Just Like Honey

Devious Bloggery

these sweet killer bees
like a soft, swarming breeze

how they sing while they bring
stinging ends to all things

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Black

The pulsing repetition in this builds so well that I got chills reading it. If you haven’t done so yet, please click below to check out more of Dilshad’s work – you will be glad you did.

Mother of Lies

This piece captures the breath I’ve been trying to breathe for a long time.

My Poetry Metronome

She was my guide
with a sign held high
drawing attention to all
she wanted me to see

Never did I doubt
her capacity to deceive

Mother was
the name of god
upon my tongue
and for as long as I believed
you had no reason to leave

When I became aware
I saw through every lie
Turning to truth’s beauty
I left her far behind

But mother is
the name of god
so though trust was gone
you could not stay away

Now I have returned
to cradle her in truth
and forgive the snare
that robbed my youth

Because mother
is the name of god
upon my tongue
and though trust may be lost
forgiveness has been found

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Annihilation

An impressive associative poem invoking so much using one letter- meaningful and flowing, not at all a tongue-twister. I love how this builds.

My Poetry Metronome

All abide another afternoon,
absent and alone
among ashes astray
atop air aswirl.

Agitated and askew,
aging anticlimactically,
appallingly apathetic
about adolescence,
adults act archaic.

All adjunct applications
antiquating astride an altar,
awaiting absolution,
anticipating abandonment,
accepting abject apathy.

Armageddon ascends
as an aftershock.

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I lost a friend

The inevitability of death is profound and powerful in this piece.

Name Not Important 86: Moments and thoughts

I lost a friend,
and I lost a crutch.

We are kept alive by crutches.

We are born with easily penetrated organs,
a fragile mind,
needs,
cravings,
dependencies.

Nature’s destiny for us is
to eventually stop
and crumble.

But we don’t want to stop,
we don’t want to be vulnerable,
we don’t want to be weak.
We are profoundly impacted when
we see a dead body
because it reminds us
of our inevitable end.

We use the crutch of armor,
media,
perspectives,
and substances,
to attempt to protect ourselves from
nature’s ultimate finale.

We look for fulfillment everywhere except ourselves.
Self-love is basically Atlantis.

I lost a friend,
and I lost a crutch.

The feeling is a void;
a cold and hollow place.

A feeling that I prided myself
in being able to fill up
with only with what I have within myself.

But a hypothesis is not a reality.

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Space

My Poetry Metronome

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Secret Santa.”

Take as long as you need
But take it
Use the space
to heal
to forgive
to decide
how you want to proceed

I won’t pressure you either way
But understand
I care about you
your heart
your health
your wellbeing
and how well you handle all of this

Space
and time
are all I can give
all I can control

I am not responsible for how you feel
or what you choose to do
or not do
with what I give you

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