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The rising of a sun,
glossing over every dewy leaf,
and my heart had been broken by a thief.

Blue skies illuminated by a golden god,
proudly hanging above,
and she starts cursing love.

Gently wisped clouds gliding,
cumulating and growing,
and my happiness is slowing.

Eagles soar higher,
animals prowling low to the ground,
and she's above water yet still she's being drowned.

The sun is setting,
the sky starts crying,
and my poetry is dying.
"Can you see my wings?"

"Yes"

"I'm a monster"

"Those aren't the wings of a monster"

"Then whose wings are they"

"Those are the wings of an angel"

"And what do angels dream of?"

"I... I don't know"

"Angels dream of becoming human"
Another translation

Some people have unique features. They are different. Their unique features are symbolized as wings above. They think of themselves as monsters but instead they should just think of them as angels. Why they choose to do with their uniqueness make them angels or monsters not their difference. And so they foolishly want to become normal again.
Neil's dead
He's been that way for a while

"I was good; I was really good"
Oppression

Focused on the scales of what makes poems great
Acting the entirety of life
Trying to be ok
Trying to let it roll off your back
You'll be a doctor
You'll be a doctor
You'll be a doctor

Was that hammered home?
That hammer home
The hammer at the back end of the revolver
Pushing forth metal
To flesh

He ended his life
Tears can't bring him back
No help from a doctor
Watched Dead Poet's Society... forgot about that harsh section of the film.
He once told me
To be like falling snow
Forever different.

He forgot to mention
Snowflakes melt.
We are all part of the Dead Poets Society,
in that we are all adeptly capable
of free thought and expression.

The difference, between
true romantics and the (in)expressive realists,
lies in the passionate mumblings which echo across prairies.

The difference is simply that we
cling to life, to dreams, to desperation and to death
as though they are the buoys of a great journey - invincible.

While the realists puncture holes
in dreams and death alike,
sinking with abstract thoughts like great boulders - motionless.

The difference between two polar opposites
is the brazen stroke of being
and the frenzied, wild dash of living.
This came out of nowhere after watching Dead Poets Society, if you can't tell.
 May 2016 Alex's Pipe Dreams
PJ
“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.”
— John Keating, Dead Poets Society
Sitting here, amidst these ruins
Waiting for something to come
Be it train or deer or people
I hope it's soon--I'm going numb

I wish there'd be a gentle breeze
To stir the moisture in the air
Then, perhaps, I'd concentrate
On poetry, not sweaty hair

An hour passes, perhaps two
Or maybe only twenty minutes?
I can't quite focus--this is hard
I might just listen to the crickets

But I'm not quitter--this'll get done
All I need's a bit more inspiration
This oil well of creativity is running dry
My artsy engine's suffering from dehydration

Guess I'll dig and drill and dig some more
Until I hit a vein of ingenuity
Perchance the topic'd be of love
Or of some ethereal obscurity

Yet pen to paper doesn't click
No matter how it's written
Not love, not pain, not anything
Appears to simply fit in

So after several hours here
I think I have decided
To simply base this poem on
What life now has provided.
This took like 6 hours to write (*******). We had a coffehouse poetry thing at my school and I wanted to write something for that but I couldn't think of anything so
This happened
To see is to witness
The glory of
broken dreams
Break into a true
Sense of reality

Crushed by the weight
Of dried ink
On red hot paper
Folded into an airplane
Floating far on
Winds of change

Our life is time
And time flows
Slowly at first
Only to rapidly
Accelerate

Redefine ourselves
By the mirrors reflection
Cracks and scars develop
As we apply our
Ritual attraction
The wind runs through the trees,
The world lets out a sigh.

A whisper frees my bones,
Leaves me calm and quiet.

Everything stops for a second when the wind stops,
Holding onto its breath.

A perfect silence only broken,
When a bird calls out again.
I'd like to be burned,
to have flames lick my sides--
so when I peel away the skin,
see truths I have to hide.
I'd like to be burned
to have flames lick my lips--
so when I go to speak my truth
the rawness of it drips.
I'd like to be burned,
to have flames char my heart--
so when I go to love again
it's the newest of new starts.
Yes, I'd like to be burned,
But I am not so brave--
I wait and pray with all my heart
gods throw me to the flames.
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