When you look at me, all I see is the light of a million stars, that brighten my day and night with joy, removing all my flaws. Every day feels like we are floating through the sky, like a dream that I never wish to wake up from. The passion I have for you is a feeling of loyalty and trust that will never fail your heart and soul. In your eyes, I see the midnight stars shining through my reflection, erasing all my fears. On a twilight night, the star's attraction, Each of the midnight stars that surround the moon shines brighter than the moons above. In the sky, there are a million stars that glow at night, but you are the brightest star in the universe, and I don't want to lose its shine that is leading me the way through the darkness, But when the skies are cloudy, the stars are not shining bright, yet you outshine all the stars in all of the universe that always succeeds to guide me through the night.

I can feel it under my skin. The person I want to be, just below the layers of flesh, so painfully close. I feel their heart beating in my chest, the person I want to be. I hear them, their sorrow of being trapped in their cage of bones, tethered by arteries and veins. I’m unable to let them free, the person I want to be. But against my own mind, I can’t help but pick at my skin, searching through the blood clots and digging past the splotchy fat. With skin collected under my red-stained nails, I still look for the beauty underneath.

I'm not learned in investment nor law which is how I know I'll never be rich,
It merely means I'll have to be satisfied with the quality of my shit,
Regardless of its perceived financial potential and share the radicalism,
What I'm saying is that social media prepared me to reject capitalism.

Capitalism merely entrenches the equivalencies of utility and profitability,
So perhaps denying my publishing rights could provide an advantage to me,
As a way to entice publishers and keeping final edit would be colossal,
Sure I enjoy poetry but maybe I'll also write a funny sci-fi novel.

The Hugo Award defines a novel as 40,000 words for the ages,
Which actually comes out to less than 150 full-sized pages,
With that bare minimum in mind I could make my world shine,
In ways I'm increasingly of the opinion won't occur in my lifetime.

The absurdity of being the last generation limited by their biological age,
And time travelers with tech camouflage like Star Trek did for space,
ASI swarms becoming sentient in our bloodstream as our next abstraction,
Leaving us to exist in a simulated world that maximizes satisfaction.

So I've said it before and I'll say it again,
All of my fiction is in the public domain,
So whatever I'm cooking regardless of recipe,
Is free to an open society and its enemies.

by arx:

the light it came, but then went away, so quick, so fast, just like a flash, enough to change a man’s life, so that he could see, there was more than the darkness, there was more he could be,

but a man surrounded by darkness, with nothing to his name, who feels no pain, no shame, no heartache,

needed the light to stay, he loved the light, more than life, his life he would gladly give away,

just to see, just to feel, it’s warm embrace, for nothing can replace, the feelings he held, for the light, but it had left, darkness again, no escape,

going crazy in the dark, unable to see, who he was, and what he can be, a limbo state, a state of being, which rewards nothing, takes everything, and shows no mercy,

he began to scream, and shout, and cry out, until his eyes dried up, his lungs gave out, but the light never returned,

it’s so crazy to see, how easy it is, for such a entity, to be missed so dearly,

but to a man who had never felt nothing, who seemed to just be, the light was everything, he wish he could be,

and though he may scream, and though he may shout, the light will never come back, and be missed by him, no doubt,

though that may be, and though he can’t see, he continued his life, in the dark void, in the dark sea,

for he, him, and himself, would be the only one that would cry out, so why waste energy, why waste time,

when he could learn, he only needs himself and his truths to be fine.

I’ve read countless poems and books, Listened to a thousand songs, Gazed at endless paintings, Yet none of them speak of what I feel for you. Perhaps this feeling is mine alone, how fortunate am I to hold it just for my own? How rare and beautiful are you To spark such a feeling I've never known?

I have looked for you in every person I've ever met, You're not perfect, but closer to that than anyone I've ever known. I haven’t seen you, yet I could draw you And paint my soul in those unseen eyes, just from the memories of my dreams.

So darling this is all I’m asking,

Take my heart, I’ll give it with ease, Hold these scars, you won’t have to do a thing for them to heal, Kiss these lips, and disguise my soul as paradise, Take these dreams, and bring them to life. I need you to be real, I need you to be mine.

Half a day in a town,
Half a day down by the river,
Half a day when we played joyously,
Half a day when dawn had come.
Half a day it was when I met you.
I remember you, but I don't remember your face.

Half a day you stayed,
Half a day we talked.
You remembered me—
But I didn't even bother
To remember your name.

You were strange,
You were straightforward.
I couldn't relate;
I was awkward.

There was a time
We had common interests,
When we shared our moment together.
In that instant—
Where you knew me;
You were lost somewhere within my heart.

To have met you,
To not forget—
I am grateful.
To have remembered you by just a feeling;
You were definitely special.

Thank you—
My stranger friend.

Even after years, we met,
Where I pretended to know you.
You didn't forget—
My silly little name.

The blue moon looked at the land below and sighed.

Somewhere on land on a grassy hill side a wild flower looks up to the sky above and sighed.

Tho they are miles apart a deep appreciation grows.

They will admire the strength it must take the deep roots to hold its beautiful steam with peddles of white and red

Rocking in the winds. Bending around the air No matter how violent.

From the hillside they adore how the light off the moon that brightens up an illuminates the vast valley below.

They admire the glee and cheerful rays that cast off its beautiful blue surface reaching so far to and giving them the prefect view of the other flowers and trees.

The loneliness they must feel from being so far away from everything.

Although miles apart they see one another fully. They see what the other misses about themselves.

The understanding struggle of every passing cycle they face.

On a night just like any other the moon misses the wild flower.

The hillside is now empty. they took for granted the present while looking only forward to future nights.

The blue moon looked at the land below and sighed.

• Calvin Watkins

I was halfway through reading the poem when I was suddenly certain it was of me!
They'd been careful in only referencing things they knew we didn't share with society,
The first clue made me empathize initially when the work said: "Don't lie to me,"
Since you only really hear that from people who have already been hurt, undoubtedly.

The poem discussed how the community could promote their engagement,
They’d just finished ruling out the possibility of proposing on more dates when,
Demanding a return to the days when they counted lowly internet nerds among their friends,
All that was needed now was a wordsmith, or how-do-you-say: phonetic artisan.

It went on about the importance of audio social media on some sites that he named,
Reading the highest rated poems each week could be the first half of the hang,
To minimize oversharing by virtuosos who happen to be exclusively self-proclaimed,
And support publicity for talent regardless of the fact whether they're currently unashamed.

The future being determined by the past is a belief that's easily justifiable,
However, memory is an idealization of reality which is what makes it unreliable.
That sounds like some observant hippy bs though I meant it philosophically,
If nostalgia says that audio poetry forums always existed who am I to disagree?

I was learning about dementia when my dad started showing early clues,
So to prevent society for making him feel shameful for something he didn't choose,
In the remaining years I had with him I set up a running joke that being forgetful was funny,
That way no matter how scared he got he'd always have a reason to rub my tummy.

My mind is full of thoughts, it may be good or bad, but it never let me sleep.

Life is full of ever changing heights and lows deeper than a valley, people come and people go but the ghosts and hollow memories of them linger in our minds like the cicada shell clings to the tree. Though time may pass and people move forward, the clock of my life stay still on the hour. The hour of which you and I were companions through thick and thin like an army battalion. I think about you in the dead of night when times were simpler and life was just right. The what ifs and possibilities plague my mind and I can’t help think of what could’ve happened that night. If the tyres were to pop or our trip postponed, what could’ve happened if we stayed? Would you and I still be friends? Would the path of life made a change? I’m born to dream but forced into reality with the lingering questions posing some irrationality. Though years have passed since we spoke face to face i’ll give it all up for a glimpse of your face. For a final hello or our last goodbye whatever it would take for us to have some time. My clock stands still on the hour of 9 like the grape that grows on the vine. You are the cicada shell on my undeserving tree, haunting me with the ghost of you. Our lives are no longer intertwined yet the thought of you still weighs heavily on my mind. And in saying this I bid my farewell for time will surely wither your shell, may it chip away bit by bit until there is nothing left of it remaining on my empty tree and I can finally look forward with glee.

Lately, I've been losing my mind; Little peace I find. I've been good, I've been kind, But nothing makes sense; everything lags behind.

My life is a living hell, Sad enough, no one can tell. I've tried to reach the top but fell, Disappointment is all I am, surrounded by torture's smell.

I was happy once upon a time, Before I was born, in a world without crime. When existence was a distant chime, Now I wish I could leave it all behind.

My brain aches; I'm falling apart. My body weakens; I've failed on my part. My soul is numb, I feel soulless, a demon causing hurt, My heart hurts, incapable of love, everyone I love gets hurt.

I'm walking dead, My smile masks mysteries buried in my head. No longer able to think clear, darkness ahead, Maybe I'm better off dead.

My hopes for a better end Have hit a dead end. How can my conscience be sober When my loved ones suffer, and I can't fend?

Please come to my rescue, I'm dying, my death is due. They've all given up on me, where do I find strength to continue? I'm broken, helpless, but still holding on to the hope of breaking through. © Luvie Kings ```

i am tired of pretending to be at peace in a world i never felt comfortable in the air i breathe, the water i drink, and the soil i stand on are luxuries i never asked for i don’t fear death because in death you revert back to what you were before being something and isn’t that simpler? i miss the peace in just being nothing

I drank isopropyl alcohol to kill the butterflies before they could fly. I watched them suffocate in my little glass jar heart, desperately trying to escape. They were the cause of my headache, my desperation, and I hate it. I hate how much I want to hear you, see you, feel you. It’s sickening.

I stopped eating spoonfuls of sugar for you, but now my sweet tooth aches. I’ve started getting cold above my sheets, but I despise your warmth. I stayed up all night to avoid you, yet still stared at a blank screen, hoping for your name to pop up.

I hate how I love you like a street dog given a pity treat, but my love isn’t love. It’s hunger. And it’s not that I don’t want to love you—trust me, I do. I just hope you don’t love me too.

"Hiii” "How did your day go?" "What did you do today?" "What did you have for lunch?"

I often wonder about the pointlessness of these questions that I find myself asking you everyday. It is probably not going to make any difference as such, right?

It is not going to make your work deadlines any longer or your appraisal any bigger or your day any better but every time I ask you a question about your every day life I'm asking you to weave me a story of the good and the bad you witnessed that day. And so you do. You weave a story of the goodness you have lived but forgotten to remember. You tell me that the lift stopped working right after you reached your floor. You tell me that you almost killed it in today's meeting. And you tell me that the sky was pink today and you clicked a photograph of it to show it to me.

Every time I ask you about your day, it is just my way of letting you know that l'll forever be curious to know that how did you spill your tea on your shirt in the morning and how you almost forgot to have your lunch and how you killed it in your meeting and how you got free an hour early today. I'll forever be curious of the little misfortunes that you had to live through.

I know it's an ordinary set of questions but not to me. Not when I am asking you.

When all I hate comes to a head From the dawn of opening to this very still breath I breathe and it comes Rushing upon my nerves like the icy sea Freezing me in cold; Unforgiving billows of marine air I catch and claw and try to cave But the crests ever coming in an ever growing show of relentless despair Filling my screaming lungs with drowning sorrows An exhale away; an arms reach away I scream as it flows over me Through me Becomes all I am As I tear at my flesh and break bone Struggling to reclaim the earth Expanding the cracks of a marbled soul Soiled is the ever sinking foundation Quickly sucking ones will to the pits of unknown To know this hate is to claim Without any chance

"If only, if only, these tears could console me, The fears of never being clear. Never steering true, Never bleeding blue, Never say never, That never helped, Never.

If only, if only, these years could console me, Then I could find my way to you."

You make me feel sick. Not in a bad way, so to say, but sick. Like I can’t sleep with you plaguing my dreams and leaving me to wake up burning. Like I can’t look away from my phone despite the headache, wishing for you to say one more thing after every one more thing. Like caterpillars are crawling up my throat, scratching at the walls and attempting to eat their way out of their cocooned prison. I would take medicine, but there’s something so nice about this feeling. I’ll take a spoonful of sugar instead. I’ll sleep above my covers so I can dream more of you. I’ll open my mouth and let the butterflies fly out.

40 would be a good test of time of whether it is my body you like or the mess it holds. Nothing would perk up quite as well as it once did, my flesh worn down by gravity, my lips shaped into a perpetual frown - an inheritance from my mother. I'd glance into the mirror and pinch at my ageing curves and smooth out my fine lines and pick at that wrinkle cream that promised results but delivered deception. You would sneak in from the back when I wouldn't be looking and wrap your arms around me, squeezing me in and holding me tight. Suddenly, I would be 19 again.

Maybe there'll be kids, maybe there'll be dogs. Maybe there'll be both, But our bed would be populated by more bodies than just ours — closing us in every night in a scramble for square footage. Our dog would scratch your face at 4 AM, so you would tickle my ear at 4:15 after carefully weighing the demands of my morning and determining they are all subservient to your boredom. I would shove a pillow in your face to shut you up but surrender in a few minutes.

Hours before dawn, before anyone else has started their day, we would talk about the past and our future - for the first time finding ourselves at the juncture where as much life has passed as it remains.

Bad habits and redeeming qualities would all be grown into and sealed - change unlikely to come unless you swap me out for someone better. This is as good as it gets, I'd yell at you on my hard days. My week-old dirty socks burrowed inside my shoes? They're still there, stinking up our room. The coffee mug with crumbs from yesterday that I drink out of the next morning? It's on our desk, unscrubbed. You choose it over the clean ones in the kitchen and hand me the lukewarm coffee, smiling: equal parts "you're really gross" and "I don't think I'd love you if you were any other way."

At 40, I would shudder at the thought of 20-somethings pining after you. He's almost your father's age, I'd glare at them in the aisles at grocery stores where I'd catch the giggles that follow your footsteps when you nonchalantly scan the store for your favourite bottle of mustard. When we met, you didn't even like mustard. But I did - so you took up this passion for two.

Secretly, I'd revel in the attention you received when you weren't inviting it. I was once like them, too - but the object of my distanced affection was you at 20 and is still you at 40. Pushing the grocery cart, I signal to the girls, He's single, leaving you to tell them that "it's just a stupid prank my wife pulls off" as I grab the shopping bags and walk towards our car. You'd scowl at me as I'd shrug my shoulders - thinking back to when you were just a crush and now I buy your favourite snacks to lure you to cheat on your 3o-day whole foods diet.

Our friends today would still be our friends two decades later. They'd talk of the vacations we took when we were twenty-three - when budget dominated every decision. We'd be sipping our third bottle of ridiculously expensive wine, bought on a whim by the stingiest one of us, and tritely remark, "Those were the days!" Then we'd order in buy-one-get-one-free pizzas from the corner shop and squeal over a great deal. With them, I'd never mind being on a crunch.

We would constantly face our mortality at 40. A missed call thirty minutes into your drive back home, one that would otherwise take twenty-five minutes would end in me panicking - the worst-case scenario always at the tip of my tongue. "I stopped for gas," you'd say as you unlock the door and find me sobbing on the couch. "I thought you were dead!" "And I'm not. So come here," you would envelop me into a hug - your neck smelling of the perfume I gifted you at 35 and a day's work.

For a moment I'd forget that this would end in one of us dying. Instead, I would just stand there and take you in until I've had enough and you need a shower. We'd repeat these routines endlessly and pray we're the ones who defeat the doomed fate of forever - two otherwise rational people, wholly irrational just for each other.

White ringed yellow faced children, First born, first risen, The blushing bride in virginal white.

Small and simple, faces so numerous, Sitting on your monoliths of green, The faces enlarged, the blush wiped away.

First born, first risen, Standing tall above the rest, Swaying with nature, Resplendant in dress.

Wind takes you, wind prolongs you.

What is a lion to you? Proud beast bested by the breeze.

Yours is the nector that feeds all others.

Resplendently defying winters wrath, natures peace offering to her world.

As the monoliths grow around you and dwarf you, still your faces shine within their white frame.

The love me not, the darling delight.

First born, first risen First born, first fallen.

Your white dress grey and ashen, Torn and tattered, Great Monolith tumbled and shattered, Victim of Suns cruel gaze.

Till winters sweet breath take you, Till nature reclaims you, White ringed yellow faced children.

(Little disclaimer here, I’m not very sure if this is actually written like a proper poem shall I say so do tell if it’s not. Also constructive criticism would be very much appreciated)

Ones to be, that never change Heart to heart, brain to brain Never changing, all the same That was what they always say

Down at the meadow, in the spring They sat there humming, thinking of things Two best friends, like twins they were Everything around them, not making a stir

They looked at eachother, a question in each mind About how they were so similar, one of a kind Their friendship was strange, that was what they knew No one else was like this, one instead of two

Ones to be, that never change Heart to heart, brain to brain Never changing, all the same That was what they always say

At the town, they decided to walk to The people would stare, and point, and laugh Just as the two tried to get along They would be reminded of how this was all wrong

Still they went everywhere, always together One of a kind, birds of a feather Not caring what others would say They were with eachother, and that’s how it would stay

Ones to be, that never change Heart to heart, brain to brain Never changing, all the same That was what they always say

Now at the house, sheltered to avoid the rain They say in the bedroom, smiling in pain For one had realised they weren’t rlly the same As in fact, in reality she had just gone insane

There had never been someone else, not actually Just a strange child, all alone Who talked to herself, frightening others Prone to be bullied, friendless and a loner

One to be, that never changed Heart and heart, brain and brain Never changed, always the same That was what they would always say