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Oculi Mar 2019
What a spiceless world.
One full of orange, then blue.
One full of purple, then brown.
To get through the waters of the womb, you need steel.
Where blood is flighty. And mud is shallow.
To love, you need to ****.
To hate, you need to birth another.
A pool of men stronger and faster than a colony of ants.
Who are you, when you've lost all your feathers?
When the bridge above you has collapsed?
Who are you, once again, when all you've known has turned to order?
When there is a hierarchy? Where do you fit in?
To make wings, you need a brother and a hammer.
To fight those orderly *******, you need to call upon your own filth.
To waddle through your own ****, your own ****, you need to drink the elixir.
Not some shallow nectar from the gods. Who are they, anyway? Who, who are the gods to question the almighty? You were always better anyway.
Who upon this mound of dirt, ****, ***** and mercury shall question the authenticity of your command, when they're all dead in the ground?
Will there be anyone?
Will it just be you?
You knock on the door of the rich man, but he does not answer. You paint his door red in your own blood and scream.
What has occurred here? A clash of babies dressed in stardust under a sky of light violet?
Maybe a marriage of scales and feathers disguised as ones you could care about?
You know nothing of this world, and that's how you always got by.
You dig through the pool of used needles, you drench yourself in others' diseases, you embrace a death of most painful circumstance and you cut off your limbs one by one.
Only then, at your final moments, tongueless, waddling your chunks of once arms, legs and wings around, drowning in your own *****, can you ask the most important question.
What if the world was the opposite?
A story that I could claim my own. Something that resonates with me. I hope you understand.
Matt Sol Jan 2019
A second sun
peaks and flutters
in the color-dust
of virga
refracting light
of false idols
shading skies to
new horizons.

See ya later
with a question            (x2).
I forgot how
to say goodbye,

A second sun
peaks and flutters
in the color-dust
of virga
as thunder rolls
down a stale sky
into the fray
of a twilight.

See ya later
with a question.             (x2)
I forgot how
to say goodbye.

A second sun
peaks and flutters
in the color-dust
of virga
refracting light
of false idols
shading skies to
new horizons.
Lewis Hyden Dec 2018
Cyber! Neon green, pinks,
Hair like vivid spotlights
At nightclubs, darting, sharp,
Strong-willed and persistent,
Piercing through the pale skin
Laid thinly over fog.

Shock-shock! If anarchy
Is popular, what does
It mean to rebel? Rave
Lights beam through the system
Like tracer rounds! The punks
Spin like halogen bulbs.

Steel! Plenty of plastic.
Enough to rebuild the
Eccentric walls of their
Flashy nightclubs. Above,
Sophisticated chains
Spin and drag over meat;

Pointless. A simple sort
Of mechanisation.
The music, the plastic,
The hair dye; all of it
Spits to the contrary,
Such anarchists are they.
A poem about failure.
#32 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Frigid buildings as those
That scrape the sky, climbing.
In a place that no-one knows,
Distant bells are chiming

To the shots and screaming,
"Stop resisting!" A rise
In terror betraying
The brittle city's brittle lies.

And for a time we hoped that they
Would never know our quiet rage,
And from the melting lights, we pray
For the silent, now upstaged.
A poem about Utopian life.
#20 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Do you know, the exact design
Of spikes and wires atop street-signs
And the sort, are to stop
Pigeons ******* on the top?

And yet, just the other day,
A mother pigeon - as if to say
"*******!" to the local street -
Had made her nest up, nice and neat,

Above the very spikes they laid
To stop the nest from being made.
And as I passed, I thought aloud,
"'At-a-girl! She should be proud!"
A poem about anarchy.
#17 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Maya Oct 2018
an anarchist, just
a person who wants to de-
-stroy the government.

there's a difference be-
- tween letting the world burn and
setting it aflame.
"i will not die in the night
but in the light of the sun
with the ashes of this world
in my lungs"
- hollywood undead, 'City'
Madison Sep 2018
She's an anarchist

But she still follows the rules

Of writing haiku.
Anthony Mayfield Jun 2018
Heart songs don’t come easily,
For they breach internal depths unseen.
Loving honestly,
A concept that can’t be placed.
Faux lives to live,
Faux dreams to chase.

I had dreams once,
But they’re so far away.
And I don’t know how to forsake
My dreams.

Run,
Or you will be my next decay.

A heart song is hardly pure harmony.
It thrives on tragedy, chaos, and anarchy.
It wakes up just to daily be killed.
When the soul is distressed,
The heart song is thrilled.
Blood in its name has been spilled.

Because of it,
Rest is so far away.
When rest comes, I’ll sleep,
And I’ll stay,
And I’ll claim,

I’m not ok,
That’s not how I feel.
I’m seconds too late.
I guess that’s just my deal.
I’d be afraid,
If I knew how to feel.
You’ll rue all my days.
For if I’m to survive,
From heart songs I steal.

Heart songs lay me down,
And let me down.
I just crave to sleep
Restfully now.
A heart song is hardly pure harmony
heather May 2018
Modern Japanese
Haiku are less likely to
Follow syllabic norms
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