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[icon] poetry is the art of self-expression
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View:The Poetry Billboard. Quarterly Literary Review Singapore.
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Subject:(not at all a poem)

And so you parade around. Shoes not shine but it doesn't matter anymore, she's gone. You do try to tell yourself that everything will be alright, that every piece broken,fallen, would be picked, healed and you will be fine but it doesn't comfort; you don't trust yourself anymore.

You find her sitting by the bed, clenching her fist, her stomach aching, her eyes watery that it strikes you( how come it took you so long, you don't know) that you don't anything about her. You don't know what she really is like. You don't know what she likes, what she detests or who it is that she really wants and so it frustrates you because she is your girlfriend, your best friend, your friend but you don't know her. You don't know her at all.

When she does walk away, when she leaves, the blame is all on the other partner. You chant foul words, curse the other and hope nothing last for the two. You do this for a while, even now-like a habit- you still do and  though you should know that you drove her away ,you don't.

So the day passes, hours, minutes, seconds and your heart fails to mend because rejection is something new, something you don't want to face, something you cannot accept because if you ever did, you'd never be the same( is this a new fear?)

And so you parade around,
shoes not shine and facade aside,
tell me,
are you happy?

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Subject:The Fool
once upon a blushing moon... the bard he sang a single tune....
awoke the sanity of this loon that lived neither night nor day....
and entered Hope the dancing harlot... she filled his heart with wine so scarlet...
aflame she set him bruised and battered yet he fights another day...

and wanders Envy into his fort... she slithers poison down his heart...
what once a palace now a hut and empty with cold dismay...
whistling away his life's own parody... this wretched venom he finds no remedy...
smiling away this stinging irony, this closet poet waltzed away...

a whispered sigh, a crooked grin... guilty shoulders and a life of sin
a lifelong riddle, an enigma within.. and questions that lead astray
and though the stars fall from the sky... or the angels weep and cry
the madman tries to learn to fly... come restrictions come what may...

sitting on a paper moon, a crumpled heart has spoke too soon,
much ado for a classic loon, to let it go away...
a scribbled tragedy on the dawn, the madman mumbles "oh begone!
this stifling fate that lives beyond, this colourful shades of gray...

too much hope has been deceived, give! they say and you shall receive,
still pending little bits of my beliefs, oh forever let them stay...
a wandering bliss that one must heave, as sweet as sorrow is a parting gift,
a new year's longing for new year's eve, dont wish it all away!"

over the moon and on cloud nine, walking on air and heaven divine,
grins the madman as he defines, 'twas nothing left to say...
this humble ode that he designs, though jagged, rough and unrefined,
was for a smile thats hard to find, yet it found him today...

an old junk from my rusted tin chest....
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Subject:(delete if not allowed,thanks)
sorry if this is not allowed,
do delete it if so

i created a  community


it's a community where people can post
all sorts of writings,
it can be stories,quotes,sentences
and about anything to.

do join!


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i was walking by,
i heard your violin play-
it was so beautiful,
i stopped and stayed.
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Subject:(lines of hope)

Time keeps us still,
holding us with such perfection
that lifts us up with hope
that lines and ropes do not need comfort
and that only hearts are involve in this.

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I look like a Renaissance nude,
only darker.
Like them I am imperfect.
The folds of the flesh fascinate me:
the too small breasts,
angular shoulders, long arms
the curve of my neck
an unending river of tan.
I feel sensuous.
Chin nested in warm skin
it throbs, I am alive, I am real.
Will there be anyone, in the future,
who will love my body as I do?
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When I was a little boy
(so my mother tells me)
I had a curious habit; I
Would sit down with a box of tissues,
Pull them out steadily, piece by piece
Box after box, like a magician whose only trick
Was pulling rabbits out of his top hat, and so he
Does it repeatedly because pulling 1000 rabbits
Out of an old hat was one way to make a stale
Trick seem splendid--where was I? Oh yes, the
Tissues. No-one knew why I did it, not even I
And if my mother took my box away, I'd even cry

To this day, I don't know what I'm doing, and why

*Of course, since then I have refined the 'trick'. Now I
Pull little white sticks out of a small box; nevertheless
The principle is the same. No-one is impressed, but the
Trick is on them. Maybe if you check your left shirt pocket
You'll find your expectations of me intact. Or maybe not (!)
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Subject:Chicken soup for the dissatisfied soul
Find a religion/invent your own
If you're not a religion kind of person, try falling in love with someone
If you haven't fallen in love with anyone/think it causes too much misery, find a passion
If you're not passionate about anything, try expressing yourself with art.

If all else fails

You could kill yourself, just to see what happens next.
(This is an unwise thing to do, especially if you have no idea what's going to happen after death)
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thinking of You
breeze is warm
make me steadfast is understanding
You breed the world and the stars were born
precious memories to many to count
wherever You are is where I want to be
walking the path that few dare to track
my mind is locked and worries are a fall
can I ever repay You here's my life
You are so beautiful to me

this was written back in 2006..
its about me losing faith in life..
i try to get closer to god
but it keeps getting further away..
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Current Music:minerva - deftones
Subject:thru the dark clouds
another day comes to another end
another kiss seals another hand
another hand is setting free
hidden tears I cannot see
while the moon is grinning a time
lifting up my agony
suffice it to say
i'll damn the whole day
whole day
heaven knows where heaven is
heaven knows just what I miss

written sometime ago...
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[icon] poetry is the art of self-expression
View:Recent Entries.
View:The Poetry Billboard. Quarterly Literary Review Singapore.
You're looking at the latest 10 entries.
Missed some entries? Then simply jump back 10 entries