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Majd Al Deen Oct 5
Time Time tell me please
Why am I still sitting on my knees
You pass as fast as bees
That is why I wish you freeze

I used to hear : "Time is gold"
And we must use it before getting bold
But sometimes I get so bored
And waste you before getting old

While young and youth must be the prize
I spend them eating some pies
I wish I could buy you but there is no price
For such a thing that never dies

Dear time dear time
You are my prime
I even wasted my time
Writing you this poem rhymes
So could you give me back what is mine
Or it's too late to cry and whine

Suddenly my hand watch started to scream
And talking as fast as a steam
Stop blaming time and seek your dream
Work hard because you can't redeem

Dear hand watch dear hand watch
I swear I will never let you down
But if only you promised to wake me up before dawn

Because big dreams need much time
And working hard is the prime
Honest comments and opinions are always appreciated as I am still trying to build myself
1:40.

Pulp Fic poster.
Dylan.
Lennon.
Cobain.
Green sticks.
Some smiths.
Hendrix.
Fear and Loathing.
Morrison.
Dig yourself.
A black lagoon.




Garrett Johnson.
Rocking rockin’ chair.
Royce Aug 24
I lived as an enemy in my own house,

With ideas standing guard of this prisoner.

I existed in a fabrication and nostalgic nightmare,

Sapped of energy with no purpose-

I decay on this mattress.

Set me free into this overpopulated planet,

Full of the lonely and depraved,

Moving, moving, in every direction,

Bound and gagged by nature,

The heartache of yesterday's cup of tea.

I'll indulge in the desires of my senses

And face painful withdrawals alone,

I'll lose myself in the harlot's charm

And suffer her betrayal in silence.

     I only want to know I exist...
Creator Sun Aug 23
Death takes many forms.
He can be harsh and cruel and cold
Or kind and merciful.

He takes people away,
Usually when the time comes.
Sometimes, the people even gave their permission for him to take them away.
Some even initiated it. Some were unaware of it.

Those were the ones that he truly mourn.
He mourns the absence of a bright-eyed child
In such a deep dark world.

For when the death knell strikes twelve,
A new world begins.

He watches as others try
to manage without the one taken away.  
He watches as they try and save
The ones that were taken away.
He watches as they call upon divine intervention,
Going so far as to ruin their lives,
Just to give the ones they love a second chance to live.

He wanted to wipe their warm tears away.
He wanted to hug them and feel as the fight in them went out.
He wanted to take them away to a faraway place where they won’t hurt no more.
But it was not time for him to do so.

He waits until the end of time.

He is inevitable and yet he waits.

He may strike suddenly, but still;

He waits.
I have personified Death in this second poem posted onto here. It seems that the first publication did not go through, so here is another one of my works written in boredom in literature class.
Peter Garrett Aug 12
I crave for so much more
Than the boredom of this town
And its unparalleled ability
To remain the same…
Yet I'm afraid to leave...
I find myself angry with life.
A low, simmering rage
only too close to a boil.
Once, my mind was
the sharpest of blades,
nothing could stand before me.
Now, it is but a vestigial sort of thing,
a relic of times better remembered.
I am rusted by the monotone
my life has become.
The repetition of every day
comes on as a flood;
I will succumb.
I've lived in the outskirts all my life
I've met in the outskirts my friends and my wife
I've built in the outskirts a comfortable hive
I'll make in the outskirts my kids, four or five
I've been here in outskirts both night and day
I went to school, college, work in the same place
I've never been made aware of any other way
Than the one I've been using in outsirkts again and again
The outskirts are comfortable, the outskirts are safe
Nothing's ever going down there, neither good nor bad
There is no grand ambition behind its bland face
No life goals or life to love behind its made bed
In outskirts I've lived, loved, ate, ******, slept, dreamt, hated, berated, been bored and amused, adored and abused, depleted, exhausted, destroyed and rebuilt, encouraged and spewed, all encompassing comfort of life's dullest views
The outskirts are comfortable, they are always secure
In outskirts I've lived my whole life and more
All outskirts look the same, but mine is the best
For my outskirts is where my humble home stands
I'm an outskirts lad, born and raised. It's a comfortable life, but oh so boring.
The Dybbuk Aug 7
"I hate American late stage capitalism," my Spanish roommate says.
But what can I say to that.
He's right; every second spent here is paid for in gold
or in crimson blood.
Reality pulses with stimulation,
but still,
the clock's hand lazily wanders, lethargic, about its face.
This pathetic, white-haired professor,
lectures on coding in the front of the room.
"American's only know how to tell the time by looking at their phones," my roommate says.
But I think to myself, now, computers are the only way we bother telling time anymore. Time has become precise,
But it used to be clumsy, more art than discrete mathematics.
The professor informs the class that we have to pay for the textbook,
and again for the software that will grade our code,
and the class doesn't even blink.
"Class dismissed," says the clock. Ironic, I know.
The blue light of our phones,
the kind that keeps us awake at night,
is turned on as we step outside.
"It's noon," I say, and I hear the echoes of gunshots in schools just like this one,
Where someone got tired of paying in cash.
We write as to not be bored. Bored out of our minds, we start to see & feel & think things we never hoped to see & feel & think. Thoughts of death & sorrow haunt our minds when there is nothing else to do. We start to forget who we are & where we came from. We are lost in our own internal dialogue, escaping what we feel we cannot handle. After just moments of our boredom, we are gone & lost to the secret world within, & perhaps, there is no point in trying to find our way out.
- Z.B.
I wrote this absentmindedly while doodling in cursive
Here I am sitting on my college armchair
numbing my **** for the sake of waiting.
Spoiling my breath for there's no one around.
Hearing my own pulse for it is too quiet!
365 Poems for my 365 Days

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