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?
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 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.
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.