Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I had my happy coloured marbles,
All in a drawstring bag
I even had my wits about me
When they all said I was mad

I've since lost my marbles,
My wit's been licked it seems
I'm still searching for them
While you analyze my dreams

Now they call me mellow yellow
Since that slick spark has dimmed
No longer a manic madman
Calmed by my tonic and gin

Why does there always seem to be
An exchange, creativity for conformity
A need for insanity to be confined to brevity
And quickly quelled by righteous authority?
Just another lost psychonaut reminiscing about brief departures into madness...

Brittany Ann Jan 29
Sometimes, I fear that the passing of time

will be the ruin of all that makes up of me.

I hope not to be the consequence of

destruction by distraction-

fading away within the fleeting of life.

Sometimes, I fear my

responsibilities becoming like a weapon

for involuntary manslaughter.

I do not want each day to erode my soul to dust.

All of what I am

becoming the ground beneath


I do not want hazy eyes in a dazed filled life,

each step I take almost simultaneously.

I do not wish the world to warp

my individuality.

I want to devote to my own

ideal of integrality.

And remember all of the

persistent passions

that have coursed relentlessly

through my veins,

morphing all that's evolved to me.
Danny Ballan Dec 2020
I belong to no country
you may war against
and tomorrow’s place
I find, for my head,
under your military boots,
and the roaring thunder
of your steel and fire
shaking my ground.

I belong to no race
when a color mistake
can take your reason away,
and all your eyes can see
is but a shade of who I am;
pull a trigger and ****
a hue of soul I share with you
You’ll never see through
you are color blind

I belong to no religion
whose choice of god
conflict with yours—
convince me
you think you must
and you might
with a bullet in my head
or a blade
tearing my neck apart—
what does it take to live in your world?
worship you or your god.

I belong to no man
no country
no race
no religion;
I belong to you
I will never **** you
but if you do
watch out for the rusty blade you ******
not too deep and I will always be
a thorn in your side but
deep enough will end up in your heart
you also do belong to me.
Kristin Dec 2020
I am not the black sheep
I am not the odd duck

I am not the rebel child
I am not the prodigal daughter

Who am I then?
Well...that's a complicated question

I am not your archetypes or storylines
I am not your bad decisions or projections, your should-s

I am
I am what I will be

I am the technicolor, intergalactic unicorn
I am the pearlescent being of divine light

I am the Angel of Death of Dead Tradition
I am the she-Moses getting out of a desert of lies

I am
I am what I will be

Today, I am choosing
today, I am choosing to create me in lieu of inheriting "me"

Choosing well
choosing better

Choosing wiser
choosing more joyfully

Today, I am the randy interstellar unicorn
blazing a neon rainbow trail forward
maria Dec 2020
Tell me, where has my intimacy gone?
Where does it translate? Why does it twist my tongue? Where is the scripture for it?

It’s in my bones but I can’t strip it out and showcase it. Is that protection? Do my muscle and tissue keep it confined within me?

Then maybe it hasn’t gone anywhere. Maybe it can’t become a carbon copy for another because my print is so sacred.

But why can’t my shoulders fit along the seem? Why can’t the gears grinding methodically inside my head be the parts of the mass production?

I was hand-carved and strung and wired then left to wind and tick without instruction. So, then. Tell me, how do I chime?

To rephrase more accurately: Tell me, where can I let my intimacy go?
goodnight to aspecs, queer folks, ppl who know how to take a carbon copy, those who feel the ground quake beneath them at the sheer power in my attempt at ok grammar
Victor Dec 2020
The white snow falls
Onto the dull blue heron,
Turning it white.
Making it better.
The previous heron was filthy
Unworthy to be gazed upon
By anyone’s eyes.
The snow which fell upon
The dull blue heron,
Dirtied from the mud
Was truly a miracle.
To think that nature
Would even touch that disgusting
Atrocious being-
No, not being.
It is simply less than that.
Not a heron at all,
Let alone a bird.
Barely able to be called a creature,
And yet nature still purified it.
What a lovely story.

The dull blue heron walks
Covered in snow,
The waves of which
Never stop.
Snow falls, and falls, and falls,
And falls.
The mind of the heron
Is clouded.
Birds bite into the dull blue heron
Like bitter chocolate.
The heron cries.
Dull blue tears,
Fitting of a dull blue heron.

The heron is no longer blue.
The heron is now worthy
Of being called a creature.
The heron is white
And has been drowned,
As nature
And everyone
If it hadn’t happened,
It would have been better
For the dull blue heron
To not exist at all.
I was 15 when I wrote this as per the date by the title. One of my few poems that rely on some kind of symbolism
Mona Nov 2020
we are all sheep
in herds
cut oursleves into groups
jump through unnecessary hoops

oops we lost a fraction of da true self
what a shame
who cares, it's boujee to be lame

be a bot
new hype, it's ******* hot
be like us
or you'll be shot

it's popular
people approve
just follow the music, sway to the grooze

don't you dare attempt to move
stay stagnant
allow your identity to fragment
then sell it off

if your lucky part of it will sell
if not you may be reunited with it in hell

oh well
that's the tee
until next time hunny
hello consumerism
Robert Rittel Oct 2020
Social influence that influence ones belief and behavior,
being the sheep idiom in suit of group as inferior identity savior.
Compliances and obedience for the hero or nymph resort,
names and numbers as taste for pleasure of the court.
Instructive expectations in order to avoid looking foolish,
becoming strong in unity of the mass psychology bliss.
Procrastinations to adhere to moral obligation,
bringing out the darkest impulse to justify that situation.
Large scale atrocities for the greater good as ideal,
manipulated propaganda consequence imperial.
The change in response to pressure of social norms,
ethical values in humanity political deforms.
The mediocrity of conformity and its karmic hungry judges,
sentence wretches in time by individual budges.
The mental mill keeps on turning with the wind,
where fiery spirits blaze by gravity and its many scent.
The revolution not out there in golden words brocade,
freeing oneself from controlling theories need to be displayed.
Being infinitely pliable defines the space to be responsible,
and the soul of the world will give ones everything possible.
Ces Jul 2020
We love our freedoms so much
we fight for it
protest for it
**** for it
die for it

And suddenly, we forget it

This is when one ceases to be an individual
And when the world becomes one-sided
the mind utterly uncritical

This talk of freedom?
Mere babble

Glenn Currier Apr 2020
I find myself caught in recycling
not cans and paper and glass
but thoughts and actions
habits can help
but being stuck in the habitual
sloshes me into a swamp
dank and stagnant.

What if I broke the cycle in half
opened myself to hidden reaches
of my mental soulful caverns?
Maybe this interruption
would reawaken my muse
from her drowsiness
sparkling and sprinkling me
with poetic stirrings.

It’s worth trying.
Next page