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-The Generation Of Expression-
Demonstrations, proclamations
We are the generation of expression
Our perspectives often differ
Yet we all oppose against oppression
This is the era of verbalisation
We are each entrusted with free choice
You too, desire to make a change
But are petrified of using your voice.
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me, after clearing my schedule to write:
uhhhh it was raining... and dark (and also night) and um... cold i guess?? anyway, something dramatic~ happened
me, stuck in traffic on my way to work:
Rain tumbled through midnight leaves, casting the forest in liquid moonlight. A low growl shook the horizon. Death had come.
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"A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness."
--Robert Frost
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Una vez más, me encontraba al fondo de una copa, buscando en su reflejo la razón de por qué, esta vez, no fui suficiente.
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And when someone's gone and you're the primary keeper of his memory ; letting go would be a kind of murder, wouldn't it?
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When his love enters my soul…
.
.
Music by Glorybox -Portishead ( Live at Roseland 1998)
.
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I thought I never experienced love,
The rush in your veins,
The racing of your heart,
Things that people call butterflies;
But the love I found was nothing like that,
He was like a fine wine getting better with age,
While I was like a bird rotting in its cage.
He was full of calmness inside,
While I was like a turbulent storm;
Talking with him was all I needed to feel alright,
And his shoulder felt like home;
When he was with me I desired no more,
Because love is found in comfort;
Not in chaos.
Saumya Thapliyal
(Do follow @shareapoetry on Instagram💕)
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| Mi Instagram//
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“A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” -Thomas Mann
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i like to write using ink
of her favorite color,
in hopes of putting
more of her into my poems.
in hopes of getting
more of her out of me.
-mars
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What do I do with my grief?
I know not how to handle my grief.
Where to put it, how to tame its insurmountable spirit.
How to sing it lullabies for my voice always crackles up.
How to call out its name without fearing the worst.
What to say to it when it comes running to me like a child.
What to whisper in its ears so as to soothe its wild nerves.
I know I can very well discard it, get rid of it forever, but if that would have been possible, i would not be writing this poem today titled, "what do I do with my grief"
I know not how it's so capable of being so alive when I, the harbourer, has died so many times.
Isn't this grief that I carry in my belly, my child?
If that's the case, it should have died long time ago.
But here it is, chuckling and stretching its limbs, looking at me with its endearing eyes, waiting to be picked up with utmost affection.
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Do not stand
By my grave, and weep.
I am not there,
I do not sleep—
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.
Do not stand
By my grave, and cry—
I am not there,
I did not die.
— Clare Harner, The Gypsy, December 1934
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"Read a thousand books and your words will flow like a river."
--Virginia Woolf
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Justo cuando te haces amigo de la soledad, la vida te presenta a alguien que cambia tus planes.
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