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What makes a poem … a poem? – Melissa Kovacs | give it a shot là gì | Kho tài liệu tổng hợp hữu ích nhất

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What makes a poem … a poem? - Melissa Kovacs
What makes a poem … a poem? – Melissa Kovacs

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What makes a poem … a poem? – Melissa Kovacs.

give it a shot là gì.

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24 Comments

  1. Pens disappear for fear of silence

    And the wind is defeated in front of the might of the rock, and the breezes turn into a deadly calm

    The city that sleeps on a bed is devoid of the dust of the dead

    from every sound

    Nothing looms in the distant horizon

    It is the painting of the mysterious destiny in the exhibition of life

    Where there are neither spectators nor visitors

    There the beginnings of things end

    Time repeats itself in deep silence.

    ALI SUROOR

  2. Just before this I was thinking of writing a poem
    But skipped due to laziness

    Soo here I will write one –

    feeling flies far to the the future fair
    Dear me drive to the darkest past fear
    Would be happy to know I overcome by constant care
    Let me celebrate cos I never been here
    If I wasn't there
    – yeshey
    It's more like message than a poem
    Everything u going through will pay u just remember not to give up

  3. Stretch my skin to highest extent to gain sensation,
    The plastic decomposes after weeks, but razor blade attempts
    Remain in sight, the ink, needle and sword reshape with my age,
    I sleep next to emptiness and songs that provoke me to breathe,
    These crossroads demand more of my stretch marks to elevate,
    My nails believe in prisoner's luck, they scratch the head and leg,
    Until there is vision on the other side of tunnel, a success,
    Train-wreck or a new home, a new breathe is always sweet at first taste,
    I have put my entire existence at bait, meditating for final stage,
    These poems and love quotes are just suicidal notes, postponed.

    Pills in pocket, surrounded by murder of crows,
    folks holding hands, promises of alchemy, the sport,
    I breathe insomnia, 100 milligrams of nicotine on board,
    Somehow the vision is clearer when I walk gazing at floor
    I bow to hope, standing under lily garden gazing at moon bow,
    The sparrows land in nest for tomorrow, decapitating the arrows,
    Kiss, to awake the dead sharing fatigue, silence and cadence,
    Dancing around the memoir, my reservoir has lost its limits,
    The water is above the digits, oasis soaks in when spark ends,
    My heart is bone charcoal, it absorbs all and put it on shelf,
    For art show, to exhibit the lessons for the one standing in row,
    Tell the stars to hold on now to withstand blows and holes,
    I'm the molten lava, tangible yet you cannot touch to savor taste
    "What's good in being molten, when they're afraid to match," she suggested,
    Hardened skin, I shed it by laughing till death in skits, I was different.
    I kept burning, for the passion unknown, for the disease they didn't find cure.

    Define divine, hellos of digital format,
    Her halo has a definite existence, it's strange
    Her humble gestures make death look like neighbors,
    Windows closing in now they found a bed to wish upon,
    A soul to fray upon, eyes to fight for without labor,
    And feelings shaking hands with Frey for prosperity.
    What lies ahead these days where lucid dreams,
    Fluent words and currents influence the fluids,
    Would you still be a child and take deep breathes,
    Speak without forms? Touching lips every time they speak?
    Glitters in eyes that find purple euphoria in eyes of demon,
    Giggles every time at scry when the demon realizes your form
    And kisses you like it was always meant to be.
    Won't you be be bored of all stories, Aphrodite herds,
    And ride of nerves, how Venus provokes suicide tendencies in folks
    Or how they read map to enjoy journey,
    Or would you look it in the eyes before speaking,
    Only to find out what's life is like after settling in,
    Your aura with ocean as it's origin and a bed to start a living,
    Sieve tubes to conduit sugar without heave,
    Peace seeps through his arms and enters yours through pores,
    And eyes when you look through window pane, are you bored of peace?
    Sun remains the core of existence, dust particles carry my name,
    Your name vanishing off remaining of articles where I designed your grace
    How can I be afraid, the faith has faced enough days without trace of my face,
    Peace, I will have it with time after I'm done creating another piece,
    No envy with Serenity, hopelessly, the pennies were floating in well for centuries,

  4. Opend my my phone cicked on the YouTube logo
    Saw the video liked it it wasnt that much of a rattle
    Tho it does feel like we lost a battle
    Trying to differ between what does and what doesn't matter
    I'll just sit back and you to may go.

  5. Gone.
    A goner he is.

    Now,
    The little girl has no grandparents left.

    But in the end,
    True love will stay forever.

    —>a short poem that I wrote when I lost my grandpa 3 years ago, who passed away just a few weeks following my grandma's death. I suppose he just can't stand it anymore, being separated from the love of his life.

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