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Robin Goodfellow Jun 2017
Sleeping flowers fall
past soft leaves, the morning light
greeting velvet dew.
Robin Goodfellow Jun 2017
Nymphs grace the woodlands,
silver flutes in hand, the moon
within lonely skies.
Robin Goodfellow May 2017
Is there a reason

Scared beyond the deepest

while clinging to thoughts


Laughter dissolves into mayhem,
the chaos tamed to a dull glow
within a hearth of memories, as if the
madness had hesitated to even
touch them, touch you, and everyone
that had ever appeared before you.
Happily, sorrowfully, singing to

losing themselves to harsh innocence

relishing within the corruption of twilight

betrayed through truth and fluttery vows

lusting after loneliness of an empty hearth

crying upon cliffs of nostalgia

silently stitching hollow smiles

violently tugging at their skulls

anchoring to drowning seas.

So tell me, my weary fellow,
who’s seen flowers wither and grow,
who’s scandals blissful maidens know,
who’s loveless acts saints still sow,
who’s playing kings, both high and low,
who’s wandered fairytales, to and fro,
with a heavy, burdened soul in tow,

Will you search for the right spell,
mend the words, with only Death to tell,
while listening to bells of time knell,
upon the sake
of my
Robin Goodfellow Mar 2017
I don’t know when it started.

I don’t know when it ended.

It began when they started shooting.

It began when they started rioting.

We ran for cover under bullet fire and fear.

We listened to our screams as mobs sneered and jeered.

Terror captivated us when they slammed us to the ground.

Horror gripped us when they became bloodthirsty hounds.

Familiar slurs echoed through our hearts and minds.

They kept throwing punches, blurring our moral lines.

Helpless when they smiled their cruel smiles.

Helpless to preserve the peace for a while.

Beaten down by the ones who were supposed to protect us.

Beaten down by the ones we were supposed to protect.

Then they started shooting again.

Then they started shooting again.

We have to protect ourselves, to fight for what’s right.

We have to protect ourselves, to fight for what’s right.

Give into our righteous sins.

Embrace primitive instincts from within.

Turn ourselves into demons.

And pretend we weren’t heathens.

We can’t afford to listen.

Or watch fallen tears glisten.

Sing to our loved ones a song of pain.

Weigh our hearts for those we’ve slain.

Hope for the days when we can love each other again.

But for now, we need to pray for the freedoms we still defend.
A poem about police brutalities and racism/excessive patriotism/isolationism between ethnic and racial tensions. This poem is how I feel about it.
Robin Goodfellow Feb 2017
What is the magic
the aristocracy was entitled
to rule over us?
Binding us to society and
the rules of the unknown
and the unimportant,
the weak and the lost
only allowed to suffer.

What is the magic
where the thieves and fools
fight for bloodless gold?
Lulling my darkest
silence to slumber, lest
the compassion shatter
like glass slippers that
slay soft flesh.

What is the magic
of those forgotten words
of corrupt innocence?
Where birds were birds,
monsters were monsters,
the notion of humanity
slipping away from my
happy beginning.

What is the magic
that forces me to lust over
every failed perfection?
Prayers unspoken and
thoughts from promises
I’ve only begun to


But we can never go back to those times so
long before.
I can only hope that you’d come quietly in
through that chained door.
Robin Goodfellow Feb 2017
A tiny boy races through a village, with
fragile arms carrying books, papers, 
maybe a pencil or two. He's hugging
the world with bright eyes, while
stumbling through the morning light,
traveling aimlessly in a field of 


Never looking down at animals'
hopeless faces, flesh blown away 
by the bombs of freedom, the
scorching heat smearing morality,
changing what should be,

what shouldn't be.

But here he is still, his shadow in the
haunts from forgotten tears

no older than I.
Robin Goodfellow Feb 2017
You look up with those big eyes
of yours, while talking about the
things you

once loved

while hiding promises you’ve
recklessly made to others. Then
secrets spill into your


And with a mischievous
gleam in your smile, you list the
ways you’ll conquer the world, all
with the

eloquence of a child.

But you still cling to everything
and nothing, as if you’ve lived for
a very
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