fabiochiu/medium-articles huggingface dataset:
Always There, Too Often Unnoticed
By: Deborah Mcnamara
Tags: Poetry, Inspiration, Life Lessons, Poetry Sunday, Love

Always There, Too Often Unnoticed

Photo: David Mark from Pixabay

Love meanders in and through

like slow trickle of rain

through an opening.

Once you notice it,

always there

but too often the

unsynthesized background,

ignored.

When we don’t practice truly seeing

(deeply)

this life exchange

we miss an intimacy with

love’s surprising roots.

The work:

See this love at play

in your days.

Live in ways

that open up possibility of creative wanderings,

conjuring the elements that give life.

Just like making bread:

when ingredients are missing, it falls flat.

What do you need each day for a delicious existence?

Make space for it.

Trust this wild love.

Follow each trickle to the end.

✾
Your Memory
By: Andrea Pruett
Tags: Poetry, Poetry Sunday, Grief, Life, Mental Health

Your Memory

Photo by Raychan on Unsplash

Each whispered thought,

each troubled look,

my life is written in your book.

Every self-discovery,

learned through change and tragedy,

there you walked right next to me.

My many joys that time forgot

are cherished in your tender thoughts.

In moments when I’m overwhelmed,

a night so dark I cannot see,

it is your words that comfort me,

your hand in mine that guides me.

And so I do believe

that, should I fall asleep,

there is no safer place to be

then in your loving memory.
In My House, A Conspiracy
By: Merabaid Kaur
Tags: Anxiety, Relationships, Family, Poetry Sunday, Mental Health

Photo by Scott Webb on Unsplash

In my house, a conspiracy brewing

in an already burnt and tinged pan

the children do the cooking

their backs turn, shooting glances that stop

at my door…lit by dampened light just whispered past curtains

the path of my chaos littered long before my profile manifests

from the darkened corner. I’m already entombed

waiting for masculine hands to take

my words, strangle them, watch them bleed free of air

wrinkle them ’til they can’t straighten out again

already stunned blinkless by the beauty of ultra-violet iris sprays

bringing colour to the wood-grain overcasting my vision

’til it bursts with the faded cyan of melting glaciers

I hurry, tighten my face, catch the warming waters

with this buoyant body — eyes reflecting its sinking end.
This Too Shall Pass
By: Paroma Sen
Tags: Time, Poetry, Poetry Sunday, Life, Senses

This Too Shall Pass

Image by PatrizioYoga from Pixabay

That beautiful sunset,

the one you travelled miles to get to in time.

It shall pass.

But will also pass,

that huge ugly billboard on the traffic intersection

you drive by every day. The one with the 1–800 number?

It will pass.

That gorgeous scent of musk,

the one fragrance you searched and searched for?

And then stumbled upon suddenly in joy.

It will pass, my friend.

But so also will pass the stench of that garbage dump

that you curse during your morning run every day.

Yes, it will pass. I guarantee.

The taste of that wonderful dessert your mom makes.

The one you starved yourself two weeks for,

so you could eat without guilt?

The taste will pass.

And so will pass the taste of that god-awful herbal tea

that you could never get used to.

It will pass too.

The sweet sound of your favorite music, the somnolent sitar,

played by your favorite ustad, the one with the magic fingers.

Sorry to tell you, it will pass.

And whew, so will pass that screeching noise of the

jackhammer next door.

Trust me, no need to kill your neighbor yet.

It will pass.

The feel of that lovely new down blanket

you just bought.

Come morning, and that feel will pass.

Trust me, it will.

But so will the feel of those wicked dentist tools

reverberating through your skull.

It will pass too.

And so, it goes.

The good, it will pass. The bad, it will pass too.

That’s the only thing we can be sure of.
Listening to Your Heart
By: Ana-Maria Schweitzer
Tags: Relationships, Poetry Sunday, Acceptance, Life, Self

Listening to Your Heart

Photo by Naitian（Tony） Wang on Unsplash

Happiness.

They ask me what is happiness?

And, fool me, I looked into books

to find the answer.

Happiness.

I ask myself what is happiness?

And the muscle in my ribcage

slowly murmurs:

happiness is movement,

slow flow, fast flow,

intense beat, slow contraction,

arching your fingers,

rotating your head,

balancing your hips,

stepping, pressing,

extending and folding,

happiness is movement,

cells moving inside bodies,

effervescent cells with complicated laws,

laws of movement,

of in and out,

of to and fro,

of up and down.

I guess this is what they meant

by listening to your heart.
Half Past Tomorrow
By: Connie Song
Tags: Relationships, Poetry Sunday, Love, Heartache, Self

The frozen mounds left behind

from yesterday’s snowfall,

are not warm love letters

reminding me of when days were hot,

fireflies lit the steamy night,

and your embrace melted my soul.

The crystal covered lawn and trees

reflect the beauty

and mingling of ice and cold,

but leave me feeling thawed and incomplete.

Is it wrong to miss emptied yesterdays,

that woke me, broke me, choked me,

and will I ever be strong enough

to see half past tomorrow?
The First Two Hours
By: Javon Goard
Tags: Poetry, Introspection, Poetry Sunday, Love, Morning

Photo by Jp Valery on Unsplash

It is 6 a.m.

Eyes are still closed shut,

But the mind is still active.

The mind is getting ready

For the onslaught

Of what it means to be…

Me.

A person who loves to love,

But only if it is comfortable

And under my rules.

I

Am a person who wants that kind

Of love that pulls at the heart

Whenever that special someone

Is gone. Even if they are simply at work.

The eyes remain shut, but flicker.

Flicker with the movement of a dying

Light bulb. This mind also needs to be

Replaced.

This mind views upper mobility

As benevolence. What good is more

Money if I cannot pay attention to my

Own thoughts?

My own feelings.

The mind is active and the body jitters

With eyes remaining shut.

The body quakes for each flashing memory

Of sewage that flowed out my mouth.

I am not a bad guy, simply misguided.

Simply focused on the days to profit more

In my career because let’s face it.

I do not have the courage to share my life.

Shall I risk disappointing another?

I

Am a person whose body jitters, eyes still closed

with an active mind.

It is 7 a.m.

I’m crying.

I sob because I don’t want to do this,

Be this, reside in this vessel, in this manner.

I cry because I try.

I try because I want confidence.

I want confidence because I want love.

I want love because I need love.

I need love because…

Because…

Because it is everything and more.

I am more.

My love should not need external validation,

But I struggle. I struggle in believing I am

Worth fighting for.

I am not a bad guy, simply need therapy.

Simply need harmony.

Simply need balance.

Simply need to love myself.

It is 8 a.m.

The body no longer shaking.

The eyes wide open.

The mind calm.

I cast away these thoughts of hate

and self-loathing.

I am still here.

I am still alive.

I can still grow.

I will still fight.

I can still love.
It’s Almost Christmas Again
By: Gregory D. Welch
Tags: Poetry, Christmas, Poetry Sunday, Poem, Life

It’s almost Christmas again

almost the unwrapping of a brand new year

isn’t it amazing what a year can change?

it’s wild what power there is in the ticking of time

Here we are again, the threat of snow

the ever-approaching New Year’s resolutions

the speedy falling away of days

the momentum of time building like an avalanche

All our days are counting down

our precious moments falling away

eternity with its gaining speed

piling up, pushing everything to change

Our days are slippery things

isn’t it amazing what a year can change?

as our days pile up, slip away

it’s almost Christmas again
Melting
By: Erika Burkhalter
Tags: Poetry, Photography, Poetry Sunday, Travel, Love

Melting

With the hiss of a scoop of tangerine sherbet melting

on a hot summer sidewalk, the sun dissolved into

the sea, stirring up a breezy breath of dusk, a last exhale

before she succumbed to night.

And you and I stood, waves lapping at our knees,

watching the last rites of the day.

Buttered caramel splashed across the sky, then pooled

with the tangerine into a point of color, a single point

composed of many flavors, a singularity of brightness

whose true color, or nature, could probably never

really be named.

You looked at me. And, together, we breathed.

This moment would never come again.

And it had never been before.

The arms of darkness reached over our heads.

Her cloak spread in fluttering waves,

ushering in the heavens, which began to light

with tiny diamond fires.

A warm wave caressed our thighs. You sighed.

And the moment was done. That pivotal moment

between dark and light, between hot breath

and the death of the day, between the soft echo

of waking hours, and the slight vacuum of night.

And below the whisper of the melting tangerine,

and the ripple of caramel, and the kiss of dark

licorice, it seemed that you

and I could taste the

essence of the divine.
What Surges Between Us
By: Kelly Neuer
Tags: Relationships, Energy, Poetry Sunday, Love, Metaphysics

What Surges Between Us

Photo by Jude Beck on Unsplash

Have you heard of the unseen string woven throughout the world?

It connects all people through space and time.

It’s invisible and yet you can feel it when it pulls you.

It tugs when you meet someone new.

Attraction.

It stings when you fall into an aching memory.

The energy between things.

The question

What do you do when something invisible grabs you and connects you to another — when you or the other are already tied to someone else?

The energy between two people.

Something powerful.

Something invisible.

Forbidden.

A desired, yet unfulfilled affair.
A Pinky Promise
By: Aaron Quist
Tags: Spirituality, Poetry Sunday, Love, Samsara, Soulmates

A Pinky Promise

Photo by sarandy westfall on Unsplash

To let go

of that memory

and let us both

surpass every idea

we once forced

upon it.

To widen

the distance we keep

deceiving ourselves with,

like a game, a lesson,

a self realized again

and again.

Just this once,

let’s pretend

I don’t know you

and

you don’t know me.

But

for how long

can I deny

having always heard

your thoughts

trickle throughout

time and space?

For how long

can I ignore

your whisper,

that beacon

guiding me back

to myself?

How long

can I pretend

that I don’t still feel

the truth?

That I feel you waiting

because I wait.

That I feel you seeking,

because I seek.

That I’m in your dream

because it’s my dream.

That I know you

because I know me.

That this time

must be

the first time,

our last time,

no time at all.

That again

I would promise —

because

like the strands

of god’s DNA,

these pinkies

entwined

all those lives,

all those deaths,

ago.
A Hunger To Touch
By: Suntonu Bhadra
Tags: Poetry, Family, Touch, Poetry Sunday, Love

a year, comprising turbulences and challenges

synced to our life

questioning the embedded notions, we carry forward

and obstacles to be together, without touch

near and dear ones digitally boarded journey of 300+ days

face masks, two-meter distances

voices from far

heartfelt love from distances to feel

yet, my senses urge

the hunger to touch

to feel the warmth of love

skins to embrace

emotions running on the heartbeats to sense

a warm hug

a holiday with giggles and surrounded sparks

Holiday motions to remain absent

yet the spirit staying strong,

as we wait till the darkness pass by

when the distance becomes void

and the senses to touch

fulfills its fill, at-last.

Suntonu Bhadra • December, 2020
After Time
By: Crystal Jackson
Tags: Poetry, Relationships, Poetry Sunday, Love, Poetry On Medium

After Time

Photo by Arun Regi Alex on Unsplash

I leave you here to visit our past

To sun myself in love-drenched days

I knew could never last

I hold them as I fall asleep

The nights I knew you wanted me

The days of falling into a love

I was never going to get to keep

I wonder if you ever see us then

Wrapped up in bliss, a dreamy

Kiss, a time we never foresaw this

I long to go and visit us, again

To nights with honey from your lips

And Time we ruled by our desire

Hands gripping hair and fevered hips

Nights stretched together by the fire

Or coffee mornings, fingers intertwined

Then untangling to type another line

When we were building something more

And I held onto words like us and mine

Our love before this after time.
I Want To See You
By: Kensho Keith
Tags: Poetry, Poetry Sunday, Love, Life, Romance

I Want To See You

Photo by Marten Newhall on Unsplash

Tell me about your life.

Tell me about the love you may have lost.

How you made it to today

and at what cost?

I want to see all parts of you.

But tell me,

what to do.

Tell me.

How can I break through

these walls

you’ve placed on top of you.

I don’t know,

what to do.

I promise,

I don’t have a clue.

Didn’t you know

I’ve got walls too?

I try to put them down,

but I’m scared of you.

Scared of me…

and what I’ll do.

If I let myself believe in you.
I believe
By: Georgia Lewitt
Tags: Writing, Poetry, Belief, Poetry Sunday, Love

I believe in life, in its birth, continuous, present, growing from one tiny bud into a forest.

I believe in spring, the coming of life again and again in an infinite loop, fading off only to bloom forever more magnificent.

I believe in laughter as the megaphone for loving life and the presence we’ve been given. I believe in its exultation, the escalation of smiles and humorous thoughts.

I believe in kindness, the way it spreads from cell to cell, in the sense that once received it’s only a matter of time until it’s being given forward, again and again. I believe we are all worthy of kindness, so I welcome the opportunities I’m given to spread it along.

I believe in love, as the source of all that makes us human, the well of feelings to be taken, given, received, thrown away… the web of everything determining our lives the way we make them matter.
A Note for You
By: Vinitha Dileep
Tags: Writers Life, Gratitude, Poetry, Poetry Sunday, Thank You

It wasn’t easy to share with the world what I write.

Because what I write mainly is just unfiltered thoughts that zoom past me in a haste.

I am often surprised when my paper shines in black ink with words that were just random thoughts buzzing in my head.

Some days I wake up with a void in my heart that creates a vortex pulling me into a bottomless pit of nothingness,

where I feel lonely and empty,

where I question my existence.

Don’t I write prose and poetry?

Isn’t that wonderful?

After all, not everyone writes!

Well, even I face a scarcity of words at times!

True, you scrawl a few words on the paper,

rearrange them into sentences,

and call yourself a writer,

and, you admitted that even you face a lack of words often!

Then how can you call yourself a writer!

— mocks my self-doubt mercilessly

Emptiness frosts my mind

with images crystallized in my fears and insecurities.

Beaten by self-doubt, I go back to read those scribbles which I thought was my poetry

I see these messages that the poems bear

— messages that say how wonderful it was to read those lines that I scribbled in a spur.

Some say that the verses resonated with them,

Some say that I captured and put words to their thoughts,

Their kind messages poured so much love into my feeble attempts,

I am amazed at the kind words,

These words of generosity fill my heart with inexplicable gratitude,

I may not be the best at writing poetry,

I may not be the best writer yet,

But I am humbled by the support showered on me.

I can’t stop writing now and give the creepy self-doubt the satisfaction that I listened to its taunt which is aimed only to pull me down.

But I will keep writing for the ones who read and acknowledge my creations.

I will let my pen dance to my thoughts for the ones who pause and leave a note of appreciation.

That’s the greatest reward I cherish as a writer — the feedback from a genuine reader.

So, thank you, to all of you who take the time to read and listen,

and leave a word for me to read in return.

Your presence means so much to me,

your feedback matters to me,

this is a mere attempt to pen my thoughts

to show my gratitude to you,

for your kindness fills this lost soul

with an abundance of hope and gratitude.
The Villagers to The Girl Who Cried Wolf
By: Lori Lamothe
Tags: Fairy Tale, Poetry, Fiction, Poetry Sunday, Poetry On Medium

The Villagers to The Girl Who Cried Wolf

Photo by Hert Niks on Unsplash

Forget the killer crashing the party

in sheep’s clothing. Truth is, we knew

all along what we were dealing with.

Everybody loves a wolf. The bad boy grin,

the Roman snout, the tendency

to ravage whatever lies in its path . . .

It was all so tempting, the idea

that we could stand by and watch

somebody else do the dark work

of destruction — open a door

and see risk fan out across boredom,

its flames consuming everything

in a rage of fireworks.



You weren’t like that — tried twice

to warn us about the broken,

about women who hid behind curtains

and wrote sonnets to ash,

about girls who spent their days

practicing bird calls to empty branches.

But all those years it wasn’t the wolf we hunted.

You were the one we bound to the story

and banished into forest. Truth is

you never had a chance.

You couldn’t describe danger in a way

we could understand.

Sure, you told us its height and weight,

drew countless portraits that captured

the texture of its fur

the color of its eyes

but you weren’t adequately convincing.

Even so, we couldn’t help but notice —

how the mirrors shone with fiery light

when any of us was passing.
A Woman Dances
By: Gb Rogut
Tags: Poetry, Poetry Sunday, Women, Poem, Life

A woman sees herself in the mirror of truth,

no lies and no filters,

no opinions and no verdicts

She stares at her skin,

wrinkles born out of joy,

spots kissed by the sun,

the marks life chose to leave behind

She looks at the fights she has won,

remembers what she lost,

and pictures the future

that belongs to her

She has loved with all her might,

she has cried, heart in her hand,

she has laughed, alone and in someone’s arms

When music fills out the room,

she never stands still,

she always dances to the end,

she enjoys the magic and makes it stay

She kicks her shoes off and waltzes into the light,

she knows night will soon take it all away,

so it is best to pour out our souls

as the melody of life still floats in the air.
Hearth
By: Anna Rozwadowska
Tags: Poetry, Poetry Sunday, Love, Humanity, Life

It is the heart matter that shatters the earth’s movement,

probing consistency with unequivocal proclivity,

only there shall one obtain sacred answers, sacred heart,

often, time allotted to the fascination of mankind revolves, just here.

Here, the ‘often’ becomes a question of betterment,

shine often the foreign light that wonders beyond enlightenment,

clues of the sacred kind, tormenting the affluent mind,

foreign essentials equivocally take the effective plan into the stage of design.
Mourning Dove
By: Samantha Lazar
Tags: Poetry, Relationships, Healing, Poetry Sunday, Broken Heart

Mourning Dove

Photo by Roman Kraft on Unsplash

Mourning Dove,

I want to hold your heart

like I have held my own

I love you broken

as I love you whole

I wish you could see

the strength from

the other side

I too have known pain

and sat in deep

disappointment

mostly of myself

for the repeating patterns

for that is what patterns do

they repeat

I have wallowed

too long in lust

and stayed too long

in the fantasy of love

wishing for months

not to be cheated on

not to be lied to

not to be someone’s second

I have drunk what

I thought

wasn’t poison

I have ended up at

the emergency room

after trying to escape

my apartment

I have climbed mountains

with someone who looked

out over a different view

I have slipped away from

two people who refused

to be fathers

I have ridden my bike

home in the frozen February

after being told he

would just end his life

to avoid the pain

these broken hearts

are part of my story

Mourning Dove,

do not cry for me

these wounds are healed

like your wounds will heal

I want to hold your

broken heart like I wished

my own to be held

I want to order up some

magic balm you can

rub into the parts of you

most raw

but time indeed does heal

and you will move past

this pain

it is not easy to be alone

but you will begin to

recognize all of the things

you always knew were

wrong for you

and breaking the patterns

of trauma will be hard

but you are strong enough

you have courage

to make room for all of this —

pain and all
Waste of heartspace
By: Amy Knight
Tags: Metaphor, Poetry, Relationships, Poetry Sunday, Love

We sit in a jar at the back of my shelf;

kept sealed for years,

saved for “one day.”

and I know that I never will

prize off the lid —

I can’t open it,

nor

can I throw it away.

I preserve this gift — our love, closed up —

and I re-read the label

(the handwriting is mine).

I know hope will be wasted,

but it’s still in date.

It’s impossible,

but

there is still time.

You are on her side, in her hemisphere,

where you live by day

and you love by night.

But I wonder about your jar of Us.

Is the lid still stuck?

Still

screwed on tight..?
Forgive Me for Loving You
By: Simran Kankas
Tags: Poetry, Relationships, Couples, Poetry Sunday, Love

Forgive Me for Loving You

Photo by Valery Sysoev on Unsplash

I try hard not to say a word

Every time I see you get hurt

But my heart threatens to leave me

If I sit still and don’t speak

What needs to be heard

My mind knows its promise

Of not interfering in your life

My heart only remembers

The moments we spent together

It was the only time it felt alive

I am sitting on the porch

Looking at the moon

Seeing your face in it

I am unable to bring myself

To not help you when you need it

I knew what you meant

When you said I should leave you

Well forgive me my love

It is not in my hands anymore

My heart has turned into rebellion

It is coming to your rescue

Forgive me for loving you
Asclepius
Tags: Poetry, Relationships, Poetry Sunday, Love, Life

Photo by William Farlow on Unsplash

I don’t remember the moment I showed you my sad river

It flowed out of me and in through you

But you still wanted the journey

Despite its hidden creatures and savage undertow

So I held your hand and took you where my wild things grow

Something must have happened

There in the slow

Salvation of twilight

I hardly know

Things I had left

To deal with their own hollowness

And trapped violence

And futile fury

Melted in the sunlight

So peaceful they lay

There buried away

You take one look at my river

And with alchemical hands

Lift the anvil upon my back

“We’re building a house,” you say

And I sit and wonder how I’d wrapped up my heart

Given it to the raging river

Renounced the sublime

And thought myself fine

Because looking at you now

With that brilliant little gleam

Shooting up from your heart to your eyes

Conspiring with the sunbeam

That finds its home in your hair

I realize you were the medicine

I reached out for

With blind, fumbling hands

The whispered prayers to the sea

At the dead of night

All that useless dreaming

With all my might

Because still you take my feeble heart

Into your alchemical hands

And tell it to stop the fight

Still you remind it that dreams are not useless

And sad rivers are still rivers

And there’s salvation in twilight

And molten memories;

That the sublime still breathes

Its heavy breath

Into the space between two souls

That remember how to fly

Two souls such as

You and I.

Incantations by Shirin © 2020
Eyes of Gratitude
By: Galit Birk
Tags: Self-awareness, Haiku, Gratitude, Self Improvement, Poetry Sunday

Eyes of Gratitude

Photo by Jackson David on Unsplash

I look around and

Then I see all the beauty

That’s here, around me.

I have tapped into

A new reality; my

Own with eyes open.

Eyes of gratitude

Change my being here and now

Focus on what is.

What is not remains

Taking a back seat as what

Is moves me forward.

Gratitude grounds me

It lights up my dark spaces

Breathes life when I wilt.
Boundaries
By: Toni Crowe
Tags: Poetry, Marriage, Poetry Sunday, Love Letters, Jealousy

Boundaries

Image by Holger Schué from Pixabay

We argue viciously about her

She needs help

She is my friend

Her fridge is broken

Her tire needs changing

Kindness being invoked

I see the deception

Treachery the face mask

Counting on my pity for a parent alone

No bitch

I’ll agree to help

But

Not my husband
Be Patient With Yourself — You’re Growing
By: Megan Minutillo
Tags: Self-awareness, Growth, Poetry, Poetry Sunday, Encouragement

Be Patient With Yourself — You’re Growing

Photo by Jason Blackeye on Unsplash

Be patient with yourself — this life is a process.

Be patient with yourself when you feel lost, and take comfort in knowing that you are not alone in that feeling — it can visit everyone’s doorstep at one point in their lives. Sometimes it comes knocking more than once, too. Remember that there isn’t a roadmap or a GPS in this life we get to lead. We’re all just making this up as we go along, and anyone who tells you any different isn’t being truthful with themselves, either.

Life is a process of trying and failing and learning from those failures.

Be patient with yourself as you fail, and remember that success and failure are intertwined.

There isn’t a person on this planet who hasn’t failed at something they have tried — greatness is not built from getting it right on the first try. Greatness is built from standing back up after you have been knocked down. Greatness is built from humility and the foresight to keep pursuing your vision, and the knowledge and understanding that sometimes one must change gears.

Be patient with yourself as you change — it is part of life.

Change can be scary, but it’s also necessary. It’s how we learn; it’s how we grow. And if you can’t say you’re growing, how can you say that you’re living?

Be patient with yourself as you enter new seasons of your life.

Just as the year has different seasons, so will your life. There will be periods of spring, summer, winter, and fall. They will all teach you something different. They will all bring you something new — and there is ultimately beauty in all of that newness, even if it doesn’t come in a pretty package.

Moments of barren darkness are needed so that the universe can prepare you to step into your light in full bloom.

Be patient with yourself — give yourself patience.
I’d Rather Have You
By: Jocelyn Villarreal
Tags: Poetry, Life Lessons, Poetry Sunday, Love, Life

I’d Rather Have You

Photo by Roxanne Desgagnés on Unsplash

Pieces and fragments

of the day we first met

still linger in the back of my mind

I tried to save you and you tried to save me

We both kept meeting on opposite ends

Too deep or too shallow

We laid to rest on the shore of the beach

Breathing still and quietly

I told you where it hurt

and you tried to kiss the pain away

I tried to drown in your kindness

and you nearly let me

I asked for these memories

of you to be taken away

and they granted my wish, silently

And when the memories finally

began to fade, thoughts of you

kept finding their way back to me,

like they were never meant

to be thrown away

So I gave in to the sorrow and heartbreak

and torture of knowing you, because I

could not risk the chance of being

without you again

And when I get bored of you,

and you get tired of me,

promise me you’ll remember

the secrets we shared

underneath soft sheets
The Thing To Do
By: Melissa Kerman
Tags: Poetry, Poetry Sunday, Sex, Poem, Virginity

The Thing To Do

Photo by Womanizer WOW Tech on Unsplash

It was the thing to do, but it was also the thing not to do,

so I contemplated whether I should go through with it

that morning when I chomped on stale cereal, showered

and shaved that evening, buckled my seatbelt and cruised

onto the highway, when the voice in my head said,

it’s not too late to turn around, but I already replied to his

“u on ur way?” text and felt confident in my favorite jeans

and cardigan, the outfit I wore on my seventeenth birthday,

except now the clothes would imprint a new memory

(though technically the memory would be the items’ removal),

so when I arrived and he opened the door, a bit shorter

and chubbier and pimplier in person than his tinder photos,

I wondered if I’d chosen the right man for the job, until I

reminded myself that the man was irrelevant because the

job was about me, my releasing, not whom I chose to do

the taking, as I wasn’t giving a man my virginity but

shedding my virginity, so when he entered me I shut

my eyes because I didn’t want to see him and because

I heard it was the thing to do.
I see you on the unfaltering light of my screen, Charming me and them, Making sure you are seen. Well, what's left for me then? I can't try, God knows I want to, But I can't lie and put the fractured…
Tags: Poetry Sunday, Beginner Writer, Poetry, Poetry On Medium

Brain Glue

I see you on the unfaltering light of my screen,

Charming me and them,

Making sure you are seen.

Well, what's left for me then?

I can't try,

God knows I want to,

But I can't lie and put the fractured pieces back with glue.

Because the tube dried out,

Brittle and useless as I attempt to justify my lack

My shout reaches the well, but I'm only given an echo back.

Is this it?

Am I good enough now?

Is this it?

Am I good enough now?

And all the words are twisted,

Into the moaning of thirteen years ago that have been mocked to death,

They never really existed,

As mine, not spoken from my breath

The Chair gives me no use,

And there's still the desk left

Is this it?

Am I good enough now?

Is this it?

Am I good enough now?
Treacle
By: Indira Reddy
Tags: Poetry, Relationships, Poetry Sunday, Insecurity, Love

stuck in this treacly mess;

this sweet spot

between love and hate,

our emotions roil,

flowing back and forth,

waves of honeyed love

pushed back by

spurts of insecurity;

we each claim

the greater moral share,

oral contortions

meaningless,

insufficient,

flimsily veiling

the naked core

of an us

that only exists

to superficially assuage

the lack of love

we have

for ourselves

in the perceived love

of another
Endings
By: Lindsay Cg
Tags: Poetry, Relationships, Storytelling, Poetry Sunday, Poetry On Medium

I let The Miseducation

Lay on my blanket

But when I opened it up

It was a blank disc

Funny when you think

You’ve got everything planned

The design is all askew

And that’s just not it

Wishes wasted on

Shiny personalities

Like pennies at the

Bottom of a pool

One false move and

The bottom falls out

You never know

Exactly what to do

Try and sleep it off

But it’s seriously no use

See the water’s blind reflection

As the sun hits it’s high noon

Static on the radio

Calms my tired nerves

Like running water

Smooths the sharpest stones

Ivy climbs the walls as

I’m crawling out of my skin

Don’t know who to trust

With everything that’s happening

Signing papers in

Times New Roman

Even when the pen

Is out of blue

While it’s gorgeous outside

I’m feeling frozen in this room

Just know that it wasn’t

‘Good to see you’

Mirrored glass and

Clear elevator doors

Everything feels empty

When my voice is out of words
One Heart
By: Sydney Duke Richey
Tags: Poetry, Family, Poetry Sunday, Love, Siblings

they laughed together

and cried together

they gossiped and

kept secrets together

together they felt hurt

struggle and loss

they knew joy together

so much joy

even as miles

separate them

together they always

share one heart

and together

they always will
COVID-19
By: Gina Pacelli
Tags: Poetry, Health, Poetry Sunday, Covid 19, Coronavirus

COVID-19

Photo by Tai’s Captures on Unsplash

How did life turn into

social distancing and masks?

Isolation and fear,

a deep, dark emptiness.

The world was put on hold.

Animals roamed freely.

Los Angeles’ smog

started to disappear.

The village idiot told us

to swallow some bleach.

And just like magic,

the virus will disappear.

Soul searching started to happen,

as humans went within.

Kindness for thy neighbor

was born once again.

Companies started downsizing,

while others slaved away.

Money was tight for many,

while others became rich.

Not all faltered,

such as Taiwan and New Zealand.

They followed the roadmap,

created by science.

What does the future hold?

How quick will vaccination work?

Herd immunity is too slow,

and very much a gamble.

Too many are dying

from COVID-19.

Let’s show some compassion.

And beat this together.
How Do I Love Thee?
By: Tima Loku
Tags: Poetry, Codependency, Relationships, Poetry Sunday, Love

Photo by Tanya Trofymchuk on Unsplash

How do I love thee?

Let me count the ways that I have broken,

self-neglected for your every need

the ways that I have held my breath

to the subsiding tide of your rage

I love thee with a love so desperate

born out of the agony

of a life unloved

made into a threatening kaleidoscope of

unending need

I love thee with all of me

so much, so that I do not get any of me

and if I might carefully confess,

this might be how I like it.

With visions of you my life begins,

every breath gets swathed in meaning

I will love you every waking moment of living

and I will renew every cell that’s me

to the call of your naming.
Grave of the Hungry Ghosts
By: David Baumrind
Tags: Self Improvement, Poetry, Poetry Sunday, Personal Development, Mental Health

Grave of the Hungry Ghosts

Photo by Denise Johnson on Unsplash

Bitter cold nibbles at my ears

one hand wrapped around the steel

handle of the spade the

other caressing the wooden shaft

as I dig and shovel

into the frozen ground

Until the grave is revealed.

I want so badly to bury the

hungry ghosts

that chase me through the

stories of my life

with insatiable appetites

long necks

thin sickly bodies

gluttonous and cold

relentless in pursuit

wearing me down

until I am

too tired to run

Under grey skies and

biting winds

falling to my knees

at the edge of the

empty grave

as they call me…

Oh, how I want to be free.
Nerezza
Tags: Poetry, Poetry Sunday, Dark Thoughts, Poem, Poetry On Medium

Nerezza

Image by icheinfach from Pixabay

Sweet child,

Promise me you won’t go too far

Deeper into the ominous forest

Further into the caliginous wild

Black as midnight

Sinister quite

Where the shadows seem darker than death

Lurking evil craving your soul



Tell me that you won’t go too far

Further into the realm of unknown

Where it’s home to the broken angels

Banished from heavens

To cavernous depths of hell

“Devils” we call them

Sweet child,

Don’t get too close

For you will feel familiar

With the darkest secrets they hold



After all, there’s no darker place than our own thoughts..
Tear Drops
Tags: Poetry, Poems On Medium, Women, Poetry Sunday, Poetry On Medium

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I Hope You Participate In Your Life
By: Megan Minutillo
Tags: Poetry, Life Lessons, Poetry Sunday, Self Discovery, Poetry On Medium

I Hope You Participate In Your Life

Photo by Glen Jackson on Unsplash

I hope you don’t just observe your life,

I hope you participate in it.

I hope your hands are always too full

to keep from scrolling and mindlessly

passing your precious minutes away.

Full of melted bits of chocolate from

a delicious piece of cake, and smears of

finger paint as you got messy with your

kids.

Full of books that you’re reading and

words that you’re writing and ground

that you’re cultivating and things that

you’re building.

Full hope that you’re holding and love

that you’re giving.

I hope you don’t just observe your life,

I hope you participate in it.

I hope you have conversations that last

for hours, and find work that feeds your

soul — and when you ask someone how

they’re doing; I hope you stay still long

enough to hear their answer.

I hope you listen with a heart and a mind

that are open — and that you carry the

hearts of others as gently as you would

want to be treated.

I hope you treat today as a gift, and

remember that tomorrow is never promised,

and that dreaming means nothing without

doing.

And when you remember that — I hope you

dive headfirst into living.
Les arbres et des fleurs
By: Bug Roadkill
Tags: French, Poetry, Poetry Sunday, French Poetry, Poem

Just an asshole writing a poem or two to pass the time.
Ends and beginnings
Tags: Poetry Sunday, Poems On Medium, The End, Poems, New Poetry

Ends and beginnings

Everything has one

Everyone knows

But seldom do we remember before that someone goes

Grief and trauma they subside

In fate’s compass they confide

Spirit is a moments kiss

A hope, a wish. a flames diminish
Unscripted
By: Brian Mcfadden
Tags: Personal Growth, Mindfulness, Poetry, Poetry Sunday, Mental Health

When all the windows are still dark

and I am wrapped in that sweet silence

of the dawn moon,

I am free from

the disease of my own ideas.

Only a few minutes in this kingdom

is what allows me to re-enter this world,

plant my feet into the earth,

and move forward

with concentrated power

despite being blind

to the script of my life.
Winter’s Frigid Face
By: Sydney Duke Richey
Tags: Winter, Poetry, Poetry Sunday, Seasons, Snow

Winter’s frigid face appears

with a bone-chilling stare

once flowing streams

freeze beneath her gaze

and branches break

under the weight of

her snowy breath

harsh and relentless

her moody winds howl

piercing through

layers of wool

not to be kept outside

Winter’s frosty fingers

penetrate the smallest cracks

taking up residence

claiming every corner
Gold Dust
By: Caroline Mellor
Tags: Poetry, Poetry Sunday, Children, Love, Motherhood

Gold Dust

Photo by Aperture Vintage on Unsplash

If I could collect

all the times

you’ve fallen asleep

in my arms

— not just the times,

but the infinitesimal puffs

of sparkling dust

which evaporate

into the ether at

the exact moment

you slip from

the waking world

into the realm

of dreams —

I would have

enough gold dust

to colour the heavens,

enough stars to fill

the sky of my love

for you.
Love in the In-Between
By: Crystal Jackson
Tags: Poetry, Relationships, Poetry Sunday, Love, Mental Health

Love in the In-Between

Photo by Joseph Chan on Unsplash

I’ll love you through the darkness and the cold

When your soul is fragile, shaken, aching

You’ll have my hand to hold

I’ll love you through the blooming

When you finally begin to rise

When you stop believing all the lies and open your eyes

I’ll love you through the murky in-between

When you don’t know what you want or what you mean

I’ll be loving you and you’ll be seen

I’ll love you through the winter and through the dawn

When you’re right beside me or when you’re gone

Whether you stay to love me back or just move on

Love is fragile forming — and fragile to the last

We step lightly over pieces of our past

And try to do less breaking to build something new

And whether we grow or go, one thing is true:

I’ll be holding space and loving you.
They Warned Me About You
By: Marilyn Flower
Tags: Poetry, Poetry Sunday, Love, Sexuality, Mental Health

They warned me about you.

They shook their heads, made funny signals

with their fingers as if I could understand

a sign language invented on the spot.

They must have gotten you confused

with what you shared about your brother,

mushed it all up in their brains.

Because, of course, the fact that you

threw our things in the car when they

needed to leave due to allergies is an unmistakable

sign of schizophrenia right?

Hogwash! They were so busy

securing their places in the big house,

they pushed any button they could

on their way out the door.

Suddenly, we were alone

in the vacation cabin meant for six.

Suddenly, we didn’t have to sleep

in the attic dorm and kibosh our love-making.

Suddenly we got the king bed in the master bedroom —

and the private bath and the fireplace all to ourselves.

Yes, they would look down their noses,

raise their eyebrows

when they caught me off to the side

as we cut and chopped

for the big feast in the big house.

Are you sure? Are you really sure?

But later, back at the cabin,

away from the wine and weed

that clouded their vision —

my eyes were clear.

Your eyes were clear.

My choice was clear.

Our choice was clear.

You. And. Me.

We’ll get in this car together

and drive it for as far as we can go.

In the meantime, here’s the fire,

there’s the nice big warm bed —

All. To. Our. Selves.
Perspective
By: Kensho Keith
Tags: Writing, Poetry, Philosophy, Poetry Sunday, Life

Perspective

Photo by Klemen Vrankar on Unsplash

You are powerful beyond measure.

We can’t change the weather…

But we can make it better.

There’s beauty in the rain,

Power in my pain.

Drive yourself insane,

Worrying about things

You can’t control.

We’re so focused on can’t,

We forget about can.

Recalibrate your plans.

Those ones you let society pick,

Those expectations that are making you sick.

You’re being built from the outside in,

When choices from within,

The only ones that will make you win

in the end.

True happiness starts in your own mind.

Over time,

You’ll find,

Once you pick the lock and open the door,

You can even any score.

You are powerful beyond measure.

That chain that has you tethered,

To frets,

And petty mess

Can be broken.

Fast as a foreign language seems spoken.

Free your mind,

It’s cloaked in

Worries they gave you.

Here, lemme save you.

I don’t wear a cape,

But I can relate

To these great questions of fate.

Lemme put it like this,

Can you fast forward a day?

So minute by minute,

Hour by hour,

Focus on what you give power.

Do you focus on the sour?

Do you let evil build within…

Are you Babel’s tower?

Does the unknown make you cower?

Well then,

Let it be known

Today is a new day.

A new opportunity to be great.

To look around and say,

Look at all these little things I can appreciate.

Yes,

Something still happened

If you were not snapchatting.

Outside validation

Will have you waiting

On your next congratulations.

How bout we start breaking

The habit of making

Our happiness

Something up for the taking?

Let your life’s approval come

From your own two eyes.

I need you to look inside.

Ask questions such that

You eliminate those two sides,

You have to your life.

That one that keeps you up at night,

That everyday fights,

The one you present for public consumption.

When you look at your spirit within,

Which side will you let win?

Do you have the gumption,

To be different?

Or will you simply fall in line in this world of sin?
Illusions Of A Non-Artist
By: Aaron Hundley
Tags: Poetry, Artist, Coming Of Age, Reflections, Poetry Sunday

Photo by Jakayla Toney on Unsplash

One day, as a boy

I opened

a big red book.

I think it was red.

I don’t remember.

But I am certain

It was big.

I skimmed and

stopped at a page

that had dates

Late February-

Late March.

My birthday.

Its symbol

was two Fishies

chasing each other’s

tails.

“Pisces.”

It read:

Imaginative.

Lazy.

Addictive.

Illusions.

Artistic.

It had more.

But these

were the words

I plucked from the

description —

Words that

Frightened me.

I then told myself

I would not be an artist.

That I am not

artistic anyway.

That night, I listened

to Stevie.

Bubbled with emotion.

Wrote a poem.

Buried it at the bottom

of the trash — -

to evade predators — -

My brothers.

Then went back to

not being an artist.

And now to think

of it. It is possible

the book wasn’t

Big.
Feeling Lucky
By: Gina Pacelli
Tags: Poetry, Poems On Medium, Poetry Sunday, Poem, Self

Feeling Lucky

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

I love those days,

when everything goes my way.

Sun shining outside,

smiling, full of pride.

Excitement all around me,

So fun to just be.

Feeling lucky,

lucky as can be.

Feeling oh so lucky.

Feeling great to be me.

Feeling oh so good,

so good to be me.
Geode
By: Lori Lamothe
Tags: Poetry, Pandemic, Poetry Sunday, Love, Life

Geode

Photo by Grant Durr on Unsplash

Someone’s strung death from wall to wall,

little skeleton men

lit up against a variation on Mountain Dew.

Even warmth burns blue tonight.

Your hands sign offerings to the stove,

its crown of sapphire.

You tell me you’re selling handbags.

Only 3,412 more

until you can move somewhere safe —

where women walk dogs in slow motion,

where couples still spend all afternoon

sleeping in the kind of yellow

that pools in curtains and falls onto skin.

According to your sources,

if you strike life with the radical

when it cracks

the inside’s going to glow

with the translucence of red wine.

Below us, people in dark coats stream home,

their faces unavailable for comment.
When I’m with you, I forget
By: Amy Knight
Tags: Prose Poem, Relationships, Poetry Sunday, Love, Soulmate

When I’m with you I forget what it was I’d decided to order when we were at the back of the queue. Now we’re at the front; it’s my turn and they’re waiting. But you just flashed that smile at me, so now I’m standing here, dazed and swaying slightly, with only one thing on my mind:

your mouth.

I forget the passcode to my phone and the PIN number for my card. My hand hovers over the keypad as an assortment of mystifying symbols – are they digits? – dance provocatively in front of me, daring me to touch them and get it wrong. My thoughts have been completely overrun by the memory of

your fingers.

I forget what time I was meant to be at the place I am supposed to have got to by now. The only minutes I give a damn about are the ones that I spend looking into

your eyes.

I forget who it was that asked me to email something important to them, urgently. In this moment, we are the last two people left alive after the world turned inside out and upside down. I know that I am yours, and nothing else. I belong here in this bed, with my head on

your chest.

When I’m with you I forget;

where I am,

who I was,

and what is expected of me.

When I’m with you,

I forget to think,

and remember how to feel.
What to Say
Tags: Poetry Sunday, Poems On Medium, Poetry On Medium

They say there’s something I should want to say to you, let’s see-

I stopped trusting you somewhere around the age of three.

37 years later and now I fucked up raising kids of my own

Looking more like you than ever before now that I’m fully grown

You’ve always looked so healthy, in your second row seat

Fashionable, thin, submissive — the holy trinity

And while I know you were always “trying your best”

Its hard to excuse the way you left me behind, after what you did

Did you know I got to hear it from my own boyfriend?

He was nice enough to let me know you were having an affair

With someone three years older than me, and he was

Spending his spare time telling everybody — and

Even though you tried to hide

I could still hear you in Texas

From your white sandy beach

Your sweet Southern voice, screaming

A secret keeping poor strategy

Your scorned lover left with no one to comfort him

Except me — did you know he cried

Not just about you but his daughters too

Desperately trying to understand how his hard work

Could have resulted in this kind of divide

You were never good at deceit, maybe I

For which I should give you more credit

Maybe a sign you weren’t comfortable with it

The way you always gave yourself away.

No one told you your feelings mattered

So how could you possibly know how to handle them

Or talk about them in an honest way

That time you spent two years in your bedroom

Some disorder I forgot how to say — There’s no doubt

That was unprocessed pain —

Soaked into your veins, locking up your joints

Still not convinced the accident wasn’t your fault

God’s love has failed to anoint you with peace of mind

You two will be guaranteed to reunite

But that’s not something you can say, can you

Its not something that faith allows you to do

A dark storm walking around disguised

As a five foot ten bottle of sunshine