# Poetry

Poetry soothes one’s senses as it captures the repressed and the inexpressible. Sometimes, it paves one’s way toward self-healing, in other times it enraptures the sweet, sensual cravings that the brain ‘shushes’ but the heart ‘tells’. This section is for those who have their poetic glasses on and can account for the world as they see. Mix your perceptions in our own berry world, and we’ll create a masterpiece!

Articles from the Category:

Tomorrow and you

I wish that tomorrow, at dawn, the hour at countryside whitens, I will depart. You will see it; I know one thing that you will be there for me. I will crawl mountains, run through forests and swim the sea for you, I cannot stay far from you any longer

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Deathline

To love is to make your self vulnerable. To lay your defenses open, With the hopes of being Acknowledged, wanted and loved. To love is to make your self known. To let someone enter and wander through your mind, With the hopes that all that can be found, will be

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Broken

Days came, days went. Locked up in my room I sit like a dead body. Motionless. A deadly silence prevails. Only the clock’s ticking sound occasionally broken by my own sobs. I see a messy room in front of me. Clothes with price tags attached, shattered on the floor, Books

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Labour

My mother was silent when I told her about the pregnant woman whose water broke while she was walking behind her husband, barefoot, the end of her sari clenched by her teeth, still walking. She gave birth on the road, her blood with the sun above, unable to look up,

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Happy people can be unhappy too

I read somewhere, that laughter is the cure, for all ailments , yet I was unsure. Because, you see? The saddest people around me smile the most. Their laughter sounds the loudest. And their giggles are the funniest. You can never tell how sad they actually are, or that they

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Fire and Ice

When they get burn It’s me, for whom they run; You cause destruction and pain, In the end, my form makes you vain! I always win, you always lose, Between Fire and Ice It’s me whom they choose. Well, humans are a race of fools. Teach: “fire is dangerous” in

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Santanu

for Santanu. . . Santanu: wholesome: hólos You are the vase, shattered years ago during the dark voyage through the Middle Passage. Today, the children play around you in a circle like an ocean of hope; their skin parched with heat, and yet their eyes glimmer brighter than a thousand

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Metamorphosis

All those years Of wearing daffodils in my hair You picked for me Yet my body always loathed sunlight Down through all those winter days I hid my body covered in algae Rearing those bright green bugs in shining shields With a snowy rug that smelled like you Flowing through

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At Midnight

At midnight My city screams Just when the longer hand of the town clock Reaches beneath the bird nest And the thwarted one beckons to the typhoon shelter At midnight the dogs sniff around my city Looking for the excoriation That keeps spreading fetor Throughout busy days Through the crowd

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Trees

Let her dance in the rain, Cheering the peacocks who slain; Let her glow in the sun, Leaving her shadow refresh everyone; Let her sing with the wild wind, Echoing all throughout her rind; Let her fragrantly bloom, Making the honey bees blend tune; Let her touch the sky, Attracting

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