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Photo by Enne Baker

Hello, my fellow poets! So I’ve decided to create my publication that will allow only a specific kind of poetry — and that is personification poems. I call this publication “White Objects” because I associated the color white as innocence, meaning that any object is innocent before its owner’s point of contact, though depending on the intention.

For those of you who have read my work, I’m sure you have noticed this writing pattern about inanimate objects; well, there is a reason for it, alright! One of my favorite things about poetry is how we have the power to breathe…


The Punch of Death

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Photo by Darya Kraplak on Unsplash

My typewriter was black
As the storm,

For every key, I strike down.
Like a serpent dragon, the lightning jumps.

My words are echoed
By my God, speaking

Through me, as to
Why I’m using a

Typewriter to generate
My words, using such a

Thing. A black
Generator as black

As Satan—and every time I
Hear a light bell sound—

The paper moves over
The edge, God picks

Up my language to keep going,
Despite the choice.

I am about to fall off the cliff,
Fall off the cliff,

Falling off the edge,
Oh God, why do you love still

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Photo by Precious Iroagalachi on Unsplash


A Poem

You drew stars around my scars,
And now I’m bleeding, and the blood exiting
My galactic wound is eating itself into a
Blackhole by leaving.

I can count my lucky stars,
That I have you giving me your
Weekends to do this for me.
Spring breaks loose;

It’s nightfall; the stars are evident
In this kind of hour.
I live and die for moments that we stole,
As we grew grey and old,

Sleeping in for half a day,
Gay and sad,
We can call it even.
I was read by you many times,

To the point, you became dead…


Once, Twice, Thrice

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Photo by Florencia Viadana on Unsplash

Three is my favorite number.
It’s the final number that comes after death,
It’s the third month after my birth,

Three days before the borderline of
The end of the month,
The third year of the decade,

Twenty three was when I grew older
It was when I obtain education,
It was when I sacrificed my purity for permanent experience,

Twenty three was when I accepted my sexual values,
Twenty three was three years in one,
Three lives I lived, three times I had to die for it.

Twenty seven now, growing older, Three years away to thirty, I am…

Enne Baker

Montenegrin American poet 🇲🇪🇺🇸

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