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  • my_cup_of_poetry 1d

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  • my_cup_of_poetry 1w

    Sunsets.

    Sunsets are women
    trying to paint themselves
    aesthetic with a vermilion
    'bindi' on forehead and silence
    pinned to their earlobes.
    Night walks in drunk,
    blows away the candles
    and impregnates her with
    chaos. By midnight she
    pulls a poetry out of her
    vagina , looks at its tender
    eyes and smiles like
    Sunrise.

    Sunsets are naive women
    in love and Sunrises are
    mothers cradling poetries
    with a smile.


    ©my_cup_of_poetry

  • my_cup_of_poetry 1w

    " You have a very sharp , strange jawline that makes you look like Ostrich "
    " Thanks. Wait, Ostrich ?! "

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  • my_cup_of_poetry 2w

    An empty room,
    some damaged
    relationships
    boiling and
    cracking in an
    electric kettle,
    sleep whisked in
    a cup of coffee,
    chapped lips and
    a woman with
    a tongue that
    isn't scared to
    speak.

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

    __________

    Check out the comment box for interpretation.
    ( if needed )

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  • my_cup_of_poetry 2w

    Hi! I just made an Instagram account. Let me know your insta usernames in the comment section or else find me there @claymug

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  • my_cup_of_poetry 3w

    Bukowski : Charles Bukowski, a German–American poet

    And by Bukowski I just mean " a poet " in the following poem because each time I mention references someone or other tells me that they need to read the writer mentioned in order to understand my poem which is never the case :)

    Thanks for bearing the rant.

    @writersnetwork thanks a ton :")��

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    Poetry.

    ~ Where did you find poetry? ~

    To me it was served
    fresh by Anxiety,
    in a bone china bowl
    with two cut pieces
    of raw hopelessness.

    I remember devouring
    a spoonful of it on a
    wednesday afternoon
    and by thursday morning
    Bukowski had broken
    out through my skin.

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

  • my_cup_of_poetry 3w

    My sky is pink and yours ?

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  • my_cup_of_poetry 3w

    Hi!

    I had written something which got deleted without me realising. If you have lost a poem like that you would feel the pain.I wish I had been a little less clumsy.

    Nevertheless.This is a replica. Seems pretty absurd for the same reason.

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    Reverie.

    I become February
    thinking about you,
    flowers bloom over
    my cheeks
    while I am still cold
    in a room
    full of people.
    People scare me so
    I always look away
    at the windowpanes
    and sky.
    This morning I had
    set out to write a
    haiku for you but this
    love like a newborn's
    laughter is too free
    to be restricted by
    syllables.
    Every passing day
    makes me realise
    that I need to stop
    somewhere at
    someplace, find a
    ground perhaps else
    I shall just wilt like
    rootless saplings
    but my gypsy soul
    knows not how to stop.
    Then there are
    moments like these
    where I look at the
    sunset and miss you
    more than home.

    I almost become
    a Reverie;
    a Poetry and
    a Love story;
    thinking about you!

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

  • my_cup_of_poetry 3w

    Hi! Tell me something , anything?

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  • my_cup_of_poetry 4w

    When you start bleeding
    poetries at 2 a.m without
    your mother offering you
    a sanitary napkin to hide
    the stains ,
    paint your lips in red and
    stretch them a little more
    than usual.
    Nine out of ten times she
    will not notice the damage!

    When you start sailing
    poems in the ocean of
    melancholy and you know
    your father is a harbour
    devoid of poetry,
    sink deep , die slowly and
    accept that you will never
    make it to his eyes!

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

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