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 Jun 2016
Graff1980
I gathered the ladders
One after another I strung them together
Planted their base
Like a bed of wooden flowers
And set them up towards the heavens
Till the top pierced
The white billowy clouds
And when I got to the top
The clouds didn’t stop
They went on like
A white winter wasteland
But I never found the place
Where the human race
Settles after they die
 Jun 2016
Poetria
What if** your brain
was just a small packet of popcorn
that desperately needed
a microwave.

What if it refuses
to operate
until you show it some love-
Let it open itself up.

What if all it wanted was
to feel a little more lightweight-
'pop' away the pressure of being
confined to a head-cage.

What if our brains
Were just raw popcorn pieces
That needed some heating
To melt away the pain.
Popcorn before heating looks so suffocating- it's no wonder that when energy is provided they just blast open into pretty little flowers.
 Jun 2016
Aeerdna
The angels are falling under the weight of the clouds
helplessly fighting with a world
where good hearts are hiding
frightened by the malice around.

The angels are falling,
their wings are dissolving
under the tempest coming
from clouds of hatred and darkness.
Their bodies with the light of stars are dying,
their dreams turning to dust
swept by monsters
under the rugs we're stepping on
saying that everything is fine,
turning our heads,
pretending we're not seeing
that the angels are falling
and the monsters are cleaning the roads
to an existence
without dreams
without purity.

The sound of guns covering the voices
of the innocent children we used to be
blindly we're walking
lying to ourselves
that everything it's gonna be alright.

The angels are falling
and with their tears
we're drowning
in a sea of blood,
in the emptiness.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQL5zdEy-3k

.
 Jun 2016
Brent Kincaid
There were no blacks
In our part of town
No Asians, no Latinos
None of them around.
There were Italians,
They were treated well.
But anyone of color
Might run into hell.

Pastel America
Everything sort of beige.
It’s good to be pink in America.
Caucasian is all the rage.
Whenever movies showed
A crowd of good folk
They were all Caucasian
And this is not a joke.

I was raised on TV shows
Like Lassie and ******
And there were no blacks
Living near the Cleavers.
There was no understanding
Of life for any non-whites.
When I grew up I saw
That little I learned was right.

Pastel America
Everything sort of beige.
It’s good to be pink in America.
Caucasian is all the rage.
Whenever movies showed
A crowd of good folk
They were all Caucasian
And this is not a joke.

There were radio stations then
Where black music could not play.
They had to get around that
Some other sneaky way.
That’s how we got Elvis,
To fill that gaping lack.
He got his first opportunity
Because he sounded black.

Pastel America
Everything sort of beige.
It’s good to be pink in America.
Caucasian is all the rage.
Maybe it will change someday
When we all celebrate
The diversity of humanity.
Wouldn’t that be great?
 Jun 2016
Graff1980
Life has, is, and may always be
a series of triumphant heartbreaks
Challenging me to be better to be better
Challenging me to be better than I was
 Jun 2016
Clindballe
My father taught to live by the rule 'do not speak unless spoken to'. But do not mistake my silence for a yes. Just because I never said stop did not mean i wanted you on top. I was frozen like the lake I wanted to drown in, stuck in a crashing airplane with no oxygen.

My father taught me that rapists lure in the dark, so do not go outside after sundown he said. But I always walk in the dark where no shadows are to be seen. There are no rapists where I walk, only at the places where I stay the night.

Go practice saying no in mirror in case you will ever meet a ****** or you can never look at yourself without seeing the handprints of your ****** all over your body. The ****** will leave internal scars and stain your eyes but nonetheless make you want to die.
Written: June 4. - 2016
 Jun 2016
Cat Fiske
Alone in a crowded room,
at some point I have to realize,
that some people can only stay in your heart,
but not in your life,

it feels like everyone else's life is moving on,
but its as if am stuck in the hole i can't climb out of,
as the world judges me by the decisions I have made,
not remembering the options I had to chose from,

and I hate getting flashbacks,
from the past I don't want to remember,
but the past comes back as they tap my shoulders,
and force me to look back,

I never ment to depend on anyone this much,
but I need you more then the earth needs the sun,
I just want to feel that i'm important to someone.
I don't really know where I stand in others lives.

one minute i'm their everything but then i'm nothing special,
I think this is why i get so upset,
i would never do these things that people do,
to hurt me, to hurt them,

and the thoughts get me lost inside,
I will be that person everyone replaces after a while,
I didn't change for you or for me,
I guess you just never really knew me,

because you never cared enough to find out,
or cared enough to know what i'm going through,
everything happens for a reason,
but can I know the reason?

i'm just another nothing,
nothing special,
nothing worth their time,
nothing worth a soul in the world.
 May 2016
Graff1980
It is the soul of the night that devours me. Hours spent in silence frightens, enlightens, and bores me. Nature spins in all her soft cool glory. Little pools of water lit by lamplights. Cold fences swing in and out in time to the shifting masses of shift workers. Trucks come and go at random intervals. I am tired, so deep in the fatigue that I require crippling amounts of caffeine. I am a stimulant fiend. Barely functioning as me, more like a specter of me. I watch the world from my comfy shack, letting it spin me back. Dipping in the solace of solitude, I search the universe for truth. Eyes cast everywhere, mind running wild, I ask the night for answers. Its silence says, find it yourself.
 May 2016
nivek
life is a soup
and you don't get to choose its flavour
sweet or sour you **** it from a spoon
it dribbles down your chin
and stains your freshly washed shirt

so the only answer you get
don't worry about your shirt.
 May 2016
Graff1980
We are flesh made for leaving
Or being bereft for being left
Made for deceiving or being deceived
By those who claimed to love us
Those we thought we could trust
Trial by fire they tried and lied
Leaving us only sad broken ****
 May 2016
Graff1980
The factory will devour me
With its hungry mechanical
Guttural, industrial heart

Machine beating out
Perfect plastic product

The metal monstrosity
Pounding out heat
Creating hard heartedness
Beating and feeding on
Human sweat and flesh
Self-sacrifice to fulfill
Your family need
Eight to twelve hours

Life becomes cheap
Ate up by the factory beast
 May 2016
Graff1980
The terrors come
Beastly
Feasting
On flesh
Carrion
Consumers
Nightmares

So I beg you
Play a song
To help me sleep
A piano
A violin
A beautiful voice
And even if I weep
Please keep
Playing me
To sleep
 May 2016
Graff1980
By god’s grace
We save face
Displace
Rationality
Restore banality
Drive out
Our potential
To become stagnant
A waste of
The human collective
Which could be
Working towards
A brighter future
From this dark
History
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