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 Dec 2015
Bria Grimm
You were the last act,
Now trailing in the wings
You're a carcass
Confined in my hot car

You are all the pain
I now choose to ignore

All you need,
Yeah,
All you need,
Take a look inside yourself
Strip away the seems.

You are a black cloth
Who wants to engross my light
You're just a dog
Weeping in the night.

You only stuck with me
Because you had no others.

All you need,
Yeah,
All you need,
Take a look inside yourself
Strip away the seems.

You're all wrong, but it's alright.
You're all wrong, but I'm alright.
Inspired, of course, but the lovely Radiohead's track "All I Need".
This is "our song" rewritten and now given true meaning. Enjoy.
 Dec 2015
Babu kandula
as a kid my dreams are limitless
as a grown up am confined to reality

it took me very less time to realize

reality or practicality is always different

from what you dreamt


many more expectations brought me back to the square

what am supposed to do, is a haunting dream of me

when I lost my courage to do

*what actually I have to do
 Dec 2015
niamh
You
You are
The whisper of wind
That tickles my neck.
The music
That makes me dance.
The bird
That lands so close.
The rain
That soaks me to the bone.
The perfume
That brings me to tears.
The threadbare blanket
That keeps me warm.
The voice
That speaks through photos.
The song
That sings in my heart.
The memories
That are never far.
You are.
 Dec 2015
Cierra Spina
I become a ***** when I sense things ending
I get this itch and my heart starts bending
So I’m mean to avoid the pain
And I’m sad to get rid of the shame
I’m trying so hard not to be hurt
That you were leaving without an alert
But I know it’s better to give you a reason
Friends seem to change with the season
 Dec 2015
Bill murray
The year
1966.
Manson was on his spree
Hippies chilled the breeze.
Chicks dancing with rubies on hips.
Then came 1967
Hendrix wowed the crowd
Janis Joplins soul came out
Music splashed
Hallucinogenic heaven.
1968, patterns of clothing
Seemed to be from faraway.
It wasn't American to the main stream
Still wouldn't be today.
1969, Woodstock, the time
Of all togetherness, and weightless
Rockers heads filled with dust and buds.
Cities broke to riots
Gangbanging quiets over colors lust!
1970, met grandmammy
Touched the farmers scene.
Found the happy
In the sixties baby in me.
Today, now a mountain boy
On a machine that cuts down anything
In its way.
The farming hand
Making a living off of dirt and hay.
Spit and clay.
 Dec 2015
moss
Their freedom to tell their depths is now confined to a week.
But despite the propaganda, they are still afraid to speak.
On the outside, they are perceived as nothing but freaks.
On the inside, their lives are catastrophic, yet also bleak.

From their mountains of anxiety to their valleys of depression,
Nobody wants to listen to their pleading expressions.
They're forced to hold down their feelings with constant suppression.
So desperate to become invisible, it becomes an obsession.

As if their sickness was not as legitimate as one of the physical kind
Just because it plagues their body on the inside of their mind.
Behind their daily masks, they are continuously confined,
And the rest of their lives will be wrapped in a box and predefined.

They often wish things were how they saw them: nothing being real.
They use third person pronouns to describe how they feel
Because, whether they like it or not, they aren't made of steel,
But continue to futilely dance around the solar system's wheel.
I meant to post this earlier in the week, but I've been busy. Supposedly, this was "Mental Health Week" in case you weren't aware. It really bothers me that it's such a social taboo to talk about mental illness any other week of the year, and even during that week, it seems most people are just helping "raise awareness" by retweeting or sharing, but it's still always something that no one wants to admit that they themselves have problems with as if it's not as legitimate as some physical ailment like the flu or even cancer if you want to take it that far. The more people distance themselves from a problem, the more distant it will seem, and then the people who have those problems will seem more distant, producing the opposite effect that was intended. Good grief, do we need a special day/week/month for everything?
I can be wrong and still be right
                                  Is the real paradox to height
                                 A lonely pilgrim looses sight
                                 Of answers that could bring him might

                                 And yet to seed the answers call
                                 The stallion is in its stall
                                 He's not prepared to take the fall
                                 For what could be is clear to all

                                 The endless paradox in sight
                                 The truth of righteousness to knight
                                 I fear to seal must fly his kite
                                And pray surreal comes out tight

                                Across the ancient castle walls
                                The demure tainted shadows crawl
                                To form the morning's clearing call
                                Effusive allusions, irrelevance fall  

                               The echoes from the grotto swell
                               Like memories of ancient hells
                               That command the oceans to rescind
                               The lowly force with which they'd bend
elan vital's orthogenesis overtures
 Dec 2015
SøułSurvivør
Inspired by ryn's concrete poem
Love Fool



I'm here...

hanging on the end of a
                    dangling participle...



SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/12/2015
familiar with all weather
broken rims of existence
soliloquies of despair
rainfall in silence

ripples of loud mirth
echoes of joyous feet
stillness of nightly earth
tunes of bitter sweet

romance of blind hearts
oaths of porcelain
stains of leftovers
fragments of bruised skin

lying in broken stones
living on river's face
nothing the ghat owns
but its loneliness.
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