April 28, 2017
by scatterednotebooks
Hamlet called them words
in his feigned madness.
To him they were words – mere words,
but to me they might mean so much more.
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Posted in Linda, Poetry |
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October 25, 2014
by Venkat

why does each moment
need to be on the tip
of a high end cliff
ready to blast ahead
into a flight of pleasure
or a deep dive into pain
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Posted in Poetry, Venkat |
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June 12, 2014
by Venkat
Little child
In your wonder I believe
When you see a hundred moons
While there is one
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Posted in Poetry, Venkat |
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March 24, 2014
by Venkat
As a drop of sharp stone
By gravity’s humble weight
On one stolid mirror
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