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Emric Arthur Jul 23
I hope to find a beautiful end,
A view of somewhere so gloriously golden,
A triumphant barge,
Elegantly flowing down rivers of silver sapphire.

Here lies a great to rest,
With silk cheeks
I will lay my weary face
A bold hand upon my chest

We want the best,
Even when best is a curse,
The body becomes a snare
A soul trapped in a ceiling square.

The grey porous texture is dry,
yellowing with time.
One touch and - crack!
Suspended in a void
Two friends till their bitter ends.

Time was precious,
Now all but a wasted object,
My chapter without end,
Don’t we always want to know,
How far is left to go?

Is this it?
Is this what we wanted?
To die ripe,
before the fruit spoils,
Anything to stop that
Tick
Tick
Tick
Tick
Steve Page Jul 20
How do you want to fill the silence?
After the tears, after the condolences,
after her friends have gone,
when all you have is the space
around you, you are left with the choices.

How do you want to live?
How do you want to fill
the silence she has left?

To her silence you might first add stillness.
To this select stillness you may then layer quiet.
To that chosen quiet you could perhaps
add the season found in the calm
company of those who remain
trustworthy. And then you may be better
equipped to harness the base silence,
and train it towards a distant hope.
life events bring choices in their wake.
Once you taste freedom, once its beauty has settled in your heart,
you will battle with the intensity of a whole legion to protect it.
Among all treasures, liberty reigns supreme.
The freedom to love as one desires.
The freedom to love whomever one chooses.
The freedom to express oneself.
How can one genuinely love another without the liberty to do so?
For a soul brimming with determination and independence,
take away from me my freedom,
and you may as well deny me breath.

-Rhia Clay
ADoolE Jul 11
But I’m selfish—
even with myself.
What if I no longer wish to roam?
What if I’m tired
of digging through fire
just to find a softer home?

Tell me—
what does it mean
when someone won’t let go of love,
even when it breaks their bones,
even when the sky above
has given every reason
to move on?

Not because they’re lost,
but because they chose.

Because I chose a piece—
no matter how it fits.
Even if it cuts,
I won’t call it quits.
Even if it’s sharp
and tears through my chest,
I carry it still—
because I loved it best.

It wasn’t perfect,
but it was mine somehow.
So I hold it close,
like a quiet vow.

Is happiness in seeking
what finally fits?
Or is it in keeping
what never quits?

I can’t tell
if I’m betraying my soul
or finally making myself whole.
That’s the echo I hear
in the quietest part—
not a question,
but a stubborn heart.

A name I won’t forget.
A light that won’t depart.
A feeling that lingers,
sharp and true—
and still,
I carry you.
The reality is that
our causality
determines our existence.

'Our', is meant literally
in that we also partially
determine our causality
  together.

  This is co-constitutive in nature.

However, this power to create
our own destiny is always within
the limits of our own contexts:
our past choices,
our environment,
our language;

the people around us,
the history within which
our identity emerges
and the current modes open to us
to be different
(or the same).

So, we are here.
And we will be there.
And we have
somewhat of a choice.
Side ***
Spicy Digits Jun 27
Red
She painted me in violent red
Dripping oil and
Strokes of toxic lead
Painted bloodied battle scenes
Of her, martyred
Me, dead
Vast imagery to tell her story,
Duplicitously
She painted her face
On every soldier, replaced,
And sold it museum to museum,
Showcased
I am the pawn,
Exhausted
A lifetime of submission
Of holding up hers,
Supported
I jumped ship, swam to shore
Faced my pain,
Drew lines in the sand,
Ended my war
She sings to the world her lies
Still, now
And paints me in violent red
From the cut she made,
From the wounds she bled.
B C Steffan Jun 23
To love and to be loved
Such a bizarre
Lives bound twisted
Leave a magnificent scar

If I held the final say
Death first of my lover
Or leave her to stay
One left to suffer

I wish her for death
For I foresee my sorrow
Should she see final breath
My grief she need not borrow
Kyla Jun 22
i cannot blame you Father
if i am not one of those you gather,
if i am not a chosen believer.
given the choice,
i wouldn’t choose me either
A M Ryder Jun 19
I find it so easy
to think poetically
of the world
as one giant beach

On it in which
all of us stand
and wait for
the clouds of radiation
to roll in

To resign ourselves
to the disaster
on the horizon
because that's the direction
inertia carries us

It is easier—
at least for some—
to imagine learning to die
than learning to fight
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