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Death unto death,
I'll still be dying when I'm dead.
Falling out of
and flying into
The before
That lies ahead.
Hadiy Syakir Mar 20
There are lives
that died and gone to waste,
but there are also lives
that are well-lived yet already gone to waste.
JJ Inda Jan 30
As if there is none,
be it by chance
or something other.

A wondering lights up interiors;
Such abundance of articles
more-overs out of use.

No stand is clearer than
a subject nearing sight.
I am.
Friar Tom Dec 2018
What lies above the tops of trees?
The field in which the bluejay flies.
Far-soaring through invisible seas
With white-foam clouds; We call the skies.

Can birds deduce the here and there?
From breezy-field to where it lies?
For when it flies up in the air,
Oh, does it know it's in the skies?

Birds care not for the 'next day'
They bend not to anxiety's sway
Be like a bird and you too may
Be happy wherever you lay.
Inspired by 'The Anxieties We Invent Ourselves' by Soren Kierkegaard
Ines Rose Jul 2018
There is a bird on my window sill

So indecisive, sitting still

She could have been up on that tree

Instead, she came and talked to me

“Oh pretty girl you know things well

So tell me which one would be swell

To sing for a crowd that isn’t there

Or to die for a crowd that doesn’t care?”

I didn’t know quite what to say

And so the bird, she flew away
An old one I dug up from the archives circa 2012-2013.
Not sure where I was going with this but here it is.
Thoughts?
Ebony Apr 2018
Bite the bullet already!
Chew it, swallow it, make it you.
Embed the gunpowder in your bowel.
Dissolve the shell in your acids.
Eat the bullet already!
Dig your spoon into your bowl.
Bring the bullets to your mouth.
Wiggle the spoon to dislodge the milk.
You're lactose sensitive!
Buy some lactose free milk for once.
You can't keep having cow's milk
With your bullets in the morning.
Dylan McFadden Apr 2018
Welcome to
The theater stage,

          Where we are
          Made of dreams

Just acting out
The scenes of life,

          With laughs, and cries,
          And screams

Until the final
Curtain call,

          When we will
          Take our bow

And wonder what
‘Twas all about,

          With no one
          In the crowd...
Inspired by Albert Camus' "actor" in his book The Myth of Sisyphus.
Akemi Feb 2018
hole in the sky. tap tap, the empty vessel flows out. a weightless sink. the hour goes, blaring swell of humidity, and the jug lukewarm, leaven oft in the barred space. I return to my room. I drink the cold milk on the sill. I finish the third wretched spill of the journey to Olympus.

Downstairs a howl, a wind slam SOLOM OBSERVATIONAL MATRIX STRUCTURED TASKS AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY TO ASSIST WITH INSTRUMENTAL DECISIONS. I close the door I close the door I close the door I close the

In this uneasy slumber, the bed shakes, the windows rattle, the sky splits, the earth floods a red simpering capitulatory spasm of earthly flesh. Here is the circuit, the tired nervous tic of inaction, I shrink back from the outstretched hand, a condition which recommends two pills in the morning to mask the double image beneath my hands.

i have slept through the week again, this pathetic flesh obeys nothing, where are my pills inescapable ******* dullery

THE JUG IS HOT. I return to my room. I close the door two pills on the sill to go down with the milk

THE DOOR SLAMS GALL BUCKLING FIT ODE BREATHLESS CLOSER CLOSER CLOSER BUT THE SOUND REMAINS

Figures muffled by the walls. There are guests in the house, the looming presence of multiple species with incomprehensible intentions. In a bout of uncharacteristic curiosity, I slip my sight through the ***** of my door. UNDER RCG IT WILL BE MANDATORY FOR ALL CUSTOMS CARGO REPORTERS IN THE AIR SEA AND ROAD INDUSTRIES TO SUBMIT REPORTS TO SARS ELECTRONICALLY. I am unmoved by such perceptions. I prepare the final climb to Olympus.

the cyclone is ended. the front door is barred. the jug is cold. the yard is littered with unmoving shapes.
In this catastrophically worthless point of my life I find myself intersected by my failure to sustain a relationship, my alienation from left-wing collective politics, and my consumption of Faulkner and Ligotti, unto the birth of self-destructive pessimism.
Josh Jul 2017
I am a philosopher
Of folly
An astronomer
Of stars I dream
Into the sky
A painter, in the colours
Of existence
I am a dreamer
Dreaming into the void
I am human
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