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Irakli Beria Mar 15
I don't even care
That I am a garbage collector
But that
Janitor, it doesn't seem...
Hanna C S Jul 2019
And the mind is a powerful thing,
Sharper than a knife;
Mine strives to cut people out;
One by one.
With each silhouette chalk-outlined,
A new cake cutter is drawn;
A man-shaped trace lane out
Across white papered floors.

And the mind is a dangerous thing,
A labyrinth spiked with closing doors,
Tantrum prone;
Mine looses once and locks them out;
One by one.
With every snap-scissor-shut,
My paper-chain folds a man longer;
Stacked like secrets beneath my bed

And the mind is a curious thing,
I sleep easy above my burial ground,
And easier still.
The collector;
My romantic hands are ruby-dipped
moon-slicked and warm
As they take to my shovel;
Lessons will be learned
With bones for me to keep;
Row by row,
Proof of guilt lies below me;
2ft wide and 6ft deep.
annh May 2019
How can I pour my existence onto the page,
To stand firm, true, inviolate;
Like this arrangement of ancient bark?

My words written in their time,
Shed themselves like autumn leaves,
Tumbled and turned by the winds of the creative mind.

Will they whisper to those who would hear,
Of greener times and memories unfurled,
My secrets, my shame, my joy, my sorrows?

To be picked up and appreciated for their sunset colouring,
Swept aside with impatience as a trifling incidental,
Or trampled to dust by the pell-mell of rushing feet.

And which, dear reader, are you - a collector, a sweeper, or a trampler?
So many words; so little time to fully appreciate other’s writing. I think I’m a collector with sweeper tendencies. :)
Myrrdin Feb 2019
You are a collector
Of beautiful things
Art and artifacts
You can dust off
To show your friends
Turn the lights off
When they leave
For beauty is only real
If it makes others
Feel ugly.
I finally understand
Why you only call me
When you're with them
And stop holding me
When they leave.
Wai Phyo Win Dec 2018
Who is the suiter, what they say?
flassless and pure as you are
Even a perfect cut diamond sure has needles and clouds as its born bigger
May not worthy for the museum collector
It has some value despite having major pinpoints and feathers
Rational thinking process is the only factor and matter
Story
Anna Dec 2018
The small hands of a child
Are innocent
Reaching for fake animals
Or candy bars.
But his mother
Says he shouldn’t have been here
His father
Never kisses him.
He has nothing to reach for.
A child can be born without innocence.
Small hands can do more
Than reach for fake animals
Or candy bars.
A tiny killer, he is.
Lauren M Sep 2018
Fingers laced together, I am a basket.
Take parts to build a heart: you will need
wild things, beautiful things.

Mostly you will need
things that no one asked for,
that no one expected.
Things that have no reason to exist,
but do.

Netted spiderwebs and nettle fistfulls.
Fish scales and cotton cattails.
Dragonflies skimming across the water in the early morning
and fireflies imitating stars in the somber dusk.
The eddies behind rocks that jut brashly from the river
and the ribbons woven wreath-like through wrens’ nests.

Hauled up by handles, dump everything somewhere
you wouldn’t mind living.
Apply heat, settle in somewhere
you wouldn’t mind leaving.
Let sit two to twenty four hours, stirring occasionally.

Listen:
rhythm
one-two
one-two
it lives.
Cardboard-Jones Jul 2018
Downpour of the rain and midnight thunder soothes my brain.
I can fix this.
I need a breakthrough, I need something…
I just can’t think, I can’t create.
You sound like them, nervous and ready to condemn,
But I’m closer to truth, and closer to all the sickness
In their bones.

So I scratch out their names of another soul this disease claims.
And it just spreads, it always spreads.
Their eyes hardly sober now.
If they’re alive, then I can’t tell.

Silence of the room, it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad.
Stealing from the tomb, it’s not so bad, it’s not so…
Not so bad.

So I scratch out the names of the poor ******* I can’t save
To ease the blame.
The ghosts of humanity beckons for life I can’t provide
Or recreate, or sew the seeds of my good deeds.
I see the line, I can’t stop now.
I know I’m flirting with hell.
If I’m alive, then I can’t tell.

Pills and optimism seem to fail when I need
Strength to persevere but the light is fading.
I can feel the nightmares in my bones, persuading
Me to find solutions for the sick
So we won’t die.

Patience, I see that time has failed you.
Why did the people praise you?
Why did the people warn me
To keep you close by?

Hope, how could you betray me?
You were my one foundation.
Why did you decide to leave me
To suffer alone?

Darkness, I can’t begin to tell you
How much I’ve come to crave you.
Sorry I kept you chained up,
But I need you now.
Shadowhollow Jan 2018
He appeared one day
Unannounced and unexpected
Completely out of the blue
Something drew me to him
Maybe it was his secret darkness

He once told me he was a collector
And I , being the naive child I was , asked " of what , toys , trinkets or dolls ?"
He simply said " of all ."
And I couldn't quite comprehend what he meant
So being the child I was I forgot and instead told him stories of good and evil

Looking back I realise what he meant
He collected us , underage , vunrable, wanting love
We were like toys , trinkets and broken porcelain dolls

He put us up on his shelf , to be admired
After he was done with playing with us , he moved on
To a new toy , one much more naive

And then I finally realised what drew me to him
It wasn't  his secret darkness
But rather my inevitably to see it wasn't a secret
It was plain as day
And I being naive
Thought it was a secret he only told me
It made me special
But In fact it only made me one thing
Easy , easy prey for a cruel unforgiving beast
Known as a collector
It's not particularly about my life but i thought of it wanted to write it down .
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