theemopoet

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��MUSIC TO MY POETRY IS NOW AVAILABLE INTERNATIONALLY. �� LINK IN BIO!

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  • theemopoet 8w

    Word Prompt:

    Write a 6 word one-liner on Endure

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    Love endured, but the bonds gone.

    ©theemopoet

  • theemopoet 8w

    Word Prompt:

    Write a 3 word one-liner on Guilty

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    Curses make guilty

    ©theemopoet

  • theemopoet 8w

    Word Prompt:

    Write a 6 word one-liner on Inhuman

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    Love or hate, I am inhuman.

    ©theemopoet

  • theemopoet 8w

    Word Prompt:

    Write a 10 word short tale on Survive

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    Escaping inevitable pain just to be faced by cold murder

    ©theemopoet

  • theemopoet 8w

    The windows are flung open,
    Yet there is no breeze,
    To ventilate my room of chaos,
    And lift off the weight, ease.
    I choke on my silence,
    And I scream light into my mind of ill,
    But squeals escape my gagged heart,
    As caliginous powers scourge me, kill.

    ©theemopoet

  • theemopoet 8w

    All the odds seem to be against me,
    And my heart's desires,
    And I feel as though, if I breathe my last,
    I will be the least remembered,
    And the least forgotten,
    For friendship and love have expunged me,
    And I don't find home in my lonely,
    Anymore.
    Not even the air feels thin enough,
    Or dense enough,
    For my lungs to keep my leaves alive,
    And I don't hear the silent whisper of my heart beating,
    For it ceased to beat, and I'm a corpse,
    One that wanders like a ghost,
    With no soul, nobody my own,
    Anymore.

    ©theemopoet

  • theemopoet 8w

    Often times, I find myself dwelling in trenches,
    A million feet below the surface of existence.
    No cries heard, no tears seen,
    Underwhelmed by mere happenstance.

    ©theemopoet

  • theemopoet 8w

    By unknown writer

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    .

  • theemopoet 8w

    What is home?
    I ask myself, as I lay in my bed,
    Under the warm cozy comfort,
    Of my blanket.
    Is this what home feels like?
    I interrogate the sweet silence, of my room,
    Curled up like a newborn baby.
    Winds whirring against the window,
    Curtains cuddling against the walls,
    Like my clothes hung on the wall bracket.
    Is this home?
    Four walls, no calls,
    And a waterfall,
    Of books and picture frames.
    Soaking all in, I close my eyes,
    As the chill of the night, boards me to my flight,
    Of peace,
    Sleep.
    Will I wake up, home?
    Where the dawning sun kisses my eyes,
    And my feet touch cream ceramic.
    The music of my mother yelling,
    And that of my father, and my brother, synchronizing,
    As breakfast is served,
    Dinner, loved.
    The aroma of every meal,
    Wafts from room to room,
    Till it hugs the walls,
    And makes love to my sense of smell.
    Guests, dressed in their best,
    And laughter echoing from ceiling to ceiling,
    With oceans accumulating, of joyous feelings.
    Am I home?
    Where TV commercials and family serials,
    Paint the walls with their light,
    And my parents are worried,
    That I've not returned, from that birthday bash,
    Now, that it's half past twelve.
    This is the one place I dwell,
    When I'm ill or well,
    Be it with family,
    Be it alone,
    I feel best when I am nowhere,
    But home.
    Yes, this is home.
    I am home.

    #home #poetry #pod #repost @writersnetwork @readwriteunite @mirakee

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    Is this home?
    Four walls, no calls,
    And a waterfall,
    Of books and picture frames.
    Soaking all in, I close my eyes,
    As the chill of the night, boards me to my flight,
    Of peace,
    Sleep.

    ©theemopoet

    *Full poem in the caption*

  • theemopoet 8w

    Sometimes, I stare blankly at the whiteness of the backlit page,
    Poetry and prose leave my mind in a static.
    Attempting to create, I picture scenarios of emotional weight,
    Rummaging through the junk in my attic.
    Lenticular visions, magnifying my imagination,
    I scurry, flipping cream leaves of books, unread.
    Distractions arise, and I'm caught up in a net of pictures and feeds,
    And as time passes by, no words sow their seed.

    ©theemopoet