Sometimes you have to move on To find what you’re looking for Was it in the cabinet? No. The drawer? Oh well I’ll find another one
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
In the hands of tomorrow To bemoan the existence of what could be, The atrocity of what ifs set its fangs deeper into the present space of serenity.
By Hridya Sharmaabout a year ago in Poets
Which is the real me The one they see Or the one I see when you’re looking at me Distorted images in my mind Having never known what I look like to the world
Sitting here In silent isolation. Waiting. Longing for your return Expecting a call from you everyday Never more shall I hear your beautiful voice
The precipice of poetry that seeks redemption Callous whispers that uproar the fear in my mind, Bounty tales of my existence may cease to be left behind.
In the quest for the ebb and flow, In the hammered wheels of agility and the art of being slow. The due course of nature strides in its crafty demeanour,
This hauntingly daunting feeling The unreality of watching my dreams unfold before my eyes Watching them rip off their disguise
The obliteration of alliteration Waiting for liberation Through visitation Living in stagnation The harsh realities of our society
Where does the trash go Down into the depths Or off to the shallows We will never know It leaves our home for the curb
The end of one world Is the beginning of another Like a child Slipping from its mother Life is a journey Of yearning We used to live
Celebrating the doom of independence Liberation in its precipice gallops in the abyss of glee, Callous whispers of unserved justice writhe the soul with pain that abhors the plea
One Thursday I choose to walk home from work, leaving my lab in Anlyan’s north wing foregoing the Yale Shuttles on Orange Line
By D.K. Shepardabout a year ago in Poets
