#poetrylovers

[threespringspoet]

Demanded nothing….

[satinbullets]

—Anaïs Nin

[paper-wounds]

[gondorunsessizbahcesi]

Black cat wisdom

[yoshikoacreations]

Bright and Dark

[mybeautifulbleedingpieces]

just for tonight, let me be perfect

forget the vision of me in your head

that chaotic storm of black curls

framing a face devoid of color,

and warmth, and dreams

erase it from your memories

and let tonight be the fantasy

you deserve to come true

let me be your muse,

paint me in burning crimson

and azure, and black, and magenta

recreate me in whatever form

you please, let me be

the gentle fingers tracing

the length of your body

as you gasp for air, let me

breathe you in until you explode

in ecstasy, let me

silence the noise thundering

in your head, chase away

the monsters crawling on your bed

just for tonight, let me be

your calm, your refuge, your home

because tomorrow,

fate will be cruel to us again

maim us,

separate us,

there'll be no concept of us again

so love me while you can

forget that i am not yours,

and you belong to someone else

-katie

[jaggedjawjosh]

They never told me that within your scars, stars were born, illuminating paths unseen, whispering dreams of resilience, fueling your rise.

[taintedcanva]

Tribute to Those Before Me

History is kind

only to the names

it remembers.

The rest

it buries twice.

Once beneath the earth.

Again beneath silence.

This is not

for the names

carved into stone.

This is for those

who disappeared

before history

learned how to spell them.

For the child

born into chains

and buried before freedom

could learn their face.

For the mother

whose lullabies

were interrupted

by an ocean.

For the father

who died believing

his bloodline

ended with him

never knowing

I would one day

call him

ancestor.

I stand here

because someone refused to die

before tomorrow arrived.

Someone dreamt

of freedom

they would never touch,

so that I could dream

of everything else.

Now,

I waste mornings.

I complain.

I choose

what language to speak,

where to go,

who to become.

How gentle

my burdens must seem

to those

whose only ambition

was to wake up

unchained.

We praise

the few

whose names survived.

But what of those

who failed?

Who fought

and were forgotten.

Who died

with no witness

except the ground

that swallowed them.

Perhaps

the saddest grave

is not the one

without flowers.

It is the one

without a name.

And somewhere,

beneath a field

that has forgotten why it is holy,

lies the reason

I can call my life

my own.

So this is my mourning.

For those

I cannot name.

For those

who never knew

they would become

the roots

of people

who would never know

their faces.

To those before me

whose names the world forgot,

but whose blood

I belong to

may history forgive

what memory

could not carry.