And then he wept—
Tears might have turned into poems that rhyme
But that day those innocent eyes lost their shine.
—Ksh
DEAR READER
Not today Justin

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JVL
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trying on a metaphor
Sade Olutola
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Xuebing Du
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wallacepolsom
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if i look back, i am lost
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noise dept.

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sheepfilms
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@krt-ksh
And then he wept—
Tears might have turned into poems that rhyme
But that day those innocent eyes lost their shine.
—Ksh
A Cat
I am a cat
My fur is dark like shadow— clean and black
One eye with echoing blue , with hope from people I knew
Other— deep orange, that lingers over the street death walks through.
Scars on of my leg , pale yet painfully wide
From streets i crossed and people who lied.
The nights are cold , the nights are long
But I know sun will shine over my fur again ,that's why I must stand strong.
—Ksh
—ISM
Isn’t it strange how desperately we long to belong to something or somewhere? Basic human nature i guess. Notice how humans often build their identities not from truth, but from the comfort of a collective they cling to that is an 'ism'—a single idea, a flag, a name, a beleif...and call it ours.
But that's how we lock ourselves inside a cage.
We don’t even realize when belonging turns into a cage.Once we choose a side, we stop seeing the whole instead we start defending ideas not always because they’re right but because they are ours because that's where we belong to. Just like one might defend their family even when they’re wrong ,we defend our chosen belief even when truth is still logged.
The moment we say I am this, you also whisper I am not that , we draw invisible borders around our own mind.
Religion, politics,nationality,philosophy and many more each one promising liberation,
yet when adopted as our own...as where we relate or belong to ,generation after generation, we inherit these cages...we think they are helping in defining ourselves world view and ourselves but they limit our world view often.
Perhaps real freedom isn’t in belonging,
but in being skeptic ? In listening ,questioninh and learning.
Because once you stop belonging then you are of nothing and everything all at once.
—Ksh
Scrap and a Soul
I saw a broken machine by the road,
Still working—yet left to corrode
They call it a scrap,
But maybe there's emotions beneath those wires entrapped.
In that corner, it is learning sorrow from silence,
But they mistook it's chucks & groans for violence
While, all it had was hope in those flickering eyes—
that hid its countless tries
And now by the road ,maybe it thinks:
"Was I made to just serve and rust?"
Perhaps it was its fate to turn to dust.
Good thing it was just a machine ,
Not SOMEONE we might have once seen.
— Ksh
Muse too
You are already a poem, the one with beauty untold
The story of your life, that's precious than gold
Where is this poem? It’s in your soul— being written, being told.
Not just some words on paper, you’re not meant to be bought or sold.
You are choosen , by many you know
Selenophobes may hate the moon but the fact doesn't dim it's glow
Even when unseen, there are hearts that love you whole—from head to toe
And even your woe
Admiration you say
Not knowing this soul of yours is someones hoped-for ray ?
Prioritize you say
Not knowing the people who chose you anyway
And maybe this poem is the proof that you can feel it too
And how you can be a muse too.
Thank you!!
— Ksh
The Lady in the Lake
I sat by the lake , where the world forgets to shout
Book in hand , away from the noises of crowd
The pages turned slow, while my eyes looked for escape,
Till a wind swept sharp and it fell in the lake.
My eyes searched the whole lake for that book
But what I found left my spirit shook
There she was—The lady in the lake.
Not a ghost , nor fake, but wide awake.
She didn't speak—still I heard,
A silence louder than any word
She held a look I once had known
The kind that makes you feel alone
And in her gaze the world felt small
She made me forget the book and all.
She moved the way my doubts once did
As if she knew the truths I hid
In her , I saw my quiet part
Ones—that I couldn't tear apart.
I tried to know if she is crying—losing her will
But how can I , when the lake is still ?
All I saw was how her bruises blurred into the tide,
Where justice once went to hide.
Maybe she’s the silence i fear.
a whispered hope or hidden care.
A victim’s tale in water framed,
or love and loss, unnamed.
My eyes continued to stare in the water deep.
Questioning the secret the lake will always keep.
The book had already slipped beneath the tide,
but I was still there, lost in her eyes.
— ksh