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πšƒπš’πš–πšŽ πšŒπš˜πš–πšŽπšœ πšŠπš—πš  πš˜πš‹πšœπšŒπšžπš›πšŽπšœ πš–πš’ πš•πš’πšπš‘πš,
πš†πš’πšπš‘ 𝚊 πš–πš’πšœπš‹πšŽπšπš˜πšπšπšŽπš— πšπšŽπšœπšŒπšŽπš—πš.
πš€πšžπšŠπš—πšπšžπš– πšπš›πšžπšπš‘πšœ πš‹πšŠπš›πšŽ πš’πš—πš πšŠπš›πš πšœπš’πšπš‘πšπšœ;
πšƒπš‘πšŽ πšœπšŒπš’πšŽπš—πšŒπšŽ 𝚘𝚏 πš–πš’ πšœπš˜πšžπš•β€™πšœ πš•πšŠπš–πšŽπš—πš.

π™΄πš—πšŽπš›πšπšŽπšπš’πšŒ πš™πšŠπš›πšπš’πšŒπš•πšŽπšœ πš πš’πšπš‘ πš•πšŠπšπšŽπš—πš πšπš˜πš›πšŒπšŽ,
π™Έπš— πš™πš›πš˜πš‹πšŠπš‹πš’πš•πš’πšœπšπš’πšŒ, πšœπš’πš•πšŽπš—πš πšπš•πš˜πš .
π™Ήπšžπšœπš 𝚊𝚜 πšπš‘πšŽ πš–πš’πš—πš πš πš˜πšžπš•πš πšπš’πš—πš πš’πšπšœ πšŒπš˜πšžπš›πšœπšŽ,
πšƒπš‘πšŽ πšπš’πšŽπš•πš 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 πš‘πšŠπš•πšπšŽπš πšπš•πš˜πš .

πš„πš—πšŒπšŽπš›πšπšŠπš’πš—πšπš’ πš’πš— πšπš‘πšŽ πš‘πšŽπšŠπš›πš 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚎,
π™³πšŽπšπšŽπš›πš–πš’πš—πšŽπš πšŽπšŸπšŽπš›πš’ πš–πšŽπšŠπšœπšžπš›πšŽπš πšœπš’πšπš—.
πšƒπš‘πšŽ πšœπšžπš™πšŽπš›πš™πš˜πšœπšŽπš 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 πšŠπš πšŠπš’πšπšŽπš,
π™Έπš— πš™πš˜πš’πšœπšŽπš πš™πš˜πšπšŽπš—πšπš’πšŠπš•, πšπš’πšŸπš’πš—πšŽ.

𝙰 πšπš›πšŠπšžπš–πšŠ πšœπšπš›πšžπšŒπš” πš πš’πšπš‘ 𝚊 πšœπšžπšπšπšŽπš— πšœπš™πšŠπš›πš”.
𝙰 πšœπš‘πš˜πšŒπš” πšπš‘πšŠπš πšœπš‘πšŠπšπšπšŽπš›πšŽπš πšπš‘πšŽ πš‹πš˜πšžπš—πšπšœ.
πšƒπš‘πšŽ 𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎 πšπšžπš—πšŒπšπš’πš˜πš—πšœ πšœπš™πš•πš’πš πš’πš— πšπš‘πšŽ πšπšŠπš›πš”,
πš†πš’πšπš‘ 𝚊  πšπš›πšŠπšŒπšπšžπš›πšŽπš πš‘πš˜πš•πš•πš˜πš πšŽπš πšœπš˜πšžπš—πš.

πšƒπš‘πšŽ πš˜πš‹πšœπšŽπš›πšŸπšŽπš›'𝚜 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎, πš˜πš—πšŒπšŽ πš›πšŽπš–πš˜πšŸπšŽπš,
π™±πš•πšŽπš—πšπšŽπš πšπš‘πšŽ 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 πš’πš—πšπš˜ πš˜πš—πšŽ.
𝙰 πš—πšŠπšπšžπš›πšŠπš• πš˜πš›πšπšŽπš› 𝚠𝚊𝚜 πšπš’πšœπšŠπš™πš™πš›πš˜πšŸπšŽπš,
π™°πšœ πšπš‘πšŽ πššπšžπšŠπš—πšπšžπš– πšπš‘πšŽπš— πšŒπšŠπš–πšŽ πšžπš—πšπš˜πš—πšŽ.

π™½πšŽπšžπš›πšŠπš• πš™πšŠπšπš‘πšœ, πš˜πš—πšŒπšŽ πšŒπš•πšŽπšŠπš› πšŠπš—πš πš‹πš›πš’πšπš‘πš,
π™±πšŽπšπšŠπš— 𝚝𝚘 πšπš πš’πšœπš 𝚊𝚝 πšπš‘πšŽ πš‹πšŽπšŠπš–πšœ.
πšƒπš‘πšŽ πš™πš›πš˜πš–πš’πšœπšŽπš 𝚍𝚊𝚒 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒 𝚝𝚘 πš—πš’πšπš‘πš,
πšƒπš‘πšŽ πšœπšŽπš•πš, πš˜πš‹πšœπšŒπšžπš›πšŽπš to πšπšŽπšŸπšŽπš› πšπš›πšŽπšŠπš–πšœ.

πš‚πšžπš‹πšŠπšπš˜πš–πš’πšŒ πš›πš’πš™πš™πš•πšŽπšœ, πš˜πš—πšŒπšŽ πš’πš— πšœπš’πš—πšŒ,
π™½πš˜πš  πšœπšŒπšŠπšπšπšŽπš›πšŽπš 𝚝𝚘𝚘 πšπšŠπš› πš’πš—πšπš˜ πšπš’πš–πšŽ.
π™Όπš’ πšπš•πšŽπšŽπšπš’πš—πš πš‘πš˜πš™πšŽ πš‹πšŽπšπšŠπš— 𝚝𝚘 πšœπš‘πš›πš’πš—πš”,
π™°πšœ πš–πš’ πš’πš—πš—πšŽπš› πšŠπš›πšπš πš˜πš›πš” πš•πš˜πšœπš πš’πšπšœ πš•πš’πš—πšŽπšœ.

πš†πš’πšπš‘πš’πš— πš–πš’ πš–πš’πš—πšπšœ πš•πš’πš–πš’πš—πšŠπš• πšœπš™πšŠπšŒπšŽ,
πš†πšŠπšœ πšŠπš—πš˜πšπš‘πšŽπš›'𝚜 πšœπš‘πšŠπšπš˜πš  𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝.
πš†πš‘πšŠπš 𝚠𝚊𝚜 πšœπšŽπšŒπšžπš›πšŽ, πš‘πšŠπš πš‹πšŽπšŽπš— πšπš’πšœπš™πš•πšŠπšŒπšŽπš,
πš†πš’πšπš‘ 𝚊 πšπš›πšŽπšŠπš– 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 πšπš’πš–πšŽ, πšžπš—πš™πšŠπšœπšœπšŽπš.

πšƒπš‘πšŽ πš–πš’πš—πš, 𝚊 πšœπšπš›πšžπšŒπšπšžπš›πšŽ πš˜πš—πšŒπšŽ πš›πšŽπšπš’πš—πšŽπš,
π™±πš›πš˜πš”πšŽ πšπš˜πš πš— πšžπš—πšπšŽπš› πšπš›πšŠπšžπš–πšŠβ€™πšœ πš πšŽπš’πšπš‘πš.
π™Έπšπšœ πš™πšŠπš›πšπš’πšŒπš•πšŽπšœ 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 πš‹e πšŠπš•πš’πšπš—πšŽπš,
π™½πš˜πš  πšπš›πš’πšπš, πš•πš˜πšœπš πš’n πšπš›πšŠπšŒπšπšžπš›πšŽπš 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎.

π™²πš˜πš—πšπšžπšœπš’πš˜πš— πš•πš’πšŸπšŽπšœ πš πš‘πšŽπš›πšŽ πšπš›πšžπšπš‘ πš‘πšŠπš πšπš πšŽπš•πš•πšŽπš.
π™Όπš’πš—πšžπšπšŽπšœ πš‘πšŠπšžπš—πš πš–y πš–πšžπšπšŽπš πšπš›πš’πšŽπš.
πšƒπš‘πšŽ πš•πšŠπš πšœ 𝚘𝚏 πš—πšŠπšπšžπš›πšŽ, πš—πš˜πš  πš˜πšŸπšŽπš› πšπš‘πš›πš˜πš πš—,
π™»πšŽπšŠπšŸπš’πš—πš πšœπš‘πšŠπš›πšπšœ 𝚘𝚏 πš–πš’ πš™πšŠπšœπš πš‹πšŽπš•πš’πšŽπšπšœ.

𝙸'πš– 𝚊 πš‚πšŽπš—πšπš’πšŽπš—πš πšŸπšŠπš™πš˜πš›; 𝚊 πšπš‘πš˜πšœπš πš’πš— πšπš•πšžπš‘,
π™½πš˜ πš•πš˜πš—πšπšŽπš› πšŠπš—πšŒπš‘πš˜πš›πšŽπš 𝚝𝚘 πš–πš’ πšŒπš˜πš›πšŽ;
πšƒπš‘πšŽ πšœπš™πšŽπšŒπšπš›πšŠπš• πš–πšŠπšπšπšŽπš› lays 𝚝𝚘 πš›πšžπšœπš,
π™»πš’πš”πšŽ πšπš‘πšŽ πš›πšŽπš–πš—πšŠπš—πšπšœ 𝚘𝚏 πš–πšŽ πšπš›πš˜πš– πš‹πšŽπšπš˜πš›πšŽ.

π™²πšžπš›πšœπšŽπš 𝚝𝚘 πšπš‘πšŽ πšŸπš˜πš’πš, 𝚝𝚘 πš›πšŽπš–πšŠπš’πš—,
π™Έπš— πšπš›πšŽπšŠπš–πšœ πšπš‘πšŠπš πš πš’πš•πš• πš—πšŽπšŸπšŽπš› 𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎.
πšƒπš‘πšŽ πšœπšπšžπš‹πš‹πš˜πš›πš— πš™πšžπš•πšœπšŽ πš’πš— πš–πš’ πšŸπšŽπš’πš—πšœ,
π™±πš›πš’πš—πšs my πšπš˜πš›πšœπšŠπš”πšŽπš— πš‘πšŽπšŠπš›πšπš‹πšŽπšŠπšπšœ.

πš†πš‘πš’ πš‘πšŠπšœ πšπš’πš–πšŽ πš˜πš‹πšœπšŒπšžπš›πšŽπš πš–πš’ πš•πš’πšπš‘πš,
πš†πš’πšπš‘ πšπš‘πš’πšœ πš–πš’πšœπš‹πšŽπšπš˜πšπšπšŽπš— πšπšŽπšœπšŒπšŽπš—πš?
πš€πšžπšŠπš—πšπšžπš– πšπš›πšžπšπš‘πšœ πšπšŠπš›πš”πšŽπš— πšœπš’πšπš‘πš,
The πšœπšŒπš’πšŽπš—πšŒπšŽ 𝚘𝚏 πš–πš’ πšœπš˜πšžπš•β€™πšœ πš•πšŠπš–πšŽπš—πš.

♦ Đerek Ξ›braxas ♦
"πšƒπš‘πšŽ πš€πšžπšŠπš—πšπšžπš– π™±πš˜πšžπš—πš π™Ώπš˜πšŽπš"
Breann Apr 27
Within a book, she keeps each hurtful deed,  
A catalog of wrongs beneath each name.  
Her wounded heart, a garden choked by weeds,  
And every page ignites an inner flame.  

She reads their sins in ink that does not fade,  
A testament to pain she cannot shake.  
The trust she gave, betrayed and left unpaid,  
Becomes a chain of bitterness to take.  

She fears the world, where lies and shadows play,  
Believing none are true, that all deceive.  

Her heavy book has left her heart in gray,  
A life too bound by hurt to yet believe.  

If she could set the pages all afire,  
Might love, not anger, rise from such a pyre?
Sonnet
Should I compare you to a spring morning
You are as harsh as the rains cold venom
Spring allows growth and warmth you cause scorning
Spring leaves when asked you outstay your welcome

Would I compare you to autumn’s sunrise
Autumn always takes its end peacefully
Somehow you take the end as a surprise
Fall lets the past fall you end forcefully  

Could I compare you to summers sunset
Summer should always brings joy and freedom
But with you summer comes with us upset
So why have I caged myself to boredom


So why do I keep comparing your fate  
For you are only the season of hate
Tucker Dobson Apr 26
Some of them say we were split at the start
Off I go stumbling, a half-cocked Cortes
After Venus who has part of my heart
"This gold is for God," my grinning mouth says

Some of these brothers were split right in two
By saw on the rawest end of the deal
Standing right next to that heavenbound crew
Of me does this old world quite worthy feel

Some of my feelings are split as of now
I want to stand, ask, and be justified
But as indignation pulses my brow
Holy teeth rake and scrape out the inside

Perhaps I'm just grinding salt into flesh
Trying by brute force to make the two mesh
Written in March 2024
No sundial’s gnomon could cut this air beforeβ€”  
the dial long-slept, moonlight glows, lines our palms,
its grip of frost, its calculus we tore,
until our spines aligned, unguardedβ€”warm.

The gnomon’s scorn now bends to our skin’s dawnβ€”
its frost-etched law undone by breath’s slow rise.
Our shadows fuse as Brahms unwinds the calm,
rewriting fate in tongues that flesh denies.  

The gnomon’s edge, once steeped in solar lies,
now bends to taste the salt along our throats,
its calculus of light a husk, takes flightβ€”
a butterfly that drinks what dawns promote.

Let ruins chant the creed of numbered skiesβ€”
our pulse, a clock that dares to harmonize.
The power of love to change fate.
You unscrew the jar; Orion’s climactic sigh spillsβ€”  
A cello’s low A humsβ€”our triad, C and Eβ€”the night skies.  
Your thumb caresses pulse down my throat, andante, it drills  
through mythβ€”not his hunt, but the damp heat between our thighs.  

We’ve plucked Lyra’s rusted chords, restrung her spine  
to thrum with your breath, not some dead muse’s cords.  
Stars crack like old records; we skip, we refineβ€”  
our bed, a cradle for light, shed our sheer white peignoirs.  

You fear the jars dim? Let me mouth the black core  
of Cassiopeiaβ€”choke her brittle groan,  
then laugh as you archβ€”my crescendo, your scoreβ€”  
each note a plum’s burst where her language had flown.  

Your teeth score my shoulder. The dark soars, unconfinedβ€”
We swallow the arias. Let the void choke on mine.
Monkey Writes Apr 18
My son’s eyes have an innocent look.
Chocolate is the color of his lips.
Clothes once clean, are smeared with ****,
Or spotted by an ice cream cone that drips.

I’ve seen damage done both day and night,
Of a magnitude you’d never believe,
Done by my son while out of sight.
Destruction Patton could never achieve.

I love to hear him sleep, yet I know well
When he is awake, there will be sound.
He’ll make β€˜music’ with horn, drum, or bell.
My son, when he plays, you know he’s around.

And yet, by heaven, I love to be with him.
Even if snot is crusted on his chin.
An homage to 'My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun'
Ren Apr 17
He is to me what kings are to their knight,
Who grants me trials that shape and make me strong.
He is the dawn that banishes the night,
Who gives me truth when all the world feels wrong.

He is a compass when I lose my way,
A steady hand when storms begin to rise.
His words are stars that help me not to stray,
A spark of fire beneath the cloudy skies.

He is to me the book the wise revere,
Each page a path to knowledge deep and wide.
He speaks, and thoughts long buried reappear,
A tide of wonder I no more can hide.

In every lesson, he bestows me graceβ€”
A guide, a torch, the sun upon my face.
just what I feel towards my favorite teacher
Rebecca Apr 14
Hello my dearest boy,
do you remember when we were children,
when we played on the meadows
and our knees would get *****
all over the ground?

Do you remember when I used to go to your house
and you would change your clothes in the daylight
and I would look at you in wonderment
and thought that you were a God?

Do you remember when we used to go to church
and as the priest gave you communion
I would look at your lips
taking the host
and I thought how God had blessed you
how much God loved you
and how much I had wanted to be in God's love
being with you
kissing your cheeks
your eyes
your hands
but never your lips
because those were sacred
pure
and I was not
and I did not want to put you in your mouth
the taste of sin.
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