In Another Life

In another life

By Nikki C Mercer

In another life 
we walk the streets in daylight 
side by side holding hands

In another life
we celebrate our love
every waking moment we can

In another life
I am your woman
you are my man 

In another life
<strong>Nikki C Mercer</strong>
Nikki C Mercer

Nikki C Mercer is a wordsmith residing in Adelaide Australia. She manages a family, a financial career and a passion for creative writing.

Nikki’s pursuits include endurance running, eating way too much sugar and experiencing the depth of life.  Nikki is co-author of The Thing Between Us and is published in a number of anthologies worldwide.
 Connect with Nikki on Instagram by searching for handle: ImagineExploreCreate

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She was Manifesting.

She was Manifesting.

Poetry by Shantae Gray

She walked right passed him.
He who was a King.
It hadn’t been intentional.
And as he straightened his crown; flexing his pectorals.
Hoping that the sun’s rays would hit his kingly.
That this woman would see him.
That she would fall to his feet.
For he needed her to be his Queen.
She might have been if he had come months sooner.
 
For in her a sea of intensity had raged.
A hurricane of hunger surged through her.
Its lightning and thunder awakened her.
She could only see the very being she was striving to be.
She was manifesting.
 
Dimensions she hadn’t seen.
Dreams she hadn’t dreamt.
She was inspired.
She was ready to defy.
She was ready to fly.
She was manifesting.
Her being had been rebooted.
Schooled by knowledge that had been so empowering.
She was manifesting.
 
She didn’t dress like a queen.
Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail; sweat running down her face.
In her denim jeans were patches of dirt.
That represented the business she was building.
The degree she was completing
The integrity she held on to.
The book she was writing.
She was manifesting.
 
There, etched into her black skin were jewels of her hard work.
All the things her sweat, blood and tears had achieved.
She was manifesting.
The king went in search of her.
Resting his crown.
Putting on his boots.
Running towards her
Trying to catch traces of the beauty that lingered in the wind; gracing time and changing lives.
She was manifesting
<strong>Shantae Gray</strong>
Shantae Gray

My name is Shantae Gray. A proud Jamaican and a graduate of The Caribbean Maritime University. I enjoy long hours at the beach, reading and singing.

I can’t say that writing is just a hobby. For me, it is far more than that. It has become a way of life.  A God given talent that I appreciate each day.

It’s funny how my emotions and feelings are tied to my writing. If I can feel it, I can write it. I love that about my craft. It is my feelings and emotions on paper.

I am working on my first book of poetry and aspire to be a renowned self-published author.
 
You can follow me on Instagram @taestruth

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If Love is A Tale

If Love is A Tale

By Aaradhya Aggarwal

Blood in my veins,
In a frozen state,
Sliding like wine
On his curved, red lips.

Smoke in the air;
My thoughts burning.
Gaze stuck on the window,
Is the rain coming?

Lock my hands,
Throw the keys,
Push me in the fire,
Watch it melt with me.

If love is a tale,
Then what is your role?
Dying for your lover,
Or let him kill you on his own?
Or let him kill you on his own?
<strong>Aaradhya Aggarwal </strong>
Aaradhya Aggarwal

I am from Uttar Pradesh, India.
My hobbies include writing songs, singing, and sketching.

I am a high school student. Writing is amusing for me, but I also plan to publish my work. I have my poem “Rain On Fire” published in the book “Bloom: Poems of Loss, Heartbreak, and New Beginnings” presented by Poem Wars and edited by R.J. Hendrickson.

I have a poetic account on Instagram: @_ocean_mind_

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Ethel Beauregard is Not Dead

Ethel Beauregard is not dead

By Jayla Martin

Ethel Beauregard is not dead.
Ethel Beauregard is alive.
She died, not with a choked gasp, scream
Not metal or a screech
Ethel Beauregard died of paper cuts on her fingers and face
She died, not of heartbreak, but of a heart made whole too many times.

She did not die with her whole life ahead of her,
For she was old, and knew better than to dream,
Nor with her whole life before her eyes
But thinking only of one place…

Somewhere in the world there is a procession of weepers, dressed in black, and circling an open grave.
I am not there.
I am in a library.
A forgotten corner
Full of yellowing books of poetry and light from a single window,
a wooden chair, and a single desk
And perhaps I knew her better than anyone else:

For she did not die full of courage, strength or humility,
But full of brass keys to unopened locks to unopened rooms that lay old and forgotten,
She died full of yellowed letters, tragedy unread
She did not live of cloud and light
But of wood and dust she is buried
As she always was.

She did not die of old age
It was not old age that killed her

Don’t look for her in a hole, or at a grave of stone.
She is not there.
Ethel Beauregard is buried here
In the forgotten corner of a library
Among yellowing books of poetry
In the light from the window
Among spines of poems that mourn and weep the emotions never read
The forgotten poetry of the unnamed thousand
Covered in dust

Ethel Beauregard is not dead
For she lives in the corners of a library
Where forgotten things go to rest.
<strong>Jayla</strong> <strong>Martin</strong>
Jayla Martin

I am a devoted poet and aspiring journalist in Greensboro, North Carolina who writes to perceive and interpret the world around me.

As someone with an innate affinity for words, I always want to get better at my writing and pursue it throughout my life.

When I’m not busy studying or helping with my local poetry club, I’m spending time in my own head daydreaming or I’m trying to rope friends into an impromptu card game.

Instagram: @wethetragedy

Want your work featured? Submit your poem or short story here.

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Words, A Beautiful Creation

Words A Beautiful Creation

A poem by Mayank Saxena

Words have an amazing character
You mould it and they change their texture
They motivate you
They disintegrate you
They reflect your identity and nature
They can shape your future
They can cut like a sword
They can be lighter than a bird
World is nothing without words
We, poets are nothing without these words.
<strong>Mayank Saxena</strong>
Mayank Saxena

I’m from Nagpur, India. I am a Geologist by profession but a poet by passion. My hobbies are travelling, writing and reading. I work with a company providing Geoscience solutions and software.

I love to pen down my emotions on paper. Writing is like a meditation to me.

I have two poems published in books. One is titled, Artisnal Miners in Amaranthine: Poetic Abode. The second poem is Mystery of Earth in a book entitled, Raindrops. 
Instagram: mayank_saxena83.
Facebook: Mayank Saxena

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Inhibitions and Fall

Inhibitions and Fall

By Gitanjali Kapoor

No Autumn is more beautiful
than a woman dropping her inhibitions
in the Aura of the Man she loves.

She blooms like a Moonflower
on a starless night
when the Wolves in him
calm her ocean of ecstatic Tides.

A Poetic saga flows through the rustic crispness of sheets
just like the music born in Autumn
by the soft murmurs of the golden leaves.

No Autumn is more beautiful indeed
and every woman awaits her call
A rebirth from darkness
to the myriad shades of Fall.

Unburnt Ashes

We burn many bridges in life but why do we save the ashes? 
Ashes that pierce every time like a sharp knife.
And when it rains, the first few drops that kiss the dry barren mud of the heart we become slave to the petrichor of those rotted dead memories.

Strange but there seems to be no threshold for pain.

I often find myself standing in front of that mirror left
back in the deserted woods on one of the pages of my life.

I stare at her happy face,
decorating her forehead with a bindi and wearing those bangles with a coy smile.
Ah someone needs to shake her up and tell her that she hasn't moved since years and it's high time.

I turn back and look at me now and see the huge walls that I've built over the years. Don't we all have those walls which we laid brick by brick to simply hide or shield whatever little is left of us?

But then I noticed that there ain't any roof and I felt like a fool,
when I had the sky then why didn't I fly,
why did I believe in the hoax that all is well within these dark sombre walls.

And if there wasn't any roof then why didn't someone come looking for me and take me on some wings which seemed clipped for me.

A Hero we keep searching for outside, didn't you listen to Mariah Carey say that the Hero lies in you.

Ah yes, I keep forgetting and every time someone appears like a shadow I've been imagining since so many years on those walls,
remember those walls I've built,
yes they do hold some vague images,
vivid imaginations that comfort and soothe my aching soul.

And suddenly I try to lean on that shadow but hey shadows eventually fade when it gets dark and there you are left with one more brick for your wall.

So all I say to this little vulnerable girl, burn those bridges and let the winds carry those ashes to some forbidden land of no return.

Build your walls but keep filling those cracks so no shadows can be formed.
And finally believe that you are your Hero and you have survived those storms and nobody promised there won't be anymore but remember this time don't give in to a shadow but only the one who promises you endless rainbows at night is the one who'll hold your hand for life.


<strong>Gitanjali Kapoor</strong>
Gitanjali Kapoor

Gitanjali is known in the Writer’s World by her pen name Laughing_Soul. She is an articulate single lady in her 40’s from Mumbai, India. Born in a loving family with its share of ups and downs, and after carving a a fulfilling career in the hospitality industry, her poetic soul finally found solace in penning words. She is a full time hobby writer, author and publisher. Gitanjali’s making waves in the literary world with her work, adorning many anthologies. She also invented a poetic form called the ‘Mirror Alphoppbet’.

Her debut publication, Crimson Kisses, was featured in the Mumbai edition of Times of India newspaper. Dated 25/07/2018, and praised for highlighting issues related to adolescent girls. Crimson Kisses is available on Amazon. 

In her words “Poetry is when my Soul breathes through my words, pain bleeds through my ink and I witness a rebirth of my thoughts.”

Interview on Medium 
https://medium.com/@mirakee.
justwords/rendezvous-20-abe66400f067
 

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Wild by Zahra

Wild by Zahra

Wild, a poem by Zahra Zuhair

You will fail
to find that passion
you sparked in me
when you lie with her,
for she is the magnificent trees,
but never a lush forest,
and she is the ocean
but never the surfer's waves,
and she is the shoreline
but never the dotted seabed,
and she is the stars that light up for you,
but never the sky that changes for you.
And you, who wouldn't dare
preserve and explore a forest,
or ride the mighty waters,
or drown inside the quicksand that I was,
or push a little harder to reach the sky-
I was too great in my being for you.
It was not me that could not hold on to you,
but it was you that could not hold on at all.
<strong>Zahra Zuhair</strong>
Zahra Zuhair

I write poems about mental health, identity, faith and relationships. My writing comes from my own personal experiences, and mental well-being; a place within me that reaches out to the world, wanting to confront issues that people need to talk about. I think my writing is a form of rebellion against systems which oppress through conformity rather than liberate the individual soul and mind. I am always ready to share my work and contribute to larger causes. It’s what drives me as a writer and a teacher.
IG: @liminaling 

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So Much More

So Much More

By Riley Bader

We are all so much more than our statuses,
our faces or our anxieties.

We are caring and kind,
but beyond that,
we are not always fine.

And that is okay.

We are deeper than our smiles,
our cries, and our laughs.
We are human.
Our emotions are so much more vast.

And we will be stronger.

The quietest person in the room
fights off the loudest thoughts.
Actually, scratch that,
anyone can be plagued with
mental exhaust.
The person who seems to have everything
all figured out, really,
has never felt more lost.

And that is okay.

Because we are beautiful
and we are bold.
and we are different and
have untold
futures awaiting all of us.

So we will change the world.
<strong>Riley Bader</strong>
Riley Bader

Hi, my name is Riley Bader and I am currently a high school student. Writing has always been one of my passions so I decided to create an account for my poetry! But, aside from writing, I also love swimming and playing or listening to music. 
My poetry account’s username is @whitestorm_poetry. All of the support I have there means the world to me! 

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A Birthday Gift

A Birthday Gift

By Joyasmita Ghosh

It is not the day that seems special,
But the people who make it so.
For it is just another day;
The same sun, the same sky
And the same universe that guides the pass.
But you speak of it as a day of remembrance
And insist it be celebrated.

But is a day worth celebrating Life?
And given you, given your love,
Celebration and gratitude are an enormity.
Life and Death are a game of scores;
Each second that brings us closer adds on to Life
And each moment that pulls us apart add on to Death.
You ask for my choice of gift,
But I already have you.
What could be more dear, than a heart which beats in a rhythm similar?
A soul that bows in prayer for Eternal togetherness,
And happiness that unleashes at the smile that brings the dawn to your day.

You urge, and I finally ask you for a gift
And you instinctively say yes.
Don’t, for this may hurt,
promising a thing prior knowing its price.
And I go on to tell you:
If ever a lonely soul you stumble upon,
A shoreless sailor, with all hope gone,
Promise me you’ll hold her hand
And be the loveliest roses on her barren land.
For a heart that is dilapidated,
Life happens not in worldly dreams,
But in a feather-touch that brings joy untold
And shuts out one’s inner screams.

Thus begins the celebration of the heartbeat, knowing that
Gone is the chasm of bitterness;
A life awaits anew.
I say this, for I have once been a shoreless sailor.
Give you such a life, know that our love lives then
As the Heavens doth forever.

Tis my birthday today, and you can’t refuse me.
All I ask for someone, just like me, is a reason to celebrate;
Not just a day, but a life;
A life that gives glories, a life that gives pain,
But above all, a life that brings you home
And prepares you to set sail again.
<strong>Joyasmita Ghosh</strong>
Joyasmita Ghosh

Joyasmita is from West Bengal, India.
Current job: pursuing Graduation course in Mathematics.

Hobbies: Sleeping, watching cartoons, sky-gazing and muser. A hardcore bibliophile and a music lover.
Instagram handle: read_andrelate
Focus for writing: A break from everything boring.

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It Soon Reaches You

It Soon Reaches You

By Peter Anko

It's so close
Very close
Thus why does it seem so far?
As the feet approach
The view gets distant
Luring the heart to walk infinite miles
Grazing along the broad wide road
There lies the path to love
Entangled in a circle

What seemed nigh stands afar
Feet are swollen to the kneel
Strength fades away at each step
From the eyes
Flows two rivers down the cheek
Why should the pursuit seize?
When you've entertained love's wonder
How it mends broken hearts
Keeps hope alive
And stripes stench of sorrow

Its path remains circular
And it soon reaches you
When patience is not exasperating
Best you take a position within
Always alert
Love soon smiles at you
<strong>Peter Anko</strong>
Peter Anko

Hi, my name is Peter Anko, and I was born in the early nineties. I am a Nigerian and a teacher of English Language and literature.

I enjoy reading, writing, editing print and playing the keyboard. Writing is serious for me. I write poems, short stories and screenplays. Someday, I wish to publish my work.
Catch my thoughts on Instagram – Peteranko1

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