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nmo Feb 23
i wonder
how we managed
to convince our hands
not to hold onto each other
when we said goodbye.

now, i'm writing
inside this flying can;
thinking this might be the closest
to a home.

these small seats,
with even smaller legs space.
these funny-shaped windows,
where all you can see are
white clouds,
and sporadically
some lights.
tiny houses,
with even tinier people.

and us,
tiny giants,
reading overpriced perfume catalogs,
listening to mispronounced english,
using disposable low-fidelity headphones,
inside low-light low-love low-cost
low-everything
airplanes.
rig Jan 5
the view from my bedroom is ten years old,
a decade-long digital photograph
of a tenth-century building façade:
five windows on the right, five on the left;
four balconies, three cats, two birds, one door.
all this and it’s still one nothing to me,
an x to look at because i’ve no choice.
in two thousand seventeen i woke up
one september morning to the sound of
a life decision: count to ten and go.
David Amato Jan 2020
Cold air.
Wind punches the door ajar,
To reveal a humongous room.
This room consists of many individuals,
Some well aware of their surroundings,
Others not so much.

People proceed down a narrow passageway,
To board a plane to a new place.
Excruciatingly hot turbines.
High pressure doors finally closing.
We listen to the attendants long speech.

The plane finally disembarks!
We see tiny dots from our small windows,
Revealing miles and miles of space between us.
We travel from place to place,
Searching for undiscovered land,
And find just that.
I say goodbye and close my eyes.


This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License
Hey thanks for reading!
Carlo C Gomez Oct 2019
Here comes Mr. Chemtrail--
Pretty jets
Stream across the sky
By day, at night
They're tucked into cushy
Launching pads;
To sleep like us
Underneath the stars,
Drooling like a baby;
The rains of which wash away
Our Happy Tomorrow sign,
Written in sand
Across a hiraeth seashore;
With bountiful aura,
Everything is smelling like roses
Kept in the fuselage,
Waiting for a turn
To shine, perhaps ignite,
In all the glamour of
A shooting star:
Great godless geyser;
A prism of colors
Rain-bowing
Electively over funeral flowers,
This death was always meant
To be a friend with benefits,
Allowing us one last
Glorious ride into the heavens,
Before overtaken
By the undertaker;
The sky's the limit,
Steely-eyed missile man;
We're terminal now
And on final approach,
Bleed for us once more...
L'appel du vide is French and describes an intrusive thought or urge pertaining to self-destructive behaviour, that may occur during everyday activities.
Chris Jun 2019
They are the destroyers,
They have come through air,
Burning our streets and
spreading out despair,

With their stolen voices,
They have joined the laugh,
Burning through the corpses,
The righteous attack.

We are fallen warriors,
bodies rot in dirt,
We are eyes of ravens,
The blood of the earth,

With a rusty weapon,
We will spread the word,
The swords of our forefathers
are not of this world.

The cloud will spread,
The sky is dead,
Remains are bared,
The sky dies scared.

No mercy!
No freedom!
No mercy!
Lyrics to a song about the bombing of my country in 1999. Here's the link, please do check it out:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G71IJLtWODc
Toxic yeti Mar 2019
There on a
Wing of a Boeing
Was Garfield
A cat
Walking on the wing
At 30,000ft in the air.  
Am I hallucinating
Or dreaming
Or is the reality??!!
Aaron LaLux Feb 2019
At the Indigo getting into it with an Indigo,
in Tulsa or at least en route after one more round in LA,
stuntin’ in The Land of Abundance all real no frontin’,
can get anything I want except getaway,

and this all feels totally cliche,
spending time but got no time to waste,
already at redline trying not to flatline,
catching up to made up deadlines and keeping pace,

trying to lose the stress without losing my mind,
trying to win the hearts and convince the minds,
trying to do everything without having to try,
only do and do not do you like you buy,

welcome to America,
consumerism on steroids,
where we empty our pockets to fill up our closets,
empty hearts with souls for sale anything to fill the void,

everything that was ever made sacred was destroyed,
now we’ve got black artists on the radio making white noise,
where are our idols how are we supposed to look up to anyone,
but sometimes I feel like there’s no escape and I have no choice,

so I buy in in order to not be left out,
get the girl get the clothes get the hotel room,
but really I don’t feel like any of this is mine,
plus I’ve got a place to be so I should go soon,

so long farewell,
I bid you my Love good day,
but before I go let’s go one more round,
for Old Time’s sake before I make my escape out of LA,

at the Indigo getting into it with an Indigo,
in Tulsa or at least en route after one more round in LA,
stuntin’ in The Land of Abundance all real no frontin’,
can get anything I want except getaway…

∆ LaLux ∆
B Oct 2018
I can see the horizon.
I can see the ocean.
I can see the beach.
I can see cars driving.
I can see trees.
I can see buildings.
I can see birds flying.
I can see airplanes lift and land.
I can see boats out at sea.
I can see everything.
And yet I can’t see a future with you in it.
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