As If There Wasn’t a Tomorrow

As If There Wasn’t a Tomorrow by Pamela Wasabi

I was driving down the Rickenbacker Causeway, and I witnessed a love affair.
I had the sun posing to my far left in the west as I drove north over and up the bridge.
He wore an orange smile.
I felt as if he was flirting with me,
but I realized he was looking past me.
His stare was profound, warm, and it completely transversed me.
He was staring at the moon.
She was in the far east. She was full.
The Snow Moon.
Wearing her glimmered silver rags.
She was lost in her dreams and in her songs.
She danced and frolicked around the stars and the different purple shades of the sky.
I felt the passion of the sun.
I felt his desire to cross over the ocean that separated them.
He was in awe of her. He was blushing; turning red.
He knew he couldn’t approach her, touch her or smell her.
For the closer he’d come, the farther she’d spin away.
He wondered if she thought of him.
Little did he know, her inner glow, her sparkly skin was alive because of him.
The sun had his last minutes counted.
It was time to go away. Time to meet his fate. The setting of himself.
He only knew to rise and lived oblivious of the concept of a tomorrow.
He only knew about his present. He only knew about his love.
This love that powered the fervor and ferocity of his splendor.
But he also knew his death was near.
As he set, as he slid down the horizon and disappeared,
he left his last words in majestic pinks, reds and orange-tinted clouds.
He wrote he was dying happy because he had loved.
I kept driving down the bridge.
The sun’s last sigh took over my skin.
Every pore of mine was in love with his love.
And I wondered:
If the sun had known about the existence of a tomorrow,
would he have loved the same way?
With the same tenacity?

I look forward to falling in love again,
like the sun,
after many sunsets,
as if there wasn’t a tomorrow.

<strong>Pamela Wasabi</strong>
Pamela Wasabi

Pamela Wasabi is a thought innovator on women’s social issues, food education, and conscious relationships. Her background stretches from the whereabouts of the psychology of eating, integrative nutrition, eastern philosophy, to plant-based food artistry. She’s a mother, an Oracle Card reader, a Women’s Empowerment Coach and a lover of life. Wasabi is the founder of a local bakery in Miami, bringing the message of Self-Love to the table, proposing a new approach to food with her motto #EatMoreBeauty.

She’s the author of “Nourished, The Plant-based Path to Health and Happiness,” which explores our relationship with food and self. In January 2020 she published “Woman of the Moon” a poetry book filled with wild feminist prose proposing the liberation of the soul from the oppression imposed by the ego-mind. Pamela Wasabi is currently working on her third title, “Returning to the Wild Woman,” which expands on women’s food challenges and body image issues. She presents the healing solution through the connection, revival, and balance of a woman’s Sacred Feminine energy.

Facebook.com/pamelawasabi
Website: linktr.ee/pamelawasabi or
 returningtothewildwoman.com

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Wishes

Wishes by Devyani Sharma

Far ahead of time and tide,
I wish I had you by my side.
But when do my wishes dictate my life?
Seems my heart and mind are always in strife!

Me by Devyani Sharma

There are some stories locked behind the doors of time,
Some memories I thought I had left behind.
They are inside a box to which I hold the key,
Those memories are the things that really define “Me”.

<strong>Devyani Sharma</strong>
Devyani Sharma

I am Devyani Sharma, a 22-year-old writer from India. I am a curious soul who is interested in everything around me.

I believe that words have the power to change the world and hence dream of revolutionising the field of writing someday. Since writing is a serious affair for me, I hope to have a career in it soon.

I am a Commerce and a Literature Major student. I love watching movies, listening music, reading books, talking to people and everything that helps me to gather new stories and perspectives. 

Do check my personal blog on Instagram-
@just_write_it_away

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How Many Times

How Many Times by Kobe Gerousse

Why do you listen to everyone’s opinions?

Hey
Why does it seem like you don’t have a mind of your own?

Hey
Why do you answer the phone within the same minute I text you?

Hey
Why do you put others before yourself?
Why don’t you do what’s best for you?
Why are you always scared?
Why don’t you sleep well?
Why don’t you eat much?
Why do you prefer taking a punch over a tough conversation?

Because you don’t get it

How many times I’ve acted like a dog
Just so you wouldn’t leave me on the side of a highway
Wondering what I did wrong?

How many times I’ve acted like I didn’t care
Just so I wouldn’t hurt your feelings?

How many times I’ve cheered you up
But still I’m the one sitting at home all alone while you’re having fun?

How many times I’ve acted as a bulletproof shield
Just so you don’t have to?

How many times I’ve died
But came back just because you missed me?

How many times I whispered my secrets to the sea but still the wind spreads them without telling me why?

How many times I’ve tried to stop you from bleeding
While I’m getting blamed for the bloodstains on the carpet

How many times I check my phone even though I know there won’t be any messages

How many times you’ve made my day just ‘cus you took the effort to call me?

You wanna know why I prefer taking a punch over a tough conversation?
Because seeing you cry feels like a blow I can’t prepare for
Even if I want to?!

No, I don’t think you do
But that’s okay
I have a birthmark on my chest
That glows
With every thought it counts
I hope it counts for something

<strong>Kobe Gerousse</strong>
Kobe Gerousse

Hi, I’m Kobe, I’m a 17-year-old student from Belgium. Outside of writing, I love to practise martial arts. For me, writing is mainly a way to express how I feel, and it makes it easier for me to identify my emotions as well.

I have an Instagram account with the tag @KGpoe_try where I feature all of my own poems. I hope you like my poems!!  

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here. 

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Solitude Not Loneliness

Solitude Not Loneliness

Solitude Not Loneliness by Sanna Wren

This is not loneliness
but solitude.
These are not tears
but life-giving rain.
This is not night
but knight.

When these weeds
are not just trash
but armour
of environment,
why should I feel
so worthless?
I should not.

She is Not a Virgin by Sanna Wren

She is not a virgin,
but she is not a slut.

She has the hands
to serve you.
She has the voice
to calm you.
She has the heart
to love you.
She has the curves
to attract you.
She has the so-called
pleasure to doze you
or warm you
after a frozen day.
And she has the womb
to raise babies
for you to play
piggy back.

But she is not a virgin.
Does it matter?
Does it matter so much?
Is purity a damn matter?
Well! So your heart
is so damn pure
like a holy man, I guess.
Well! So your eyes
have not been to
porn videos, I guess.
Well! So your head
has not been to
wild fantasies, I guess.
Well! So you’re a ticket
straight to the heaven.

Well! Holy man,
keep labelling her
as slut, slut, slut…
What a power!
What a shitty power!

An Only Magical Potion by Sanna Wren

There is nothing
in this corona-world to do,
and I lock myself
in a messed up room,
sit by the lonely window
with my crowded mind
of all the troubles,
and there I fall, into
the tone of wind,
the rustling of leaves,
the dance of trees,
the songs of birds,
the buzz of bees,
the fragrance of flowers,
the pattern of sunlight
and tinsel-like grass.

How beautiful is the power
and beauty of stillness.
An only magical potion
for the metro-train-like world
to unburden all its troubles.

Sanna Wren

Sanna was born and grew up in India. She began her journey with “Love As We Know It”, one of the best-selling anthologies from Delhi Poetry Slam.

Her poems appear widely in anthologies. Poetry makes her wild and free. Sanna is 21, loves reading and blogging. She completed her Bachelor’s Degree in English Language and Literature.

She can be found on Instagram @sanna_wren_

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Falling

Falling

Falling, by Wang Di

Am I drowning into an apocalypse
with voices chanting inside me
that tells me that
I should never allow the light
to fall upon me?

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘮 𝘐 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰?

Nostalgia by the front door
deep within me,
trying to rewire
all the veins that I have cut,
all the connections that I have lost,
all the memories that seem to wither
into an abyss but
I am tired of all the mending
just to keep myself sane.

𝘈𝘮 𝘐 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 ?

When I was seven,
Mama told me to carry a silver plated coin
for the loneliness to subside.
Now, as I walk along
this pitch black pavement with
her gift in my pocket,
I crave for the synchronicity of
my dreams with reality,
to become
all of these faces that are around me,
different hues of yellow, red and green,
each one with
a different joy,
a different dream
and with a completely different
ability to find
solace in the agitation.

𝘔𝘢𝘮𝘢, 𝘪 𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘪𝘯.

But, here I am
held hostage in my own mind,
spending countless hours in the bathroom,
my movements unable to resonate
with the direction of the compass
yet, here I am
trying to find the serenity for everyone.

𝘉𝘶𝘵, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦?

God damn I am exhausted of
all the mess that I create,
every second.
God damn I am falling hard
and back into the place that I didn’t wish for.
So, when am I going to get my happy ending?

𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨,
𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨,
𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨.

When You Left Me

When You Left Me, by Wang Di

When you left me for fame
on the other side of our favorite beach,
I walked inside an eerie room,
plethora of mirrors around me,
touched the shiniest of all
and became one myself.
Now that you aren’t here
to hold my hand like you used to,
these mirrors showcases
the metamorphosis of
this home for my disdained soul
from an authentic self
into an unknown being,
who once was in need of
continuous validation of
suiting oneself into
those ideal standards
that honey, you seemed to have
fallen for me in the first place.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow
is all you could say
when my arms were wide open
for you but
you walked past your home
and entered into a new dimension
without me in it;
without me.

And when I saw your Polaroid
lying on the shelf,
loneliness befriending him,
I couldn’t help myself
but to hold him for 3 seconds
and bury it
under a colossal of hurricanes.

Oh, honey,
when you went
to the other side of our favorite beach,
I couldn’t get myself together,
still can’t.
I am looking at myself in this mirror,
can only see the blueness
encompassing it;
could be the sky above
for a new fledge of wings
or the ocean,
the siren who kept on singing
for eons.

<strong>Wang Di</strong>
Wang Di

I am Wang Di, a guy who has always been passionate about writing. My feelings bleed in each of those words that were interconnected to befriend someone who’s having/had the same experience whereas it acts as a remedy for me.

Most of my poetries are blue because I want to uncover the masks and bring the deeper and vulnerable sides forefront.

During my teenage days, I remember how I used to create characters and write stories about them but I never really completed any of it. This is why if I ever happen to write a book, I would like to publish a collection of my poems and proses. I am also very passionate about art and have a YouTube channel where I mostly post poetry videos and art vlogs.

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here. 

Scooping Honey from the Sky

Scooping Honey from the Sky

Scooping Honey from the Sky, by Tyree Storey

I’ve got this peaceful kind of memory, in a city washed heavy in my blood. It’s like clotted soil where weeds daren’t spring, all pulped over and worn-down from each passing.

I sit and cradle the lowering light from the hilltop as caged dogs bark. I can’t tell if it’s for the day’s end or the spiced air, but somehow it feels like this is home. Kingston and Kandy don’t feel five thousand miles apart, but you know they can’t grow chillies in the fields past Guilford. Regardless, I bet my mother could tell you the tint of the soil in a blindfold, and maybe there’s something ancient in that.

I’ll die an Israelite for Ceylon, forever scooping that red-honey sunset as it drips from the sky. And I guess somewhere there will be dogs baying as I do.

<strong>Tyree Storey</strong>
Tyree Storey

Poetry was never on my radar as a kid, but now I seem to find some form of expression and peace in writing.
I do so from North Leeds, UK and its leafy-green suburbs. I nestle somewhere between the bustling student bars and a slightly more distinguished commuter-belt. Perhaps there’s something of myself in that.
 
I can be found on @atari_poetry on Instagram, where I post my other work if you feel so inclined to stop on by.

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here. 

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The Vacation

The Vacation by The Ransom Notes

the vacation

uncover treasure
dine exotic
pack light
clothes carefree
showers sparse
hunt warmth

snooze under trees
bathe in rivers
learn to surf
slink into cafes
feign a holiday
explore this city
romanticize it all
escape your homelessness

<strong>The Ransom Notes-kfr</strong>
The Ransom Notes-kfr

kfr. Boston. Hobbies include feeding people & throwing parties. Marketing & events pay my bills. My writing is my way of censoring my trauma.

Insta: the.ransomnotes. 

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Mommy Too

Mommy Too

Mommy Too, penned by Terra Vagus

I try constantly, not to have anger toward you.
the way you cast me aside.
Loved me less.
Ignored my cries for help.

You’d say “Buck up, life is just like this.”.
when I begged you to take a stand against the constant drinking,
You simply pointed at my self inflicted wounds and said
“We all have our vices.”.

To this day my heart breaks
when I let myself recall
the way I pleaded for a figure
with no maternal instincts at all.

Make me believe that you love me
only when I have something to offer.

Mommy I can’t take this any longer.

You live your life with the selfish belief
that I owe you my everything
because you created me.

You’ve also been my destroyer.

All my life I’ve lived in envy
of those with mothers whom they can call close.

Now I’ve always got something to prove.
Can’t accept I haven’t much to lose.

Mommy can’t you love me the way you love yourself?
This constant heartache is my living hell.

Mommy why?
Why is everything always about you?
Don’t you know I have a soul too?

Now I’m afraid
To be a mommy too.
What if the best love I can manage
Is a love like you?

<strong>Terra Vagus</strong>
Terra Vagus

Terra Vagus is an introverted 20-something who resides in the Pacific Northwest.

When they aren’t writing, they either have their nose in a book or they are out scouring abandoned and creepy places for anything paranormal. Terra Vagus is a lover of animals, literature, ghosts and the Earth.

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here. 

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Soft Wreckage

Soft Wreckage

Soft Wreckage, written by Alivia Banecker

Coming in strong with senses neglected, blearily wandering with shadows that took her by the hand and overpowered her mind. She wanted to know-what did it feel like to be sunshine rather than sadness? To live life rather than chasing something reckless? Bring light to those skylines and lose herself in transparency with the cityscapes and streetlights; she’s one of the full-minded ones, she had a heart filled full of contentment, but carried chaos everywhere she went, and she knows what she wants, but she doesn’t know how to shake the film strip in her head to prevent it from skipping on repeat again. She is beauty wrapped in intensity. Only ever knowing thickness by its first name, never allowing herself to be spread thin by the intention of something different.

<strong>Alivia Banecker</strong>
Alivia Banecker

Somewhere in a corner reading, in another playing piano. Often I write poetry, often I play, and sometimes that becomes something together and you either get a poem or a song. I’m 21.

In the works of writing my self publishing poetry book, FRAGMENTS OF ME. Writing was a creative outlet as I can see me having it as my future. I hope you take these fragments and let them piece you together the way they pieced me back to myself.

Instagram: @livvywritespoetry

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Better

Better

Better, by Melissa Felson

I sat inside a room
and promised myself
I wouldn’t come out
until I was “better.”

You see,
no one taught me
that better
is not a chalked line in the dirt,
that there is no
bronzed medal with gilded rim
reading:
Better. Fit for consumption.

I stared down a mirror
so long
that my lips became my eyes
and my eyes become
huge craters
I couldn’t climb out of.
But I didn’t care for climbing anyhow.

Instead,
I became a master excavator.

Proud,
albeit lonely.

Tools in hand,
refusing hands of rescue
reaching out from the rim.

“I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.”

“She was,
in fact,
not fine,”
reads the narrator.

These days I’ve learned
that dogs see in black and white,
but I am not a dog.
I am human.

I am human,
so I err.
I am human,
so I am flawed.

I am human,
so no amount of
excavation,
recreation,
reflection
or divine inspiration
will deem me “better.”

But
I am human,
so I am enough.

Sugar-Substitute

People keep telling me
I look amazing.
They beg:
tell us your secret.
what have you been doing?

I tell them:
I’ve made some changes to my diet.

I’ve stopped putting
external validation
in my morning coffee.

(sugar-substitute, highly processed
packaged sweetener
made of
artificial
Instagram likes and
bending over backwards like
acrobatics for attention;
blending myself into
you for approval
like stirring in your
favorite brand of
soy milk even though
soy makes me sick.)

I tell them
I opt for the real thing these days.
Organic
connection and
act natural, which is to say:
Don’t act.
Be.

And, sure, it’s hard to kick the habit and
I’m not perfect at it, but –
I tell them –
Life is much sweeter this way.

<strong>Melissa Felson</strong>
Melissa Felson

My name is Melissa and I’m a special education teacher from Long Island, New York. I have been an avid reader and writer my entire life.

My other hobbies including playing guitar and piano, singing, working out, spending time with family and friends, and spending time in nature. I am a huge lover of coffee, of kids, of food and of meditation and personal growth.

I aim to write poetry that moves people and deepens their own understanding of themselves, their emotions and their beliefs about the world around them. I believe that words can transcend the social and emotional barriers between people.

This year, I decided to begin sharing my writing publicly on social media and at open mic nights in my area. If you enjoy my work, you can read more on Instagram at @intotheminefields.

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.

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