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Graff1980 Sep 2018
What do we learn
when the knowledge
is turned
to scraps and ashes?

When the past is
less than prologue
cause everyone
was encouraged
to forget all
but the bright
moment,

pleasures pursued,
seconds wasted
being used
as a consumer,
as another tumor
so ingrown
that it can’t be removed.

Rush, play,
point, click,
sleep, eat,
work your life away,

and if you are unhappy
or to tired to do your job
if you feel
slightly unwell,
well we got a pill
to push all that
anxiety
away from humanity.

Until, the still pond
no longer reflects
the wonder and awe
of the artists
we once were.
Graff1980 Sep 2018
Some songs will make you cry,
some verses will make you wonder why
it feels as though no time has passed.

Some lyrics will make you think
spend your time perplexed
as you obsess over the talents
that other artists possess.

Some painting will
force you
to alter your view
as you turn your head
sideways,
to the left
and at an awkward angle
to the right,
even upside down,
in a curious query.

Some works of art
will stir a hardened heart
to actions
of minor and major compassion.
Graff1980 Sep 2018
Short showers
of warm
summer storms,

red flowers
painted on
gray sidewalk,

pastels that melt
and run away
in thin crimson
streams,

ivory keys,
soft melodies
growing
and flowing
slowly,

see me safely
to dreams
that elevate me.
Graff1980 Sep 2018
Time
consumes
every bit;

Seconds sent
to poetry,
a life spent
cultivating
my humanity,
to see it
slowly recede,
values exchanged
for the pleasures
I gained.

My morality
is a tiny treasure,
a golden globe
glowing
against
the deepest
dark.

Surrounded
by the absurdity
of humanity’s
ignorance
and cruelty
all the tints
and hues of me
melt away
like snow
on a spring day.

All emotions
fade to numbness,
all goodness
goes into
nothingness.
Till, I am no more.
Graff1980 Sep 2018
Nobody knows the
the darker corners
of my decrepit soul,

a stale and stinky
nasty shrinking
***** of abstraction,
that is less than
a fraction
of nothingness,

a shadowy space
where people cringe
and strangers displace
their rage
till tension and resentment
fill this smelly place.

Nobody knows
that my heart
does not grow
but disposes
of the red roses,
dripping paint
of crimson pain,

beatings
taken in exchange
for struggles
and anguish,
pumping out plump
plumes of poetry
and prose
to express the truth,

that nobody knows.
Graff1980 Sep 2018
These are not the scars of a saint,
red rivulets run down my skin
like crimson tinted paint.

Scratches made in a state
of sorrow and frustration
anguish so deep
that the thought of facing
one more moment
becomes a daytime nightmare.

We steel ourselves
struggling against a beast
that will not fall,
but rages fiercer
then the fiercest forest fire
scorching all
and leaving
only one desire.

We seek the cold
or at least
a certain numbness
because there is
no softness
to our existence.

Broken
and bleeding
in the porcelain
bathtub
as red water
runs over
the edge
and we
succumb to
the eternal sleep.
Graff1980 Sep 2018
It is a deluge of thoughts
that rush through
a brain that struggles
to contain,

a treat of glass
figurines
that stand straight up
set to crash
and be smashed
to smithereens.

To be crushed
by the immensity
of all things
that can
and will be
even a case
of
the was
and never was.

A bowl
filled
more than thrice
to the brim
with all of life

Heavy
and dripping
from the sides
all that overflows
is what
we write.
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