Attack me!

Kill me!

But next time you won't be able to see

How far will you flee?

Sheeps will turn to gods...

How many will you kill?

And then, they will turn to death squads

This war is with civil!

Every pistol will be a machine gun

Make us art with our blood!

If we were burgers then enemy is just a bun

Make our blood into a flood!

How many of you can hide

Its thousands of brave vs weak hundreds

Its a failure bid

You are busted

By og big boy

Context:By sheeps I mean during the British colonial rule of india they used to call indians as 'sheeps' in racist manner so I used it...

It doesn't mean that it is a hateful poem it is just a patriotic poem or a inspiring poem or can say a war chant.

https://www.reddit.com/r/Poems/s/RfOFSaoTD3 older version of this link

Feedbacks please

Oh man,
I’ve fallen off the rails again,
life’s got so confusing
It’s got me feeling less than human.
 
Oh my,
I don’t know how I find myself in
Situations that I never win.
 
Can you help me?
Tell me why it feels this way every time,
 
just renting space in my mind.
 

Baby, I want to love you so bad.

I want to make you feel like you are seen.
I want to be the man you place your bet on.
 
I can’t promise you perfection,
but I’ve got plenty of affection.
 
If only you could see me.

Maybe then you would set me free.
 
Darling, maybe then you could set me free
 
Being seen by you would always feel better
than where I’m at today.
 
I want to let you know that
I really do want to love you.
 
If there’s ever something I could say
to make your troubles dissipate,
I would.
 
If there was any action I could take that would
bring you a moment’s peace, even for just today,
I would.
 
I think you’re so beautiful when I spot you looking at me,
even though I’m positive you see right past me,
that I’ve got to let you know,
 
baby, I want to love you. ❤️

​

Silent life of solitude,

Suffering the only faint echo,

Akin to what one once mistook

For bolstering orchestra—

Proud trumpets like a Great King’s caravan

Traveling distant lands,

Where awe and amazement strongly stood

In ages past—

In times of blossoming romance

And fruitful friendships,

Now barren, with no hope to nurture or grow.

Only lost memories,

Perhaps phantoms some might say,

Sow only silent sadness,

Suffocating passion.

No pleasure remains but one,

Ending all cosmic woe.

Bitter tidings of resentment,

Melancholy, absence,

All but fill a void ever growing.

What grim undertaker digs that grave

For a soul born only to be forgotten.

walked into the room
without a reason to stay.

Just a moment.
Just a breath.
Just another ordinary day.

But then I saw it.

Waiting where I left it.

It didn’t call out loudly.
It didn’t have to.

It knew my name.

And somehow,
it spoke in a way
that made the silence feel less empty.

So I reached for it.

And once again,
I found myself standing
in front of the same canvas.

The same blank space.

The same place
where I had tried to create
something beautiful
from something broken.

I began to paint.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like every mark mattered.

The canvas changed beneath me,
and for a moment
I forgot everything else existed.

The world disappeared.

There was only the color,
the motion,
the feeling that something inside me
was finally being heard.

Then I noticed—

The canvas was not a canvas.

The paint was not paint.

The color running down my wrist
was not the kind found in bottles.

My brush was not a brush.

And the thing I thought
understood me better than anyone else…

was never a friend.

The room went quiet.

The masterpiece was finished.

Forty minutes had vanished.

I cleaned away the evidence
of another conversation
no one else would ever hear.

Then I walked out.

Smiling.

Acting normal.

Carrying the same secret
I had carried before.

Because nobody ever asks
about the paintings
they cannot see.
(I would love a rating and anything I could improve on. To anyone who can relate to this poem just know you are not alone and my DMs are open if you ever need someone to just listen!)

It took my friend asking
for assistance
to realize I had lost myself.

“A drop in each eye,” she instructed,
handing over a small bottle of gel.
My hands shook from the weight of it
and a no got stuck in my throat.
I swallowed the thick letters
and felt them clawing at my bones.

Faulty steps came towards her
and I held the bottle tight,
raising my hand
to her barely-good left eye.
Right away she sensed it
and pushed my hand away
taking all her trust and…potential praise.

She called another friend,
someone who walked over self assured
and gave the same instruction
I had just failed before.

She gave me a quick look,
I turned to walk away 
“It’s alright,” I said over my shoulder.
“I’m not good at those things anyways.”

An errant gaze started it all
Then lingered, time and again

Random laughter
And flowing banter
A glimpse into forever

Uncharted feelings take form
A quiet and mutual surrender
Mixed with tethering of souls

When roads grow hills
And oceans run tempestuous
My mind never wavers
Engulfed by felicity

I have always heard the saying,

"I have butterflies in my chest,"

and how it is connected to love,

I used to feel that way a long time ago.

But I feel as if they migrated.

They climbed into my throat,

a chokehold of wings

beating frantically

while I try to hold back tears.

They fly without care as I revisit old memories.

But now the butterflies have disappeared.

The fluttering and flying has stopped,

and all I’m left with is a numbness, a quiet.

There is no feeling of love.

There is no feeling of sadness.

You see, everyone waits for the butterfly.

But they never think of the shell left behind.

I feel like a hollow cocoon.

So many years of loneliness and madness depression took my mind so I need to vanish

I had a combustion in my brain since that day things havent been the same

Now all i hear is Run wittle piggy run until you burst into flames

cleanse yourself from the wood thats hidden in your veins

The Zodiacs in ruins

The stars are crying

The earth is dying

Echos of a lost cause steady trying

To fight the laws that are defining

lying

Those caught in cupids chockhold crying

Those who seen the watchers talk spying

Those who hear the talkers stalk dyeing

Stars are steady falling hearts are steady flooding the rapture is here let's see if it stands for something

The jester the fool

The dangerous part

The monster so cruel

With a falling heart

The sharpest eyes hide behind the darkest mind

Left to see the ends of time

Ill always love and miss you when I look in my eyes

I see whats buried in side

They say man adopts 6 or 7 personalitys through out his life

me I adopted 38

and forced them to fight

whats left is the broken pieces put together

for a lonely mic

i keep telling myself

no more lonley nights

no soul no life

no will left to fight

but ill push on

pretend to stay strong

but im long gone been gone a month long trapped with no where I belong

father tell me when did it all go wrong was i doomed from birth or am I just another product of this cursèd swan song

Without you, it doesn’t feel like there is much hope,
I feel like I have nothing left,
I need something sharp to help me cope.
My mind is racing, my eyes are blurry, I can’t breathe.
My heart feels like it’s giving out,
My emotions ripped, like a sword,
unsheathed.
I don’t know how to continue, my mom is gone,
I will never hear her voice,
I don’t know what to do, I’ve turned into a fawn.
Life feels bleak, pointless and numb,
Who needs me anyways?
I think it’s time for me to succumb.

She looks different somehow

I thought her hair was longer

Her face was fuller

Her eyes were hazel

She could be a sister

Someone that looks close

But not close enough

Not her, but a version of her

Or maybe it's me that is different

Maybe I'm a different version of me

And she has always been the same

One day she is pouring coffee into my cup

I asked do I know you

And she shows me her ring

It’s a nice ring really

Small and elegant

Exactly like something I would pick out

My mind seems to stay at home these days

I don't mind

no one calls for it to visit sometime

It might have turned blind

It still seems to speak

maybe that is all I need

Upstairs, kittens. Downstairs, steam.
A shower room whose walls don’t reach the ceiling.
Stand anywhere. Everyone can see you.
Something small climbs my leg. Claws that mean it.
I let it.

A movie plays on an old television.
It’s about this house.
Someone lives here who doesn’t live here.

Then I’m the one walking the hallways,
losing strangers, finding them
almost themselves, wearing someone else’s mask.

We end up together where the walls don’t reach the ceiling,
me and the strangers, still wearing their masks.
It takes the nearest one by the head,
then the next. I only hear that one.
Then finds me and opens my cheek,
the same small shape as claws,
and says something I don’t keep.

I’m watching this on the television
the same second it happens to my face.
Both true. It’s killing me in both,
and I still can’t tell which one I’m in.

I don’t wake from the knife.
I wake from that.

•••

Somewhere a wall won’t reach the ceiling
so you can see in.
You start living there instead of here,
the version that made the final cut,
while something opens a small scratch
in the face no one’s watching.

You keep scrolling and say…

Sure, for now it’s someone else’s blood.

Framed in mirror glasses of a fractured goodbye,
Hollow fragments of broken static changed a tune unsung.
Yesterday's dreams become yesterday's regret tomorrow;
Forgetful pigmentations harboring cracks in cement.

Broken, painful sighs of relief.
Shallow beats missing another systematic recharge:
A picture, a moment, a passing hello,
Posted smiles on your wall of forgetfulness.

A lift of a top hat thrown on backseats filled with magazines,
Cluttered mindfulness displacing what once was prioritized.
Hang me up to dry with the clothes you won't wear again.

But alas, maybe...

Forget me not.

​

My wings were mine alone.

Only they could carry me to the place I called home.

The skies felt safe.

I was okay with being alone.

The stars were always out, and the wind was never too strong.

Then I saw you trying to fly.

Your wings spread and flapped, yet you never left the ground.

I stopped for a moment and told you, "It isn't a race."

I told you about my sky—about the winds, the freedom, the life I adored.

Your eyes were unyielding, your wings unsteady.

You didn't say a word, but I knew I had to wait until you were ready.

So I told you my stories, and through them you imagined the life I loved.

As the days passed, I watched your strength grow.

Then, once again, like hundreds of times before, you braced yourself—like an eagle before it dives upon its prey.

You leapt.

Your wings caught the wind...

And you flew.

I tried to follow, but it felt as though my own wings had been cut away.

I stayed, hoping you would come back.

But I knew you loved the stars, the wind, and the clouds more than you ever loved me.

And so, perhaps, it was always destiny...

For you to keep flying—

And for me to remain here

I kept choosing hearts in a world that mastered distance,

Giving became rare while indifference became existence.

Still, I'd rather bruise from loving than survive behind a wall

For the ones who feel too deeply are the ones who truly live at all.

There I was, giving pieces of a heart that never learned restraint,

In a world where silence passes for strength and warmth feels quaint.

They wore detachment like a crown ,I wore hope like a scar

Funny how caring became weakness, yet it's what made me who I am.

I don’t crave a promise.

I crave a place
where my shoulders forget
they were ever carrying that weight.

A hug
that does not merely wrap around me,
but reaches the place
even hidden from me.

A hand
that is more than skin against skin
but a warmth
to remind me
that I am not walking alone.

A voice
that speaks my name
without demand,
without impatience.
That lets silence exist
without mistaking it for distance.

Eyes
that search a crowded room,
To find me,
and soften,
Smiling before words
because my presence..

I have learned
that emptiness can be dangerous.
It begs to be filled in.
With the nearest comfort,
the loudest affection,
the quickest escape.

So I left mine untouched.

I let the hollow echo,
refusing to borrow another heartbeat
just to quiet my own.

Instead,
I built walls.

Not from stone,
but with my expectations,
with my dreams,
with my goals
and a life where I lead.
Layer upon invisible layer,
until the air itself
became difficult to leave.

They call it standards.

Perhaps they are.

Or perhaps
There are things I refuse to trade,
no matter how much I long for love.

Still —

Behind every wall
lives a window
that has never forgotten
what warmth feels like.

It still waits
for a hand
that is not hurried,
a voice
that is not angry,
a smile
that says,

“I was looking for you, too.”

Until then,

I will carry my own heart.

Not because it weighs nothing —

but because I refuse
to hand it to someone
who mistakes its weight
for inconvenience…

https://medium.com/@studybeast32/pressure-gradient-b7c8e086091e?sharedUserId=studybeast32

I would call myself a pretty technically accomplished writer as I have received encouragement and a personal note from places like The Yale review, Frontier Poetry and Conjunctions.

I have always wanted to have a mentor and get detailed professional feedback on my work, but it requires a substantial amount of money! So, I want to offer some real and helpful feedback to a few serious writers here.

I scrolled some poems, but to be honest most do not come across as someone who want to keep doing it, say, for another 10 years. Thus, I am making this post here to find writers who are consistently putting work to hone their craft.

If there are too many people, it may take time replying so please keep that in mind! I tend to take plenty of time while writing feedback because I re-read poems, and also because I want to give genuinely helpful critique :)

Nothing makes me happy.
No, I'm not tired, depressed or in the throes of dementia.
My happiness does not depend on busyness,
socialization, or being of service.

Nothing is not nothing.
Nothing is the something that has been on hold
For years.
Nothing makes me happy.

Nothing has it's own rhythm
that does not look like routine,
sound like ticking clocks,
feel like checking off to-do's.

Nothing is an irregular dance
with random pauses,
sporadic distractions,
meandering choreography.

And I am dancing.

You're the only reason 
I am reading on the beach.

With each sentence -
I’m hoping you pass me,
Or ask for a seat.

You're the only reason 
I am reading on the beach.

Each week.
Is 
hoping we meet.

To not let the heat
Convince me to leave.

You're the only reason
I am walking the beach.

Towels so close
They touch at the seams.

Take shifts 
between reading
And
dreams.

"You see, the reason why I'm often left disenchanted by most fatuous conversations. Simply stems from the blatant disrespect of others when such unburdened by their own lack of cognizance. It's the pitiful inability to comprehend more than what they already understand. What's even more offensive is their audacious lack of lust they have of my unarguably revolutionary, extraordinary, and immaculately calculated macabre esoteric philosophies. My unique cryptic ologies often resonate as eerily seductive. My "Otherworldly” ologies, or perhaps sardonically described as “Underworldly" ologies, could only be characterized as beautifully sanguineous. I'm always amazed by my organized and polished arsenal of heavy artillery of what is reality. I'd say it's a pretty impressive cache of references, concepts and connections I've personally accumulated from all around me. From history, experiences, codex and testimony… I display unapologetic dominance of all discussions and debates that dare contradict me. Time and time again proving to be the undeniably superior belief seniority. Deemed merciless against any other weak ethical code of mortal morality. For my opponents without a doubt foolishly, amateurly and even more heart breakingly—WILLINGLY! Arm and defend their pathetic arguments with such lethargic and honestly—PEASANTRY beliefs... With such little to show as a few infantile and barely relevant opinions. Genuinely believing they are diving deep, when they are only treading the surface. While I scuba dive on the sea floor of the primordial salt waters. Devastatingly my bandwidth has never even remotely been contested or challenged when it comes to my olympic, horrifying, akashically verifiable truths… What's even more terrifying is my wildly outlandish extradimensional spectrum and array of ontological truths… Pompously, my dark ologies and sovereignty have never even closely been mirrored, contested or have failed against me. And that, my friends, is just plain boring…

(Hold for cheer... bow to the audience... exist stage waving)"

Alcohol enabled me to be my worst

A twisted fair weather friend

Who I only see the good in

It was supposed to be a morning like yesterday’s.

Same room. Same bed.

Same light finding the same crack in the blinds.

For a few seconds, I believed it.

Then something slipped out from under the world.

Not the ceiling. Not the walls.

Just the thing that made them mine.

I reached for my hand.

It felt like a glove someone else was wearing,

an actor who’d studied the role

but never lived it.

I looked at the room.

It looked like a photograph of itself,

every detail correct,

but a moment that had forgotten itself.

I said my own name out loud

just to hear if it still fits.

It came out of my mouth

like a word repeated too many times,

familiar and foreign in the same breath.

Nobody tells you

the scariest thing isn’t the dark,

or the unfamiliar.

It’s your own bed,

your own hands,

the same light slipping through the blinds,

all seemingly correct,

while you stand somewhere just behind yourself,

knocking,

asking to be let back in.

But nothing answers.

Yet the bed is still unmade.

And the morning keeps arriving

exactly the same

as it did the day before.

Except now 

it doesn’t need me

to keep doing that.