of course

so typical

the image of her

the flash of her

its always the painted skin

his eyes are always deceived

he never learns i guess

it will always be

her without a heart

her who is wild

he who remains a child

chooses like one

they don’t love like me

but oh well

he never learns

never stops

loving painted lies

painted ladies

i never wore a mask

and fell for yours

as you fell for hers

keep falling

without me

-melanie ann

Soulmates? (Repost)




— Read on myspirals.com/blog/soulmates/

A NEW FAVORITE by My Spirals


I had this concept of story telling – palm reading mix for a long time and here it is. I hope you like it!

I met a palm reader once
who convinced me to let him tell me my story.
His readings weren’t conventional –
he came up with stories of past lives
by reading the calligraphy on our hands.
Mukkadar used to be a storyteller but the people
needed some catch to sit for a story,
so he chose this unconventional palm-reading.

He looked at my hand and offered me tea
along with a few choices.
“We’re going to be here for a while,”
he said, “I’ve got plenty of stories for you,
what’s your first pick?”
I was confused, so I chose the love story.
We do that sometimes.
Choose love as the last resort.
“You see this stroke right here,
it’s called the heart-line. It’s the number you dial
for all your love stories. Here you go.

You called her Swans,
the girl you dated in your past life,
because you were each other’s for life.
You met here in high school, ninth grade, 1948.
She liked mountains and you liked beaches,
so you decided California would be home.
On your 22nd birthday, she gave you a 10-paged notebook titled All yours.
filled with lipstick kisses of different shades.
Swans grew up to become an art teacher,
you started fixing cars. But in bed, you drew the race tracks on her skin
and she drove her heart on your arms.
It was a happy story for the most part,
because Swans knew how to talk till things were okay.
The calamity was that you died when you were 60,
with Amnesia and two words on your lips
“Swans. Home.”
The tragedy was that she died in your arms.
Swans died in her home.
That was intense! Now, what’s next?”

Mukkadar left me speechless,
not just by his storytelling
but by the uncanny resemblance of Swans
to the girl who used her own broken heart pieces
as bandages
to heal me last night.




— Read on thetravellothoner.wordpress.com/2019/05/20/grateful/

The most beautiful poem to honor us women by : Thetravellothoner 🌻

To the girl who thinks she’s not good enough,

To the girl who thinks she’s not as strong,

To the girl who thinks this hurdle she cannot get past,

To the girl who cannot stand up to point out you’re wrong.


To you pretty ladies I’ve only got one thing to say,

You are wonderful the way you are, in your own beautiful way!


From the lady responsible for my existence today,

To the lady who held my hand when I went astray.

From the one who taught me to read and write,

To the one who loves to kiss me goodnight.


I am surrounded by y’all like a bee around a flower,

Walking around in ignorance, unaware of your power.


Its an open untalked secret this circle of life,

From the days I needed my mother to seeking refuge in my wife.

Y’all run this world and make it a better place,

I hope one day I can repay you for every sacrifice and tear behind that face.


Until then I say “Thank You” and admire the graceful,

For your mere existence I am forever grateful.


-The Travellothoner.

Times Of Desperation : REPOST


Times Of Desperation

— Read on thesarahdoughty.wordpress.com/2019/06/18/times-of-desperation/


“I need you more than anything.
But I’m too scared to admit
my desperation for you.”

I can feel you everywhere around me like a fog in the night. Creeping along the dew-kissed grass. I can hear you whispering through the trees. And it sounds as if they’re trying to whisper right back at you. I want to call out your name. Reach into the darkness for your hand. Because I need you more in this moment than I’ve ever needed anything in my life before. But I’m too scared to admit to myself that I’m desperate for you. Like I’m freezing and you’re the warmth that will soothe my aching bones. Maybe, if I’m brave enough to let your name escape my lips, that will break the spell and bring you back to me.

© Sarah Doughty

Because now, without you,
all I feel is lost.
And lost is a barren
wasteland of ice and snow.

The Aging Furnace


The Aging Furnace

The Aging Furnace
— Read on jpignopoetry.com/2019/06/18/the-aging-furnace/

ANOTHER AMAZING POET : jpignopoetry 🌻

What Dante
Didn’t realize
Is that hell falls
Where we stand
As a place
Which turns all children
Into men
Who burn their toys

And trade such games
For knives
At request
Of the aging furnace
With need
To fuel some meaning
Among what flames
Will rage

On smolders
Made from dolls
Like blazes
Eating trinkets
Inhaling dreams
Left swallowed
By tongues
Of fiery beasts

Called progress
Or due time
Beyond this day
We’ve wasted
Abiding heat
Through money
Amassing wealth
In death

While paints
And colored tales
Speak heavens
Out of waiting
When art remains
Our faith
Keep cooler hopes

Expressing play
As God
Still innocent
Though abating
These sparks
Which stifle memories
With resistance
Held in prose –

This cross
I long to seek
Despite how tinder
And ruins words
By torment
Of young virtue
Growing old,

My past
That’s nearly lost
Every moment
Reason suffers
Knowing hope
Is giving purpose
Through each final
Act of fun.

– J. Pigno