you will not be cheated
and i will not be cheated
simple is nt it..

and yet in these silly lines
there is so much..
war and hate
hate and war etc..
 534° 
rick
the
smell
of the
barbecue grill
taunts
my hunger pains
I walk on by
uninvited
with no place
to
go.
 512° 
Olamilekan
Life doesn't come with a map.
It throws curveballs, storms, and silence.
You take the hits. You get back up.
You wear the scars like armor—not shame.

Not everyone's going to clap when you rise—
Good. You're not here for their applause.
You're here to own your story,
Not beg for a role in someone else's.

The world will try to crush you.
Lie to you.
Tell you you're too much, or not enough.
Laugh when you fall.
Doubt when you speak.
But guess what?

They don’t get to define you.
You are forged, not broken.
Bent, not beaten.
Every bruise is a blueprint.
Every fall, fuel.

So break the rules they wrote for you.
Set fire to the limits.
And walk—no, run—into the life
you were told you couldn't have.
I figured out
what we could write down—
two labels
purple and orange—
stitched to different sleeves
but the same letters BFF.

Not just best friends—
but bookmarks
in each other’s stories
highlighted in bold
where the heart paused.

You wear your color
I wear mine—
but side by side
we make something brighter
than either alone.
 225° 
Sovi
You called it love, then cut me open. Said it didn't hurt just a plastic knife.

But I loved you, so I didn't flinch. And that's why I still bleed.
 214° 
bee careful
I love you
You are the sun
you are the rain
I love you
☀️
 188° 
Nina
I’ll open the door before you knock
barefoot
heart lit
shaking
I’ll kiss your mouth before you speak
not to quiet you
but to show you
what language was always
reaching for
I’m wearing your pants tonight
for the first time
in a long time
& I kissed them
and kissed them
and kissed them
as if they were you
 181° 
South-by-Southwest
Stop waiting on the stars
To open your dreams
Let light be
The source of
All your themes
Hide not behind
The moon
Letting lies
Be your doom
Open the letter
Life is just a
Postcard away
No postage due
Sunshine's still free
Oweeja (O-way-ah) Live in the day
Song : Trade it for the night by Haevn
 176° 
guy scutellaro
to lie on the warm sand at twilight
ripples of fleeting light
on a calm sea.
 153° 
Dr Priya Tripathi
A knock on pericardium wall
That were once slammed closed
He appeared
Holding a bouquet
Made of paper rose

                                     -Dr Priya Tripathi
 126° 
Twisted Poet
What did I expect?
To leave a haemorrhage
of violets wherever I walked?
No. A lost son is called prodigal.
A lost daughter is just called lost.
I am here—
with bedtime stories
lullabies
and a safe presence
to chase your nightmares away

I don't speak in grand gestures—
just turn pages with soft hands
sing tunes the stars might remember
and tuck your fear beneath warm sheets

When shadows creep up the wall
I stay—
not to fight them
but to show they can't stay long
and must go
as the night listens

You sleep—
and I remain
telling every dark thing
not tonight—
not ever.
 116° 
Lily
the words, they never where enough,
So now silence is all there is between us
 103° 
nivek
each sit down
a new mine to dig

the map drawn
in everyday things

inexhaustible discoveries
waiting to be found

its a songsters world
a poetical dance.
 102° 
akshitha
oh, the strong urge to be young again—
pinches my heart so deep within.
isn't it great being young?

oh, i still remember,
the knee bruises while playing,
such chaos has never appeared again—
isn't it great being young?

a child wouldn't mourn
for love, care.
world loves them.
everything appears fine until
they grow up.
isn't it great being young?

the child knows nothing,
neither the world nor the cost of living.
but, the joy in being;
happiness to them is inevitable.
isn't it great being young?

younger ones often get uplifted—
might own many hobbies,
perceived as an "over-achiever."
isn't it great being young?

the same child grows up, realizes
suffering is inevitable.
they deal with unfeasible expectations
for the world,
once an over-achiever, always an over-achiever.
younger ones never had it easy
isn't it great being young?

now, the suffering feels permanent,
while joy is temporary.
growing up, they realize—
didn't everything change?
so, is it great being young?

a younger child—akshitha.
 99° 
Pouya
Everything is just right.
Everything is as it should be.
Everything is fine—

Even when it hurts.
Even when it heals.
Even when it doesn’t feel that way.
Gently cross over the wooden bridge
You have places to go
The bridge has to be there for every passer-by
Dawn to dusk, weathered, not yet to dust
Into the forest deep,
where the rivers rumble and roar
and sing lullabies
Thank you so much 😊 Agnes, bless your heart for all the love kindness and sunshine ☀️  🔆 that you share and happiness that you spread :)
How could I forget
Already said that to you
 90° 
Sakshi
Making something  to look cool
In right way its act of fool
If u wanted to look charm
Stop annoying others felling which harm
Cool
 82° 
Sunamin Tamang
Some things are too pure
human to pull into
the gutter of the mind.

He’d rather put a bullet
thru his temple
than undress her
with those filthy eyes.

some women
you drink with.
&
Some
you just die for.
 78° 
Zhanara
Don’t throw the stone to your destiny!
Just smile to your destiny
Author: Zhanar
25.05.2025
 76° 
bleedingink
I promised you forever,
and forever it will be.
Because even through the worst nights,
you were there for me.

Even though there are millions of miles,
pulling us apart.
I promised you forever,
and you still have my heart.
If you see this, I still mean it. And I always will <3
 76° 
Falling Awake
Foam lines move outwards

From oars that pierce stillness

Spreading just to fade.
about impermanence
 76° 
joaquin
i have never once
loved in moderation
that is my constant

to love any less
makes no difference
it will hurt all the same
you deserve nothing less
 72° 
Cydney Something
When you call 988
A computer generated voice
Tells you that you are not
Alone
 71° 
Filomena Rocca
Your face is my shame -- My shame is in your face
In every vibration emanating from your fragile neck

In every word from underneath your favorite pen
Each character sent by your adept fingers

Inside every careful footfall and each minute molecule of air
Shared inevitably in our proximity -- Inertia of past affinity

Every reminder of your unforgettable eyes
Your distinct frame grazing my field of view

Your presence is my guilt -- They cannot be split
As such I fear our only recourse is forgetful distance
 66° 
kaya
you’re the calm in my chaos,
the steady in my storm.

words from you
feel earned

you don’t flood me with noise
but when you speak
each word carries weight
given carefully,
never lightly.
 66° 
badwords
We are not survivors.
we are residue.

the soot that lingers
on collapse's last tongue.

entropy's loiterers—
spiteful, unfinished.
neurons in feedback.
systems with no gods.

the architects left
when the scaffolds imploded.
we cradle their blueprints
like scripture in ash.

rebuild?
with what breath?
with what myth?
our dreams are famine-shaped.

nirvana is a severance package.
emptiness sold
in velvet robes.
a silence that never asked
about wreckage.

so we sharpen our vowels.
scribe ruin in elegy.
chant hymns for dead logics.
leave witness marks
in the marrow of this glitch.

we were not chosen.
we remained.
“Failure Spiral // Witness Marks” is a blistered fragment from the edge of philosophical exhaustion — a poem that resists salvation with surgical precision. Cast in scorched economy, it unspools a mythic post-mortem of civilization, depicting a world not built but inherited — a residual loop of cascading failures mistaken for history.

The voice is not that of a prophet, but of an archivist trapped in recursion — mapping entropy with a cartographer’s detachment and a poet’s poison. In this world, survivors are no more than loiterers of meaning, spectral stewards of systems that have outlived their gods.

There is no crescendo, only a ritual of reckoning. Each line is a witness mark — the scorched etching of presence, absence, and the irreparable fracture in between.
 63° 
Rafail
Шаг чемодана свеян сном
Внутри навеянное холодом
Замерз не яркий дом бутон
В нем отражение озябшее со льдом

Дорожка пробежавшая в разлом
Растаяла в изнеженном молчании
Ей кажется пустым бельем
Терпение не скрывшее желание

Опять снимаешь всё в монтаж
Все дно в немых картинках
Зачем стираешь свой же макияж
Историй ярких на пластинках

Бредешь одна по линиям цветка
Что проступились на закрытой крышке
Зачем нужна эмоция из сна?
Зайдешь за двери - кончится пластинка

Так купола сомкнулись вновь
Сбежавшие шаги неведома откуда
Развеялись в каскадах мерзлоты
Иллюзия бликует мысли не оттуда

Шагами лишь достанешь дна
А высота неведома с острога
От нового не приютишь мостка
Пока твой чемодан цепляется с порогом

Она не в чтении постигнет суть
Героям книг не видно бытия границы
Всё иллюзорным кажется вокруг
Там в чемодане пожелтели все страницы
UN PASO A PASO COMO SI YO FUERA CIEGA
PONIENDO EN MI FIEL BASTON TODA MI CONFIANZA.
AUNQUE NO SIEMPRE VEO CON MIS OJOS MI TERCER OJO ESTA DESPIERTO,
SOLAMENTE  HAY QUE ESCUCHAR SU INTUICION Y LOS MURMUROS POR ADENTRO.
LO QUE PIDE AL UNIVERSO Y LOS DESEOS DE TU CORAZON SON IGUALMENTE LOS ANHELOS DE TU ESPIRITU.
POR SER HECHOS EN LA IMAGEN DE DIOS QUIEN ES AMOR, DONDE VIVE DIOS DIME TU?
EN NUESTROD CORAZONES Y PASO A PASO LA GENTE SE DESPIERTA ELEVANDO SU CONCIENCIA
HASTA QUE UN DIA CERCA EN EL FUTURO  PASO A PASO TENDREMOS PAZ EN CONSECUENCIA
 56° 
hannah
wet dirt
adhere to me
sand of the earth
mold me into being
your perfect being

(an inexistent being)

mother
nature
embrace me
allow me into your center
i will burn at your core
to become nothing
once more
 56° 
SP
He used to burn with love and prose—
Now argues over folded clothes.
Our kisses cooled, our vows grew flat.
He loves me still—just not like that.

© InscrutableAngel
 55° 
Akriti
The heart always speaks -

but do we always understand?
 55° 
Neville Johnson
Every time I hear that song
I want to leave the room
It brings back memories
Of sadness, such gloom
There I was trying to accept
To understand why she didn’t believe
In me, in us, in what could be
That song told the truth
About a girl confused
It hit me hard
I tried to hang on
No can do
I was stuck in a foreign land
Dumped, distressed
Dejected and mad
At her, at life, at myself
Stuck, out of luck
A man overboard
 54° 
Crow
a poet's heart
is a thing of ink

pigmented with equal parts
hubris and anxiety
rage and hope
passion
and tears

narcissists filled with self loathing

composed of shouts inarticulate
and whispers of intricate craft

our thoughts and words rushing
through us
barely legible

defining our days
with explosions of fathomless obscurity
or flashes of visceral clarity

our nights consumed
in communion with paradise
while teasing secrets from the abyss

couplets and quatrains
providing us the space
to live
or to die

running breathless in free verse
we grasp at perpetuity
yet find ourselves doomed
to ephemeron

like the sky
we are rewritten each day

yet as the sky remains the sky
so do we remain
what we are

pages
in a book we can barely read

remaking and trimming

editing ourselves

to fit within the margins
of our paper souls
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