#poets on tumblr
ritikajyala · 2 days
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[ID:  Do you like me?
Mom says I love
you every time I 
ask if she likes me.
  This is a short story, it begins with a womb and ends with rage filled 
     love, it begins with a screaming and raging evening and ends with a
     heavy silence at the dinner table. My mother loves me, and there is
     nothing more to say. I love my mother, and there is nothing more to 
     say. I pray and pray that I don't become her someday. And there is
     nothing more to say. 
   -Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The Flesh I Burned
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bacchicmaiden · 3 days
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laila--things · 3 days
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Hiç kimse ile tesadüfen karşılaşmazsınız.
Hayat, şansın ve tesadüfün ürünü değildir...
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tugbauysals-blog · 3 hours
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heartofmuse · 2 days
Felt the heavens open then when your love kissed my stars. Starlight falls like flakes of snow, a symphony reciting a blessing on two hearts that sing the same song. 
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sujaayyyyy · 2 days
I've become passive. I don't invent, I don't yearn. I manage, I cope.
—Susan Sontag, As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh
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victormalonso · 2 days
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shore of my life | víctor m. alonso
[lo que hace el mar con la costa]
[what the sea does with coast]
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fantodsdhrit · 1 day
come weave a scarf of regrets for me: you seem tired of soaking
of memory laden with gunpowder dreamlick your arias ricochet off
rose quartz collarbone
with the naturalness
of that destitute poet
who fades away from you: wafts over your porcelain you ask me
to get sloshed but
forced joy feels as
tasteless as no one
hums my runes: no one visits my granite sanctum but the ghosts of
lowly courtesans with
unshaken bosoms aflame
i'll wear your scarf if you search for our forgotten wry scentless
that always torment
your eyelids
and split your cadence in quarter to two empty doorway: the riven
poet at sky's edge
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onurtaskiranpoetry · 20 hours
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She has that power over me, to spellbind me with just a whisper in my ear, a single lascivious incantation and a touch of her sorcerous hands, turns me into a beast.
An ancient piece from 2017 that I reworded to fit more my current style.
Reposted on a different image due to technical issues.
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wordsbyjenpoetry · 2 days
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The ones that are supposed to hear the song in your heart, will sing all the words back to you.
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ritikajyala · 2 days
...My mother loves me and there is nothing more to say. I love my mother and there is nothing more to say. I pray and pray that I don't become her someday, and there is nothing more to say.
-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The Flesh I Burned
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trepuntini · 2 days
bramosia indecente
ristagna nel solco
atto caotico
di pensieri
schiantati dentro
in un bacio leccato
© Trepuntini
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Shina Ringo for Rockin’On Japan (2000)
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laila--things · 2 days
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Hayatıma giren insanların mutlak bir sebebi vardır diye düşündüm hep. Ya benden öğrenecekleri ya da benim öğreneceklerim. Hayatıma geldiklerini nasıl ki bir sebebe bağladıysam, hayatımdan gidenler için de çok sebep vardı benim için. Bu yüzden de kimseye kal demedim ve gerektiğinde ben gittim. Çünkü bana göre, gelip giden herkesin ve yaşanan her şeyin kendi içinde tamamlaması gereken bir tekamülü vardı. Ve hayatın çetrefilli yollarından en az hasarla geçmenin şartı kabullenmekten başlıyordu...
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definegodliness · 3 days
I am drawn to the firefly, Scintillating; a petty pretty fragile thing Of mnemonic illumination. I let it hover over my open folded hands, And let it dance, painting different visions In phantasmagoria. On the walls, My fingers turn shadowy branches; Twisting, contorting. Then, fanning out Until darkness clouds vision, resembling Futures unknown. Sleepily, I trace back these branches And fantasize dead wood come alive. At the crossroads, I see Leaves unfolding, blossom buttoning, Sap streams restored, and every shoot that Withered prematurely, Healed.
I let it all die again So to count my corruptions: My disdain, my hatred, my indifference.
I cup my hands closed.
--- 28-11-2022, M.A. Tempels ©
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heartofmuse · 1 day
I close my eyes with you in them. You are that spark of love that when I close them is kept in my dreams.
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sujaayyyyy · 2 days
“𝑊ℎ𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑: 𝑎𝑚 𝐼 𝑎 𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛?”
—Clarice Lispector, The Hour of the Star
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