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Iléana Amara Jun 26
in the subtlety of time,
they dragged me into a dark pit of existence,
sundered my being with their sharp claws
of everything as dark as their eye pupils
they had no ears to listen to my wails,
chained in terror, at loss for hope;
I was their sole epitome of misanthrope,
birthed by my own mind; demons beyond my scope

loneliness engulfed me; the downside of solitude
demons voided me from a life well-pursued
they were an illusion who loves to delude,
day by day, I attempted to befriend them,
what better way to lure an enemy into a friend condemned?

yet there was a root to its subsistence,
there was pain to its persistence,
it was real, desiring for our coexistence.

IA ☕
monique ezeh May 5
The drip drip drip of the Nespresso machine keeps me company.
I watch the brown pool rise and rise, filling my cup.
I take a sip, flinch unconsciously. It is bitter and scalding.
The cool foam coats my top lip.
No one is awake. It is 4am. I shouldn’t be awake.
Still, I am.
I will be nineteen in nineteen days.

This is not how I imagined my nineteenth; though my birthdays never really go the way I expect.
This is not how I imagined this month, this year.
There are worse things than being homebound; there are also better things.
I am trying to reconcile the existence of the two.

I am lucky enough to be (almost) nineteen.
To be safe
To be healthy
To have a home
To have a stable family income

I am unlucky enough to be (almost) nineteen.
To be mentally ill
To be isolated
To feel useless
To have a family spread thin

The two can coexist. I am lucky (and unlucky) enough to see this.

In nineteen days, I will be nineteen. Few people will know unless I tell them. There are bigger things to consider in the world. There are smaller ones too. I lie somewhere amid it all. I am just a girl— a faceless, healthy girl— amid a world of strife. The sun will rise, I will turn nineteen, and it will set; I doubt I will feel any different. The world will keep turning, with or without me. I am lucky (and unlucky) enough to recognize this.
Quarantine has provided me a bit too much time for introspection, I think.

My coffee is finished. The brown drops on the cup’s bottom resemble a smile. I am lucky enough to notice this.
been thinking a lot about the nature of existing in such an uncertain time. the world keeps spinning, even when it feels like it shouldn't. I'm not quite sure yet how to feel about the constance of mundanity; I don't know if there's a particular way I should feel.
ADHIAMBO AGORO Jul 2019
There is a time these feelings come back so intensely.
On other times...
they are a passing thought.
I don't blame it on the lack of care but...
I tried to want,
I tried to wait,
to be here...
the space given couldn't even accommodate the start of what I actually felt.

I am at a point where I let part(s) of myself go.
Those that I outgrow and don't work for me no more.
It is black, white, grey, blue...
many are colors of hope,
some are those of pain.

I know...
A woman's gotta live,
and when she is drowning,
she has to fight here way up and allow herself to breath again.

She then finds a safe home within herself before looking for it in other people and places.
Marsha Jan 2019
I am the moon
you are the Sun
without you, I am merely darkness
my glow is only an illusion
to the eyes of those
who do not see right through me
the true source of light is you
selfless, you give parts of yourself to me
and never once asked for anything in return
I shine so brightly because of you
you let the world see and admire my beauty
when in reality, you illuminate me
Thank you for giving your all to me ♡
CLARYT Sep 2018
"There she is, the freak" they say,
Their constant judgement, every day,
The taunts and fear with equal measure,
They'd burn me out for sure, with pleasure.

Children pointing in the street,
Adults never want to meet,
Fairytales of warts and bats,
Do not help me, that's a fact.

Love and kindness is my game,
Casting spells without the fame,
Those who make their bad views felt,
Are also those who ask for help.

With all my good intentions I,
Will ask the earth, the moon the sky,
These people's lives to be enhanced,
I say the words, and sway the dance.

I never ask for me or mine,
I leave it up to the divine,
I never spite, or grudge or hate,
As Karma couples hands with fate.

So all I ask from everyone,
Is stop your kin from poking fun,
But my belief is to forgive,
And always live, and let live....
It's unpleasant when I can't walk down the street without children pointing at the "Witch". Fuelled by the adults who plant such ******* in their heads....
Tristan Brown Nov 2017
There cannot be white
Without black
There cannot be light
Without dark

There cannot be up
Without down
There cannot be happy
Without sad

There cannot be good
Without evil
And there cannot be right
Without wrong

One can't exist without the other
Someone has to make the sacrifice
So that there can be
Happy
Good
Right

So I am what is sad
I am what is evil

I am
Wrong

So maybe
Someone can be
Right
Lou Aug 2017
Throwback dissonance, results in future social dystopian conversations. Tormented lives swept under rugs, in between the cracks of floor boards. Dust and filth, years of names. All scratched into the bathroom stalls of so called neighborhood's, subordinates of time and "hush-hush" the city to the suburbanites. Shocking to them eating dinners still in the 1990's, fastened tight in seat belts of self esteem, MTV news and 50 inches of reality. You must be joking, not ever knowing, folly box dwellers, why they say all "white".

The back doors were shut and locked when you looked left and double took right; as jokes from the safety of your water stained walls and cigarette burned carpets, to joke hatred like art and we must pretend not us though? Wall to wall, our prison starts here and ends in our front lawns as the country shouts "white man" and we must remain silent.

My father's land,  nearly 20 year cultural hiatus that split our family in two,  came back from time, in a paperclip, over the wall, east to the west side of Berlin and  delivered in a rebel DeLorean with bumper stickers of second amendment speeches and pro-life Bible out of contextual arguments. These retrospects, taking advantage of sales on tiki torches while stealing phrases from my great grandfather class of 1933. And the whole country shouts "white man".

No, my country,
not white men.
In skin yes, in history, no.

They were never men.
Never did my father speak of men.

I heard the gang rapes of Gypsy's.
Stories of slain Catholics.
Murders of homosexuals,
The bones crushed of opposing parties.
The staple mascot of pain, Judaism extermination that swept through culture like a bad advertisement tune.

Gassed.
Tortured.
Worked.

They come for us all.
Not as white men.
They come as their own.

This is not man.
They maybe white, but not man.

I am a white man,
but it's always been human, first.

That's black.
That's white.
That's purple.
That's life.

They come for our progress, not our skins.
Virginia showing its color but I am not allowing them to show my skin. They are not white men. We don't want them. They are lesser, an insult to monsters and dogs.
M Harris Feb 2017
The chaos of life calling in the twisting veins,
Where lifeblood pumped and the children came to drink,
Now blackened and scorched ,
The shell of our beingness,
Lies parched and cracked on this devoid land.

Silence the stillness vocalizing the null,
From the blank slate view to the ceiling of the sky.

Life for life,
Dead or deprived,
The cacophony of the carnival disregarded ,
Only shadows and memories,
Lingering in the custody  of the earth,
Carried on the endless journey of the wind
We call nothingness.

Their orifices are alive with selfish yield
We have no tongue to speak.

Drained of existence,
Once we sheltered in the hollow inside.
Now we are spectres
Ghosts of the flood
Someday the rains will come again
So long we have waited
Lost between planes
Nothing but the echo of a perpetual utterance
We will dance in the gathering waters,
When breath shudders coldly,
Through the carcass of our essence,
Bringing out throats alive,
Drowning stone and dust,
We will call again.

Call to the perpetual,
Empty skies with aeonian lies,
Clouds which despise,
To whom we call abode again .
Breeze-Mist May 2016
People often speak
Of mankind and nature
As two separate things

But the way I see it
We are not opposites
But rather complimentary colors in the wheel

People often talk of natural beauty
Or man-made art
But I find it more beautiful
When the two mix

picture this:
The sun is rising over a marsh
Against the vibrant hues lies the silhouette
Of a shuttle on the launch pad
Sleek, modern, impressive
But yet, not intrusive
Rather, complimentary in its juxtaposition
And its coexistence

People act as though wilderness and civilization
Can't coexist, as if they are at war
I'm fact, we both need each othe
And through our shared past and planet
We are one and the same
Maria Imran Dec 2015
I worry about you. Not the kind of you who watch stories of mass murders and social discrimination and videos of violent madmen beheading others in wars little or large; or those who stamp on people's self-respects and rights and on their simple lives, and take a bite from your burger, noisily belch, and continue with your petty lives because it doesn't make a difference.
I worry about those of you who take it in their hands. The kind of you who take it in their hands and their tongues and their blogs but bother not for once to leave their comfy chairs and go out. Those who can spew hatred so vehemently against a class or a religion or "that-group-of-madmen", and can very intelligently present us records of the number of people killed with their ages, notes and dreams. Also, the Moslem passports found just on the site, with your handwritten prescriptions of what the Moslems should do and do not, how the entire responsibility falls on them and when it does not, plus why the moderate and the extremists should both die because "you" have problems with really everything they do!
I worry about you who sit there, write books, and keep trying without really doing anything but corrupt whatever little peace we're holding onto, while we're here, *traumatized just the same.
Not poetry. But I had to write this because I read and saw something and stuff happened.
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