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Toxic yeti Mar 12
When I was a kid
I developed
A unicorn horn
The people with three eyes
Seemed nice
Yet innerally cruel
Bullying.
Kind nest and mindfulness
kind people are
Are trending
the best prenders
Toxic yeti Feb 17
With every
Detail
Ridge
Swirl and lines
This makes us one
Of a kind
For fingerprints are unique
And delect
And people should be treated them same.
Who is Truth?
Is she the raw unabridged feelings that you barely allow yourself to know?
Is she a close encounter between strangers that stir up longing and desire?
Is she a story told that is so magnificent she could pass as a lie because Context was not invited?

Who is this judgement called Truth?
Such complexity and unconscious motivations constructing a tangled mesh of stories entwined...
Where in this beautiful mess does Truth reside?
Is Truth a relative to Social Mores, Societal Conformity, Religious Beliefs and so on?
If so, I don’t want to know Truth…

When I invite Truth in I must also invite Self Exploration. I must banish the enemy within for it has no seat at my table of self discovery...
Truth is the universe full of mystery
and we are infinitesimal cells in the circulatory system...
So i say just enjoy the brief ride and don’t think too much.
Thera Lance Jan 30
The Home Owners Association
Came by again today
With open glares at
The green crawling across my chestnut walls,
Blocking out my view of
Their pale tan plaster and
Baby blue curtains.

Fees clutched in hand
Eviction notices in their prayers,
They march up to a house,
Existing outside of their domain,
Bought by a grandfather
And never sold to no developer.

I watch with arms crossed
As they step past tomato plants
Whose fathers I planted with mine long ago.

Pleasantries exchanged
Mean nothing combined with
Cold eyes on me as
I politely tell them that their nobility
Has no jurisdiction.

Later when,
One let’s his dog dig up
Pieces of my lawn-less garden,
I stare from my curtain of leaves
At exposed roots,
The veins of a child’s loss reaching into air.

Tears will do no more than moisten the corners
As I walk outside
Camera in hand
Staring at a man
Who slowly droops
While shame dribbles back into his eyes.

Nothing is said,
Even when he turns and quietly walks away,
Leash held slack in hand
And dog loyally trailing behind.
A combination of fiction, news stories, and the real life daily dealings when confronting Surburbia.
There stands the Idol on the Square,
Glistening in its glazed, gold splendor and so-called glory.
Its sun does not shine on it because it is important,
The sun shines on it because the Idol is simply there, simply there to bask in it all.
But then come the first tribe of people who walk into the empty square,
Who walk into the Idol’s city looking for company.
All they see is the Idol, a figure firm and masculine
Yet it is also lean and feminine.
All who see the Idol’s seductive stare,
With its crafted eyes gazing like a graceful serpent’s eyes
Believe the Idol to be holy
As it glistens in its glazed, gold splendor and so-called glory.

The first tribe looks above, hungry and hopeful.
They sit down in front of the idol, as they are taken by its chiseled, serpentine form.
Then the second tribe comes in and notices the first tribe eyeing the Idol.
The Idol eyes the newfound fans flocking by the handful.
The second tribe sits down to gather around the Idol and forget their long journey
To wherever they were supposed to be or whatever they were supposed to do.
Then tribe after tribe leers in line and take their time from the wilderness
To bask in the Idol’s wisdom of wasting without worrying,
As it glistens in its glazed, golden splendor and so-called glory.

The tribe members sit around the Idol, looking up and demanding peace
From treading arid deserts,
Walking through moist, flesh melting jungles,
And venturing through bone biting arctic winds
And forgetting the larger presence around them
That lead these folk to the danger of this place
And what would lead them away from the Idol.

The tribe members dance around the Idol.
They blend their blistering, bruised bodies close to the Idol’s golden platform,
Against each other in a violent **** of screams, moans, and demands for where they are
In their mortal life and for the realm beyond the weary bone and flesh they inhabited.
They ask constantly of what they can do for the Idol,
All while forgetting about a larger purpose of their own god
And why they were walking around in the wilds in the first place.
Instead, they are entranced by the Idol’s mute music
That rings in their heads, which screams from the closed mouth of the Idol
In its glazed, golden splendor and so-called glory

The shriveling tribes bow down to the Idol’s grace without individual care
with their rib cages poking out and their mouths dry with drought.
In their weakness, the tribes goad the Idol
To perform a miracle of strength like or more than their own god,
Or even more than each tribe member can do.
Yet their minds are sinking into a haze of ash
From the fire they burn around the Idol to hopefully bring it to full life
And their skin is black and charred from pouring all the goods and money
Into the ring of fire surrounding the Idol
They give their nourishment to a being built on the basis of needing no sustenance
Except its own and the lives it is stealing from the people around it.

The tribes holler and howl for the Idol to answer their wishes for a safer haven
Than the barren one they are frivolously wasting in now.
They desecrate their individuality with conformist chants used to glorify their god
But instead are used to glorify the Idol with ragged throats.
The Idol still stands, blind, deaf ,and mute
To the tribes’ kisses,
To the tribe’s prayers,
And to the tribes’ outstretched arms grasping for salvation.
The Idol basks in the tribes’ ignorance yet ignores their ignorance
In its glazed, glistening, so-called glory.

The Idol on the Square
Stands in a pool of starved and dying bodies
Still pleading in weathered whispers,
And still gripping the Idol’s platform with bony fingers.
All these tribes, all these offerings to the vultures
Perching on the tops of buildings, on the lamp posts, and on the city gutters.
They were once followers of their own god,
And of their own destinies,
But they are now the followers of the Idol,
The Idol of Death,
The Idol of Damnation,
The Idol of Starvation,
And the Idol of Lamentation.

They are followers of the Idol on the Square
In its glazed, glistening, so-called glory.
H E L E N A Dec 2018
Another sigh fogged up its glass walls.
It had grown tired of these vain dolls.
Unknown to the outside world,
Deeper into its dreams the Chrysalis curled.
The day its shell began to *****
Was the prelude to a massive train wreck.
The cars collided one by one:
Love. Hope. And everything fun.
All that was left, a metallic heap,
And into the ground, blood began to seep.
Alas, it realised something was amiss:
The blatant need for metamorphosis.
Willing itself to transform,
It never did want to conform.
When conformity limits quality.
Nathalie Dec 2018
If you are not right

With yourself or true

To yourself

You cannot be

True to anyone

Else because

The intention

Behind your action

No longer comes from your

Essence, it comes

From a part of you

That is struggling

With conformity

Or some sort of

Obligation to another.



~Nathalie
Talis Ren Dec 2018
I looked in the fruit basket
And instead of cherries
I was eating hearts

I guess at some point
They became identical
Because crimson
Is just one color
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