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bcb Mar 30
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,
bcb
Carlo C Gomez Mar 23
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
American.

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
American.
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 12
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!


#TheFoureyedPoet.
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.
Asante' Nov 2018
It was a beautiful moment
Of dissatisfaction.
One where she realized
Complacency
Does not equate
With serenity.
That stagnancy
Does not yield joy.
So she moved,
Not only her feet.
She moved mountains.
The earth quaked beneath her,
And flowers bloomed
In every crack.
And this,
She thought,
THIS is how it feels
To be alive
Irate Watcher Nov 2018
It creeps up on me.
The sneaking suspicion
that I'm stuck
in it.
My hair is falling
in my face.
Only a year ago...

I built everything —
it was so clear.

Even though —
it was chaos.

People were worried.
But it was simple.

It was as simple
as simmering sausage
in a saucepan,
sweating in a brick kitchen,
listening to Sade,
and thinking of rooftops.

Things are more grounded now.
People are less worried.
The kitchen is smaller,
and shared.
I turn down Sade
when someone enters.
I'm still sweating,
but it's because something
is wrong with the heating system.

I long to take
an anonymous walk
between buildings.
There are only
neighborhoods
and shopping centers here.
And I keep running
into people who know me.

It's either too cold or too hot —
It's never summer every day.

Everything that was hanging on
my walls
is on the floor.
Precious paintings and prints
dusting with potential.

I reveal myself
less to strangers.
I don't take public transportation.
It's disconcerting how
comfortable having a vehicle is.
I feel urged to uproot,
swinging in someone
else's hands,
but feel like..
I'm interrupting.
Can't I just arrive for awhile?

My safety net is too big
and my home is too small.
But if I abandon it,
I'll wonder if I'm bound
to be restless.
This comes from the heart. I don't mean to complain — I'm grateful for what I have now and am so happy to not be struggling. But sometimes, with things so comfortable, I feel less alive and wonder if I'm getting complacent.
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