Hands softly trace the wind with endless enjoyment
Then slowly fall down with dread
For the bread of salvation will never reach
Nor the words that preach light
Especially in the night with no end
Laughing sickly to oneself as screams of pain run in the wind
Hands softly trace the wind with not dread but with acknowledgement
For pain and suffering is the salvation
For Pain and suffering is the preach of light to the night with no end
Till the end of time tirelessly searching for the end of time
With all its delicious pain and suffering for the soul
About the Creator
Somebody
Please step into my mind.
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His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress6 days ago in Poets
love you
O Land of Green Ceremonies, love you O land of chirping birds, love you O land of independent dreams, love you O Land of Rabindranath Kazi Nazrul, love you love you country A country that is independent in exchange for 30 lakh martyrs, The motherland of the river, I love your country. love you country Salam is the land of Jabbar's martyrs. Free country of red green, My homeland is my country.love you country English rulers or Pakistani convicts, Can't take possession of you, O country. you are my country love you country You are my beloved country. You are everyone's favorite. Bangladesh is an independent country.
By Mohammad Dihanul Alam Khan a day ago in Poets
Timothy
My fingers inch closer to the keyboard, itching to obliterate a day's worth of work. It's some of my best writing I've done to date, but at what cost? The words seem to bleed, dripping onto my desk. For a millisecond, I'm sitting in front of a crime scene, looking at dead, begging eyes. Why? Why me?
By Alexandria Stanwyck7 days ago in Fiction
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