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can't (and won't)

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Loss turned my love into longing And may I say, what you never wanted me to be: Bitter With the B being capital I seek confirmation of our reunion in the tiniest of things Grief has emptied all my patience reserves I just can't  Can't with time Can't with your absence I will go back to square one physically Because I have no choice  Back to the four bungalows that live on the first square  But mentally, emotionally, I am in our twelve and a half years Reliving you in every voice note replayed In every video rewatched While this world and everyone in it With their attempts to pacify and distract I will simply tolerate You were supposed to leave me with grace If ever the cruel Gods wished you leave before I did It should have happened at eighty-seven, instead of fucking thirty-four, my life completed and cup overrun But I'm left with only rage Waking up at odd hours seething that my reality, this pittance of life and whatever is left of it It is just hopeless without you...
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Write a poem why not

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Life is for the living and death is for the dead The motivation to live is for those still living  The motivation to die is for the one who died on you The grief of losing the love of your life to death causes your desire to live to die Leaving only the deep desire to die Seemingly that being the only way to be where he now is  And the only desire to live comes from the living around you Little infant grunts, resilient fists, unblinkingly alert eyes, loud crying and the cutest catlike mewling from a 14 day old nephew Giving purpose one day at a time to a 27 day old widow 
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xx, BD

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My own ghosts of this empty flat have their own ghosts  The last rung of the ladder I would workout on has a Voldemort  A paint stain that is an unmistakable likeness of the Dark Lord I fall asleep to memories of multiple forgotten dreams suddenly recalled before sleep Every emotion here intensifies Accidentally seeing a lone sleeping leg in the mirror of the dark room frightens my very soul As I no longer sleep in front of mirrors in my new home(s) So many old secrets still embedded in neglected storage  A grandmother's gift of a diamond pendant claimed by its hungry drawers Missing for fifteen years  A dress and a pair of jeans impossibly too small that somehow would (albeit temporarily) fit me As I pack up the flat methodically, in a ritualistic dance with the old highly replace-worthy mop It occurs to me that: There is so much the walls with its webby corners still gives Just being alone here is like reclaiming a sleeping part of my old untethered identity  ...
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Chand ko Raat mili

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Chand ko Raat mili, aur maloom hua usse ke Raat mein hi toh woh basti hai. Tab talak Chand sochti rahi ki woh aasman ki badaulat hai, aur samajhti rahi ki woh Suraj ki. Suraj ki garam dhoop mein lipti hui, baadalon ki god mein palti hui, sirf ek chhote bacche ki tarah, bilkul aaraam se. Uska bas ek kartavya tha Dharti ke upar dheere dheere mandrana. Use laga ki woh sagi hai toh bas roshni ki. Aur pata chala ki wohi roshni darasal uski apni nahi. Apne liye bhi nahi, par Raat ke andhkaar ko mitaane ke liye woh bas ek zariya thi. Roshni apni asli zimmedaari, jo din mein bakhoobi Suraj ke madhyam se nibha paati hai, wahi Raat ki gehri kaali mein bhi Chand ke dwaara barkaraar rakhti hai.
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non conforming anarchists this way ↔️

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"The school needs children" What your response to where you would insert the word "good" in the sentence above Determines one of 3 things  Whether you need an education yourself, If you need a lesson in capitalism Or you need the safety of illusion "The "good" school needs children" If you answered this way, You need an education yourself Well, "good" news! Life makes you a student A "good" or "bad" one Is immaterial "Good" schools rarely produce "good" children And "bad" schools rarely produce "bad" ones "The school needs "good" children If you answered this way, You need a lesson in capitalism Your inherent "goodness" determines your usefulness to the capitalist The "goodest" boy goes far But only in the number of paychecks collected Enslaved to the desk, the only measure of his worth being how much richer he made the rich man "The sch...
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Babies who Look like Old Men

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You like babies? I like them too Let's get together And go see some At the orphanage The one in yellow Is covered in jello My favourite is the one in blue He looks like a little old man  An old man baby
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Riveted

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The overnight simmer of unbaked fragmented sentences Intentional edging and deferment of thought to paper It requires compounding  A seemingly one-sided brawl, past three, origin only guessably traced back to the street Followed by the too-fast swishing past of a too-loud heavy vehicle Then, eerie silence Not one to save abusive maniacs Still, my post-bladder-clearing groggy mind Relocates the brawler to the first-floor balcony When sighs, slightly dramatic, escape me  Post seventy-five seconds of eerie quiet Practicing the art of tender listening through shallow sleep The ghosts of the night would testify to spying a smile As soon as brawling-man faded out to showcase brawling-woman
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