Anon 1d

what if,
that which sits in eternity
is Death
and all of life IT created
only to die and be reborn
in an endless flat circle
is that what i will kneel to, in the end
a notion that holds poetic justice
to a mind travelling forever
in shadows.

© Anon

Anon 3d

it was but a moment, fleeting
just part of a crowd, and I could hear cracks in the hourglass
a surreal hiatus of time and breath
I leaned against a wall, legs akimbo
trying to catch a tiny sliver of oxygen
desperately reaching for life, wretched fucking survival
and in that moment I was bludgeoned, with a moment of animal perception
smells, sounds of the street razor sharp in my senses
thump thump of EDM from a rich kid's car
whiff of deodorants, sweat and food
and I could see into lives;
the office worker rushing to the promise
of cheap alcohol
hustle of a child in tattered clothes at the traffic signal, hawk-eyed
dying hope in the eyes of a labourer, his story written in a street-bought Gap t-shirt
the crude sing-song invitation of a sex worker, hidden and yet inescapable
affluent men and women walking out of gaudy stores, promise in their eyes
and I saw them all, psychopaths and murderers
thieves and tyrants
down trodden and the rich, mothers fathers
crushed rebellions and forgotten dreams
in that moment I became,
all of them. I was all of them.

and I thought I'd lost my fucking mind, or
I had touched some secret nerve of the universe
that it was a vision, and visions have meaning
meaning has history and yet, I am always running from the past
a moment of clarity, insight or illusion
now I feel like a hundred lives clawing
for space inside me
I can't wait to purge it all, I am all of them
and I don't fucking want to be
I am not.

© Anon

An earlier write slightly edited but still in it's raw form.
  6d Anon
Lora Lee


Fuck my soul
        with poetry
           scream out my gracious name
             slay me with words
               that peel my layers
                and simultaneously
                                   drive me

finger me slowly, hotly
with just the right rhythm and rhyme
    push me past my
                 tender limits
                       into tongues of syntax,

a­lliterate my senses
   (in swift stac
until my mind is but blank verse
    mess up my stressed
              and unstressed syllables
in unsung language, versed

I will speak to you in vowels
(the only sound
       I will be able to make)
as you stroke
   my iambic pentameter
             in the heat of frothed-up

we are this heroic couplet, you see
        even if the meaning seems veiled
           no need for simile or metaphor
               as I feel your chest rise
                              in deep inhale

we are a natural paradox
       so many ironies abound
         discordant harmony
is our synaesthesia
     in visible darkness found

and I love this delicious enjambment
as your aura invisibly slips
                               into mine
our lines have no beginning,
                                 no end
    as we undo
          the boundaries
                      of time

synaesthesia-The production of a sense impression relating to one sense or part of the body by stimulation of another sense or part of the body.

(in verse) the continuation of a sentence without a pause beyond the end of a line, couplet, or stanza.
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