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Cali  Nov 2014
intelligence
Cali Nov 2014
a great quantity of money
goes to education
but what about being  brainwashed
we indirectly pay for it
we are blind to the world
a fine line between facts and opinions
and putting two and two together
it takes 1 line in our life
a goodbye kiss
a death
someone's last sentence
to learn everything we need to
so much money
to think how someone else thinks

unoriginality

we save up for

my grades are bad
but little do they know Im bored

I hate education
spending money and a large percentage
of our lives
to turn our organic minds
into a one way street
that everybody is parked on
bekka walker Jan 2019
poems of boys broken boys breaking boys boys breaking
silly little girl you never thought your world revolved around your involvement with boys but even distance was deliberately calculating their gravitational push and pull silly little girl i say to my old self i wonder what my future self will think of me?
claire Apr 2015
i. Allow yourself to be clichéd. Forgive yourself the comparison to phenomena like stars, tsunamis, volcanoes, and the end of the world.  There is no shame in depicting the galaxies you see in your irises or the seas crashing in your lungs. Don’t for a minute diminish your words because you’re afraid of seeming larger, lovelier, or grander than you really are. Keep writing huge. Keep writing splendorous.

ii. Destroy the anxiety gap between you and your work. Sit down and write whatever’s filling you in that moment. When stupidity comes, embrace it. When unoriginality comes, offers it your deepest welcome. When panic comes, give it a wink and keep dragging your pen across the page. There is no wrong, no right. There is only Something. Do not label the Something in such stark, dull terms as good or bad. If you must label it, label it burning, label it victorious, scarlet, howling, fresh, moving, disastrous, gleaming, but never reduce it to success or non-success. Who are you to determine these things? How can you take what streams out of you and cram it into a superficially constructed box? Would you degrade any other kind of natural release? Would you relegate blood flow or shouting or tears to a simple one-word title? This is your time to glow in full vulnerability, to fall head over heels for every blundering, beautiful thought within you, so build a bridge between you and the paper that will be strong enough to bear your weight. Then cross it.

iii. Know who you are writing for. It should be yourself, not the one who holds your heart or the fire-faced figure in the park at dusk or people who make your soul twist. Write for brave, bruised you; wondering, powerful you. Always you.

iv. Rise above the need to match your creation to a preordained image in your mind. The two will never be the same and this is fine. Accept whatever you produce with tender detachment, then move forward. Remember that every literary icon has felt the same pounding dissatisfaction, and walked about tugging at their hair, frustrated and abashed. Remember they are no closer to divinity than you. Ultimately, we are all just shells through which a greater ocean sings, so let yours wail its melody as it likes.

v. Write without the tight egoic fist; write without a blueprint; write without fear. Write like it is your first day on earth and you are stunned with awe. Write like the caterpillar bursting from its cocoon, transformed, breathless. Write like that.
Filmore Townsend Feb 2013
questioning the soul, questioning
the mind. why did that girl have
to have so many strokes? how
skew'd is the memory? spirits,
spirits on high for nigh recurrence -
nihil remembrances. mention'd by
name once. something wrong with
the body. disconnecting from on
high, disconnecting in a somewhat
general sense. no straight lines in
nature, no chaos in nature. get away
from the species' mentality. chaos.
c-h-a-o-s. chaos. chaos. species created
word to organize the unorganized.
straight line, polygon, order, chaos. time.
species ingrain'd, call'd instinct. to file,
to follow, to seek originality through
unoriginality. thru the banal. memory
warp'd, once could live. self-destruction
and a thought of living life without
affecting the choices of others. weakness.
chaos. rambling. tryptamine influenced
creation of language. showing teeth,
trying to intimidate. trying to rise, a
Jane of the Jungle form of archetype.
the passionate, caring, forbearing,
ape hunter. and lids sinking, closing off
the soul of influence. struggling thru
connections severed. those released from
******* by soul's recollections. by
metaphysical muscle memory. weeping
chaos, wailing order. finding null purpose
in. in. of all things. all people, all purpose.
knowing the worthlessness of well-chosen
words. and gaining access, and
trying to rise, and thirteen lines to stretch.
thirteen to fill across.
Leaving By June.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
it's not plagiarism,
rather, a collectivist
coincidence -

    i can't believe people
in the former days would
reduce themselves
to plagiarism -

    they'd sooner die than
relieve themselves
of an original idea -

   working with a mythology -
how could such
differentiated people
achieve copernican
globalist relativistic /
globalist impetus,
  and yet, somehow succumb
to an ethnocentric -
    genesis of unoriginality...

yes, unfathomable,
the concept of polyphony,
synchronicity inter-people...
    plagiarism is a modern
phenomenon,
   it doesn't exists in
collectivism of inter-ethnic
conundrums of
segregating categorization...

      just like evolution is god's
take on the thrill of gambling...
an original idea...
   allowing an in group focus...
it could never be a plagiarism -
    the segregating process of
techno. advancement...  
         toward a...
less cultural appropriation...
and more?
   cultural loaning...
      "plagiarism"...
       perhaps i should "read" into
solving crossword puzzles...

now plagiarism is easy...
any son of sam
is not an arsonist...

             but as my continued fascination
continues with
    andrei chikatilo...
and batman, the dark knight rises
scene on the plane:

  why would you shoot a man,
before taking him into a prison cell?!  

ah... christine chubbuck...
this fascination... will not, die...
such a solemn,
              vernacular death...
worthy of a Vatican pawn-ship
of preceding the scourge of death.
Ilva Mar 2012
I wrote a poem for you
The day before I met you

When I didn’t yet know a soul can be shipwrecked
Or that the sun can have secrets
When I hadn’t yet learned to look for symptoms
Or dreamed you could become my weakness

You entered me like a sickness
From your first ‘hello’
You whispered my world red
And smiled it yellow

You came to me; a sonnet
A decorated soldier
Dressed in sentences and statements
With which to catch a schoolgirl
In succulent surprise

Your eyes kissed me
Long before your lips did
And under the spectrum of your splendor
My heart bloomed a blushing orchid

I was a slave to my sweet-tooth
You, a dulcit daydream
That knew just how to turn me
From still life into story
And in so doing, you cast me -
A shapeless statue -
Into your private purgatory

You created a planet
With just us living on it
And a snakepit, a sinkhole
With which to swallow me whole

I wrote this poem for you
The day after I met you
I thought it worth to mention
Why I started to regret you

So please pay close attention
(As I’m trying to forget you):

My innocence
Though far from inner sense
Was no less common
Than the unoriginality
Of your sugarcoated sin
Danielle Brown Oct 2012
Twirl and contort
Shape-shift and Distort
Undeniably a misfit
To function logically in the world we live in.
Fighting unoriginality
Breaking the bad reality
Unbeknownst to me yet?
"Too young", they say, "to fret".
Well beyond the years that I am,
Far below the society I am in.
Classy J Oct 2016
Classy J going array, with such sassy display to you’re overbearing dismay. Blasting off today, I’m as cool as sorbet, but yet as hot as soufflé. Everlasting eternities as the cycle goes on for humanity, where some live for the moment and others search for divinity. ****** prey wanting me on their tray, the only thing I’ll give you is the direction to the doorway. Rick Ashley stray’s, I’ll throw yawl back out in the alleyway. Future class, never ever low on gas, if you mess with me, I’ll shatter you like glass. I’ll use a computer bypass, to shove a virus up your ***, not to be played with, bro don’t you know that I’m bats. I don’t butcher the masses, or overburden you like taxes, I’m just your average Joe trying to make good of all this blackness.

Not a sore loser, nor a party pooper dear querying lass, I stand my ground; yeah you bet I got ***** of brass. While some of yawl puff the grass, this creature is trying to cure the world’s tumor created by us jack assess. Don’t run on flats, tackling my demons to the mat, yeah I have gotten through life by crawling down its crevasse! Don’t listen to rumors, some call me a trooper, you have to learn how to maneuver all haters and accusers. Living life by focusing on the hourglass, I’m not one to sit idle peeping out the looking glass. But forget all of that because life is nuts, and I’m just an outlet that slams the hard truth to your guts. Enough with your meaningless chitchat, I’m done with all yawl fretting and *******, time to buck up pussycats. Your listening to a lyrical architect, don’t have time for rats or insects, this is just apart of the classy effect.

I don’t make threats, don’t you forget I make promises that will eventually be met. I’m just a twisted afflicted un-constricted gifted individual who tries his best not to be too cynical. It’s so inconceivable but yet so believable, not your typical rapper, yeah I got principal. I am always original, I am a mystical miracle; yeah I’ll be making sure you know I’m no longer going to be invisible. Beat the odds, unlike all these frauds, I know my place, I’m definitely not a God. Heated rods of critics who keep on trying to burn me, but it just feels like a thorn to me. Street with needs to meet, used to the odds, so don’t think we’ll grovel at your feet. We are not mincemeat, we are not just going to take a backseat, we stubborn as concrete, yeah we are not going to retreat.

Privileged trying to turn us neat and tidy, without them they say we incomplete, that even though we coloured we should strive to be just another ignorant whitey. Don’t you know it’s all about image? We are savages, yet they are the one’s who diseased and burned down our villages. No I don’t seek forgiveness from wily coyotes, we are not a showpiece, like some kind of conquest trophy. No I’m not finished, is there something wrong with your psyche, naughty sly feisty vermin that itch like poison ivy. I politely tell you to ****, love the irony of your fear and hate of aliens, when you yourselves came to this land from a ship, which to us was a UFO. Anyways like I said, I may go off on different tangents or phases, because there are places one needs to tread. I like to educate airheads, I like to make em red; yeah I don’t leave things unsaid.
I want to unthread this sideways planet, if you’re looking for someone who doesn’t mince words; well I’m your prime candidate.

E-town is what I represent, legacy I will cement, rap game I came to resurrect. Let’s rundown the extent of these frequent fallacious formalities, those auto-tuned drugged up wangsters that are the definition of distasteful unoriginality. I frown upon the dissent of where rap ended up, it sure need a classy clean up. I know music is subjective that it is all in perspective, but to me this garbage kids listen to is far from impressive. I find trap music ineffective and unreflective, I don’t respect something so obstructive. That’s just my two cents, and though to me it makes no sense, others may not agree and still listen to that senseless content. What I’m trying say is opinions are like *******, everyone got one, but that’s what makes us unique souls. This is just a part of the classy effect, can’t wait for what happens next, can’t wait for changes to manifest.
M Catherine Nov 2015
my apologies
for my speechless soul
for my cliched analogies.
trust me, that wasn't the goal.
my heart seems
to speak a different code.
rather than logic, dreams
rather than smooth, the bumpy road
you deserve more than this
all the condescending words and unoriginality
crushing your spirit until I miss
your honest uncensored personality
As I sit in this car,
crowded physically but alone at heart,
even though you are so far
you still tear my mind apart.
the thought of you fills me
your laugh, your smile, your voice.
In case you couldn't see it,
I never had a choice.
It couldn't be someone
who never gave me a glance
No, now look what you've done
you've made my heart dance
                                                           ­               M.C.M
I lost the quintessence
of my rainbow beaded being
along with
the calligraphic indian feather pen.

The blood from my arteries
are replaced with black ink on paper.
The ingenuity of it all.
How much I despise it
the unoriginality ?

Not feeling me in my own words.
sobroquet Jul 2016
Soma
a pharmaceutical usurpation
some subjunctive psychedelic
noxious decoction
of the capital  kind
wrought by unoriginality
a conjuring elixir
to ignite the  material  mind

Maya
will have you
if you don't recognize
behind appearances
is always a disguise
beyond the superficial
over what eyes can surveil  
may entitle you to what is
to be entailed

Yuga
beyond the ages
beyond the sages
epochs and eras
multiplied to infinity
expecting some recourse
exponential beyond sanity
gauges of the cyclical planetary

Akasha
ubiquitous aether
all pervading
all invading
revelations' recordings
substratum of
then and now
rife marshaler of how

Ishwara
great atman
ultimate overseer
transcending all time
cosmic conscience
consciousness sublime
beyond everything
sight unseen

Samadhi
reign over me
the be all and end all
of life's raisons d'être
superconsciousness
enlightenments
bestowal
of divine grace and mercy

Gunas
by knowledge of these moods
this will allow you
ambrosia of all roads
in your journey ahead
to navigate solely
without flag or fail
through equipoise unassailed

Ahimsa
through this your lips
can no longer trespass
over your welfare
or the welfare of any other
true liberation
from human inebriation
true love for one another

Siddhis
they will misunderstand you
not being like the same
eschewing commonality
for the perfected mindscape
a narrowed perspective
to focus more completely
upon the rarest of views

Om
what can be said
of this holiest sound
that permeates all ethers
the skies and the grounds
Brahman of this plane
and all that surrounds
now perish all that confounds
soma: A plant, probably with psychedelic properties, that was prepared and used in ritual fashion to enable men to communicate with the gods.

maya: The illusions the physical world generates to ensnare our consciousness.

Yuga: in Hinduism is an epoch or era within a four age cycle. A complete Yuga starts with the Satya Yuga, via Treta Yuga and Dvapara Yuga into a Kali Yuga.

akasha: The ether; primordial substance that pervades the entire universe; the substratum of both mind and matter. All thoughts, feelings, or actions are recorded within it.

Ishwara: Personal manifestation of the supreme; the cosmic self; cosmic consciousness.

ahimsa: The doctrine of non-violence toward sentient beings.

siddhis: Powers of the soul and spirit that are the fruits of yogic disciplines.

Om is one of the most important spiritual symbols (pratima).[7][8] It refers to Atman (soul, self within) and Brahman (ultimate reality, entirety of the universe, truth, divine, supreme spirit, cosmic principles, knowledge).

Mathematics a number greater than any assignable quantity or countable number (symbol ∞)
Cutezeni Dec 2022
So what we live space apart
We got our love in spades depart
Love him I do maybe so it could be true
I only refuse to say it straight
cause he doesn’t say it too
It’s hard to gauge his thoughts and feelings
When mine are blurry too
It’s hard to know true love
When distractions are varied new.

Yet, I believe in our love,
It’s not lust it’s trust
In us, and on him
I do believe he means well
When he refers to his sins
Of his past and his candour
I don’t think he likes to meander
In lies and half truths but facts he tells
Things were complicated back then.

Insecurity is the root of unhappiness
He doesn’t believe in holding on to tackiness
I told him stop holding on to the past so tight
Make way for future and present in sight
He told me he has moved on,
he doesn’t give it mind
But holds on to techotcke and trinkets and trophies
Messages and muses and Sophies in mind

Distance helps the heart grow fonder
Yet I stay up all night and wonder
Where I stand in this whirlpool of thunder
Where is his heart if not next to mine?
Where are his feelings if not completely merged with mine?
He says it’s the distance that’s blurring his sight
He wants me but can’t do much
He is right in hindsight.

With trust comes baggage of responsibility
With love comes feelings of banality
The same old routine of trust and fall
The same unoriginality.
Need to break this cycle this time
Need to thrive not survive
Need to grow into a new you
Need to see things from a different view.
Only then can we stop this fight,
Only then can we move past this Sophie’s plight.
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Chelsea Woodcock Jul 2016
In my car
Listening to tastes better suited to the past
Smoking cigarettes.
Inhaling thoughts desired. Exhaling
    ideas of unoriginality.

Living a priveledged life in the U.S.A.
Free if worries of **** and ******,
Belly full of carnage and illegal immigration.

Head twirling like ballerinas
Twinkling piano, followed by
Strings of mourning
Deep and somber
Reverberating lost love
       and new life
Ember glowing. Smoke.
Eyes flipped inside out
Without humor
Like the 99.9% plasmatic Universe.

— The End —