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I S A A C Jun 2020
Oh the dreadful battle
Bloodshed of the most high
Why do the innocent get maimed and die?
Breathing flames of the highest degree, baking me like a pie
But I didn't dissolve into ashes that simply float on the breeze
I returned to me, like a phoenix
Guaranteed to rise
Every time
No matter the weapons formed against me
A tongue, an arm, a gun
I will always rise above
My orange hues so magical
My presence demanding change, the inevitable you cannot interchange
The screeches I scream are speeches of the strange
Downloaded messages from the divine and purified with sage
Reincarnation
Haruharu Jun 2020
You could've left, honestly I wouldn't have blamed you.

You could've left, but you didn't.

Instead you drew your sword, fully armoured.

Alongside with me you fought.

Slayed my demons one by one.

When my strenght ran out you held the frontline.

I see you rise and fall, only to rise again.

You fight and you bleed, for me.

My best friend, know that I'm always ready.

Ready to fight for you, I'll slay 'till my last breath.

For you.

I love you my swordsman.
Dante Rocío Jun 2020
A gun came up along the way.
Marrying you with the grave prematurely.
However, all that was needless,
As your father had already engaged you two before,
You’d been dead inside for oh so long.

Todd was right about that all along,
More perceptive than the rest.

How ironic and grotesque:
a fire burning so truly and strongly was put out
with a single blow,
How the greatest few hours of your life were made gradually
into your worst and, eventually, your end.

And how is that fair?

The curtains have been drawn,
The audience is long gone,
Yet your act won’t be in vain,
Not if I have something to say.
No, most certainly not!

You’ve become the greatest proof for all those fools
Of the power of the living word,
Of the power of a rebelled voice,
Of the immortal art of a being of poetry,
who’s the true soul of the universe.
Keating’s work became fulfilled in your choices,
The very fruit of his teachings.
You showed those mortals, that no matter
what they claim, do or inflict on you,
they could never **** you.
Neither rules, nor words nor the trigger.
You’re the champion, you’re the winner.

Altogether, we became Poetry ourselves.
No quills, paper or audience were needed,
just the world around us, our voices and passion in our eyes.
We gained the upper hand in the process of the withering,
Weaving ourselves into the tether of all the matters.
Now, no grave or unwritten memories shall restrict us or make us perish.
Never more, as art has no rules.

With all due respect, I give you back
your rightful laurel wreath.
With all your greatness you deserved that prize,
of meaning greater than just a crown of an actor;
The victory over others’ power,
Over fear to speak,
Over fear to sing,
Over fear to be.

You were a misunderstood artist, though not like those, that are many of them.
Your amalgamation of all that you were,
Though so harshly interrupted on that fateful night,
made the authorities and that cold academy see,
That it is them who let you down, not you,
That they can never quench
the call of the Life,
the truth whispered up there
among the trees,
A soul’s thriving beauty, in all the madness of the existence

The curtain’s fallen,
The audience is long gone,
But I shall commemorate you forevermore,
As a poet and artist of the Life owes it
to another of their kin.
With all the pride, honour and bitterness,
You are more than welcome,
as a true member,
in the Dead Poets Society.
- - -
As I let quote myself
in this gender observation,
based on the B. Sáenz work:
“Por eso lloramos,
Por eso reímos,
Por eso se alborota
nuestro corazón,
Y por eso vivimos”
An elaborated epitaph for the person of Neil Perry from the cinematic masterpiece “Dead Poets Society”
A minute of silence for all that perishes with one’s world’s departure.
I thank that story for rejuvenating my battle for the freedom and actual breathing, seeing and “poetising”.
Gather ye rosebuds while you may
Cassy Jun 2020
I know that sometimes you feel a loss when you remember the salience of your bones when your skin was as thin as paper and you even struggled to drop on a chair.
And I know that from time to time you suffer from the absence of those days when you could look at a filled plate without touching it and call this effort a meal.
And I know you often think about those afternoons when you looked so dead that you held the secret hope that someone would come to resurrect you.

But the truth is, you seem to have forgotten the days when the bruises on your skin scared you and the days when you wiped your ****** mouth wondering if you were really becoming more beautiful. Those days when you were so cold that you couldn't touch anyone without startling them and those days when you couldn't stand up without seeing a multitude of spirals swallowing the world before your eyes.

The truth is, you forget that no one came to save you.

And I realize that sometimes it's still hard and that you’re still fighting, but I can not help but notice that bright glow back in your eyes and how your gestures are firm and your cheeks colored by life. And even if you break so often that you wonder why you should bother to keep rebuilding yourself , let me tell you that putting the pieces together is much more beautiful than the mere thought of you drowning yourself in a flood of alienating negativity once again.
angelique Jun 2020
the eternal battle between light and dark has been a source of inspiration for artists & musicians & writers since time immemorial

light and dark allow us  

to treasure the artist's glittering painting
to reflect on the author's lyrical words
to swim through the musician's vast symphony

to explore deep ravines of intense emotion
to float on gossamer dreams
to be wonderfully alive
to be wonderfully human
sea of thought #2
William de klerk May 2020
Every  late night filled with bliss
is etched in red
like lipstick from a stolen kiss
on the white of this bed.

Every single grey smudge shows
a world of lows written in pencil
but still I see those highs
clearly in my murky memory.

Every scar slowly branded into
burnt skin that eventually healed
are tally marks for the demons I slew
and hint at battles that will not yield.

Every
Memory made
World written
Battle beaten

Stained, Smudged and Scarred
A blank and Boring canvas
The wild unforgiving landscape,
The perilous heat and,
The untamed sun.
A fools conquest the land was.

Dawn comes to the very boundary of the empire,
standing on the uncontrolled border.
A string of forts stretch long and thin,
covering the horizon with their power.

Dawn breaks as the men wash and meditate,
affixing there turban to begin the day.
Sensing a looming threat in the air,
the Sikhs man their posts.

Someone tells a joke to break the tension,
everybody laughs, but the feeling remains.
The lookout shouts about an enormous mass moving on the horizon,
The twenty-one takes their defensive positions.

At least 10 thousand tribesmen,
once there allies but now, in full retaliation,
descending on the forts with only the signalling post,
standing in there way.

The unit is piling up ammunition,
barring the gates to there tiny compound.
The signalman sends a tiny message,
"Can you send help?",
Only with a slight delay, "no".

The men in the unit gathered around their commander,
Ishar Singh, knowing fully that they could make a break for it,
Ishar then tells them calmly about what they are already,
in their hearts, are ready for.

They will stay and,
They will fight.

They will delay the oncoming tribesmen,
as long as possible.
They will buy the forts the time they need,
to call the reinforcements.
This is the first part of the poem 'Saragarhi' and it is based on the events of September 12th, 1897. This is about 21 Sikhs sacrificing their lives to help their brothers.
I stand on an deserted and desolate field
Where many a man's fate was sealed;
Oh how the iron church bells pealed,
Sounding the dead of Inkerman

Long ago in foggy morning
Her Majesty’s soldiers lay a-snoring
That's when they came without warning,
Scaling the heights of Inkerman

Through the fog, cold and deep
Soldiers by hundreds quietly creep
Still maintaining surprise they keep
As they climb the hills of Inkerman

The battle starts; the cannons roar
With a fire yet unseen in war
Thousands die in the horrible chore
To take the heights of Inkerman

Many times the ridge changed sides
The wounded and dead, they drop like flies
And from the plains you heard their cries
From o’er the heights of Inkerman

Now the heights, with silent air
Carries no signs of the fighting there
But when you walk them, say a prayer
For the men who died on the slopes of Inkerman
Four May 2020
We are put in the same battle terrain but our situations are different.

Food, water, clothes, shelter, entertainment and money are the things you got plenty, but I haven't got that many.

You know certain with your resources, how long you will last with this battle we have, but for me everyday it is like "will it be my last?".
In this world were change is constant, today you are preveledge but in a blink of an eye you can be otherwise. Always consider and respect other people's perspective, be kind and if you can give, give, cause it is true that it's better to give than to received.
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