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Anisah Feb 27
second-rate skies standing solitary
frozen in their own mediocracy
conforming to the wills of majority
because I'm bored out of my mind

fingers tracing the swirls on the ceiling
feels like gravity herself is competing
and all I'm doing is moving, listless
I guess I'm out of time

so maybe I'm a little distracted
like particles of light are refracted
perhaps just a little compacted
from the cages you call fine

living without joy is no policy
so they make it out of complacency
questioning the laws of morality
and answers by design

but I'm reading all the words that aren't written
and suddenly I'm willing to listen
the stardust we're made of will glissten
because freedom I will find.

- Anisah Mariah
Ming Jun 2020
How much you weigh
Is how much you stand up on
How much you are
The weight of your being
Without breath
Without movement
Planting one’s foot against
The ever moving conveyor
But without actually
I found Complacency
What does it mean to be complacent to you?
bcb Mar 2020
I believe there is a certain necessity for persistent re-evaluation of one's self. to allow the psyche to reassess and perceive one's personal growth. are we still exerting energy and resources towards what finds us that betterment upon our inner wealth? this should directly concur with pure candidness; one's ability to balance the acknowledgment of their faults with the appreciation of their prosperity. this aforementioned ideal of persistent re-evaluation corresponds with my argument that complacency is trifling in today's world. though, I mean to mention a prime difference between that of momentary complacency and perpetual complacency. momentary complacency is viable and is, in itself, essential. we must, at times, come to terms and concede for rejoice. perpetual complacency, however, proves to hinder our ability to constructively progress our state of well being. within this argument, my mind wonders to that of this near obsession with improvement and all of the flawed gimmicks that follow. how far can one go? nevertheless, I want to be better. I want to see better. I firmly believe that we could do better.

be well,
Carlo C Gomez Mar 2020
The language of Los Angeles
gets lost in translation.
Even the rain clouds
drop their contents
with an unfamiliar accent.
The peculiar way
she tilts her head,
the distinct way
she crosses her legs,
are every bit incorrect.
The uninvolved way
she sits, steps, speaks,
alludes to her lack
of the irrepressible nature
surrounding her day.
"The rest is rust
and stardust."

She is quite

There is no turning of the shadow
under a European sun.
The silence of her heart,
the stillness in her limbs,
is barren, muted,
her leaves brittle.
In the breezy part
of the afternoon,
her core lay hollow
and unfelt,
regardless of...
He wakes her,
demurely she makes
an effort at soixante-neuf,
arbitrarily she bends for him.
"Her dream-gray gaze
never flinches."

She is quite
Nothing wrong with being American, this just illustrates the differences in cultural behavior and belief systems.

Inspired by the poem "Wuthering Heights," by fellow HP writer B.
Dried sands of the usual
Lay endless across the horizon
With simple coarseness
And familiarity
This is the life I understand
From the thirst
To the hunger
From the burning heat
This pain was home

And there stands a place that is much more colorful
And what may be a mirage
Of a mind that craves escape
From a dull and painful trek
Felt more and more real

But why am I so uneasy
To drink from the water of the oasis
Is it that I fear that it is poison
Or is it that I fear it isn't
That the soothing
Cutting taste of something better
Might make me unhappy
With what my life has become
Carlo C Gomez Feb 2020
You save
all your sweetness
for one lousy special day each year

But then
hardly notice her
the other remaining 364 days

Tell me truly
how this is supposed
to ever preserve any kind of love
Jack Torrance Sep 2019
There used to be a fire,
that burned inside of me.
I never had to tend it,
it had always just burned free.

It roared so fiercely,
and burned so ******* bright.
It kept me moving forward,
and broke the darkness with its light.

Then something started changing,
and the light began to dim.
The flames began to lessen,
and they never grew again.

Every day that passed,
the fire was less and less.
And the darkness creeped in,
making my direction a guess.

Then one day it flickered,
guttered, and died.
The darkness consumed me,
and I grew cold inside.

Now I just stumble,
trying to relight my flame.
But I can’t see where I’m going,
all this black looks the same.

I just need a spark,
to rekindle my soul.
And if I can’t find it,
then I’ll never be whole.
A poem about the slow consumption of depression
Young lives are being slaughtered by knives
law and order seems to have no power
to contain the gangs creating such strife
brutality grows not by weeks but the hour
these crimes getting rapidly out of control
with no logic to the mounting toll!

The gangs culture has been allowed to expand
cities towns and villages none are immune
in the present climate they are in command
too often on the roadside flowers are strewn
lawlessness spreads as people are oppressed
helpless we stand as a society transgressed!

A bleak future violence escalates and discipline
is now lost allowing worrying complacency in
surely it extends far deeper into our culture
where nobody can see that hovering vulture!

Now nobody is safe from the threat of violence
as corruption destroys human tolerance!

violence seems out of control peace and understanding forgotten!#TheFoureyedPoet.
Naomi Firestone Feb 2019
Wake up!
It’s time to wake up!!
I mean really wake up!!!
It’s not about the hands on the clock
That tick tick tick tick tock
The clock that never stops
Like a pendulum weighted rod
Reducing peripheral awareness
Routines that seems senseless
Coffee, breakfast, traffic relentless
The hands that clock you in
and clock you out
Never do you stop and doubt
The beat to which you march about
The mind checked out
It’s 5 o’clock somewhere
Drown my mundaneness out
Blindfold and gag my inner shout
My robotic need to march to the monotonous beat
For what will i have but despair and defeat
Oh holy one, save me from my inner beast
My natural instincts would have me feast
On love and lust and defenceless defeat
No boundaries, no walls, just vulnerability
The clock keeps tick tick ticking
The mind keeps click click clicking
Until finally I did see
Beyond its purpose to notify me
of daily chores and deadlines to meet...
It was in the hospital, starring at me,
A clock that asked how to be free
For time is not a commodity
It cannot be sold or bought for a fee
It has to be lived despite pain and poverty
For in the struggles there is also glee
No matter how sad our sorrows go deep
The time that we have is worth it to keep
Unchain that inner beast
For love is a necessity
And lust a natural need
Don’t waist your time on complacency
Live each second, minute and hour
Every day, week, and seasonal flower
Growing each year, knowledge is power
Don’t take one moment for granted
For time is no fairytale enchanted
A seed that flowers and dies
Was originally planted
Em MacKenzie Dec 2018
Rest the sterile smile plastered falsely on your face,
eyes set to the mile while mind is not in place,
place self on cruise control and be astonished by a crash,
anything to leave the hole that is filling up with trash.

A landmark embodiment of mundane reality,
I built an essential pyramid but not of food groups or of needs.
It resembled a tomb, but one far too good for me,
but I ensured that it suffocated all potential seeds.
I blame myself and my own hands
for whatever I unintentionally create,
but lacking blue prints or floor plans,
it’s impossible to have a clean slate.

Erase the transparent barriers that line all the small talk,
they say “the more, the merrier” but it’s getting hard to walk.
Greeting sad dark skies when I sleep and when I wake,
so I’m rubbing my eyes hoping it might give perception a shake.

Anonymously me,
it’s clear and everyone can see,
neutral yet so angry,
is there anyway else to be?

A landmark embodiment of mundane reality,
I built an essential pyramid but not of food groups or of needs.
It’s still magnetic North, but it’s South I wish to see,
as downwards is my destination due to my deeds.
I shame myself and my own hands
for whatever I unintentionally create,
and when you’re covered up in brands,
it’s impossible to have a clean slate.

You asked me to write how I feel,
or atleast my every single thought,
so my fingernails made my skin peel
and my organs were exposed with rot.
My flesh lost all it’s remaining elasticity,
but true to form it provided struggle and I had to pull,
and imagine you had the audacity
to tell me my decomposition was still beautiful.

Atleast I can thank you for that moment,
admittedly it came extremely late,
no matter the present, I’ve already blown it,
you know it’s impossible to have a clean slate.
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