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Ian Robinson Aug 2022
The strangest subtelty exists
in humans, solely for our hubris to
Ignore; For not to instigate
falling to this subtlety in fear.

Yet those vagrant "apostles"
Praise this subtlety, this alternative,
In absolute pride.
As if embracement, is a better-ment
of their corrupt soul, living as if it is natural.

Preaching fear as Evil, spinning their
woven ignorance as idealism.
Basking in the witching hour calls.

Not to be mistaken as holy, but wreathed in thorns on my brow, I reply:
Ian Robinson Aug 2022
Grey asphalt
Lacking tar, cracking like glass
Dissuade onlookers from
Old hotel bay windows not yet boarded
Concrete cliffs
Ian Robinson Aug 2022
I have a right, you know
To go around
Catching all the flies that bother me

  Twisting my arm
      Clasping my hand(s)
Almost, playing with my prey
Holding onto tricks up my sleeve
Reaching like a madman

But you wouldn't you know it?!
I'm actually pretty good at doing it
Interpretation may vary
Ian Robinson Aug 2022
Tear drops from the sky
Replay in my mind
Swinging heartstrings

Life falls through my eye
One left closed and blind
Safe in Memory

Rain plops on puddles
Drowning syncopation

Unbeknownst, Unrealized
Some how enshrined
Time doesn't just pass by

World forever lost to time
Marching on ahead of mine
Idle idealation tends to be the cause of human demise.
Ian Robinson Oct 2021
She tells me I act like I don't want her

I react like I don't want her I'll admit

But reactions are just that, rarely in full control

But it's the things I do that I know should show I want her

It's not the bed I want
It's her

It's not the **** I want
It's the interaction with her
At this point it could be cigarettes

It's not the pain I want
It's hearing her voice, seeing her engaged with me

Its not the movies I want to watch
I want to watch her watch the movie
She's beautiful, graceful, and hilarious
I might only get that once from her

It's not the food I want,
Though her cooking is my favorite
It's the thought and energy behind it I want to reciprocate

It's not the self satisfaction that I made her happy
It's the knowledge that she IS happy

It's not the home she makes I wanna come back to
It's her
The home could be the streets for me

I wish she could feel the way I feel

I wish I could be happy with her
But one can't just be happy...
Ian Robinson Oct 2021
If you write poetry to live,
You'll die.
You you live to write poetry,
You'll die trying to write poetry
If you write poetry to write poetry,
You'll only make prose
If you live to live,
You'll only ever survive.
If you truly live, you'll write poetry
When you write poetry, know you are truly living.
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