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Ikimi Festus Apr 19
Nihilism is thriving.
We are forced to learn, accept and to live with unanswered questions.
The answers don’t matter any more than the questions,
As long as we have food, water, air, shelter to F#ck, cloths to wear, and enough money to spend.
principalities and Powers,
Unseen force lurking in tone with gross darkness,
Ankles and wrists all chainer up
The fingers of the pulpit master motion in glee over rigid lifeless law makers.
Orchestra of impending pain and chanting echoes through iron bars,
a prison for all who fell for social trends,
A brotherhood of shared fate, a sisterhood for the slaughter.
Conformity, a new world has emerged where all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for their sins, provided they are rich.
"In God’s Image we are evolving from Abomination to Acceptance"
Same *** marriage, beastility, ******,
The new symbol of human civilization.
Robyn Little Jan 28
Well now, haven’t you got the prettiest shell?
So smooth and glossy, bright and slick,
And so unique!
So different from everyone else!

Although…

Are you sure about pink? Doesn’t seem right
Not green! It doesn’t suit you!
You don’t want black! Too boyish!
That much red?! What an eyesore!
Oh, don’t look so blue! We’ll get this right

You know the young ones always look darling
Always pure white, they look so angelic
Wouldn’t you want to be more like them?
It was only a suggestion dear!
Don’t storm off in a strop! What’s wrong with you?
Think outside the box? Why would you need to?
I’m sorry darling, I guess you just -
I guess it just doesn’t...feel like you

You know, I think we’ll just paint it for you!
How about a nice white?
Maybe grey or beige
Oh, no dear grey is too ugly…
How about charcoal, a nice dark shell yes?
You’ll blend right in!
There we go! That is much better!
It’s perfect this way
You’re perfect this way.
Glenn Currier Dec 2021
Listening to Leopold’s symphony
for two minutes,
I was bored.
My mind wondered.
I recalled the dramatic first chords
of Wolfgang’s symphony 41
how it awakened me
how I was hooked by his energy and zest.

Even though Leopold taught his son,
the fame of the impulsive and creative Amadeus spread
as he wrote and played
and captured the attention of the world.

I wonder what poor Leopold thought of his own work
in contrast to his prolific son
a son who seemingly created great music
from nothing
who freed himself from tired conventions.

A creator makes something from nothing
and I wonder if being lost in nothingness
as we poets sometimes are,
if letting go of the familiar
makes it easier to create.
Carlo C Gomez Aug 2021
I.
Fireman, censor of literature and destroyer of knowledge, with his mighty flamethrower. He loves his work. He loves trouble and strife. He loves fascination with the people next door. Mostly, he loves his hammock. But sleep will be his final unrest.

II.
A gift for the darkness: reading from the forbidden kept hidden in the air-conditioning duct. The walls within turn on and off like Cora Pearl. His wife listens to far winds and whispers and soap-opera cries, sleep-walking, helped up and down curbs by a husband who might just as well not have been there. They walk on as an extinguished connection. In the flickering of his eyeballs, he dreams of driving recklessly to Dover Beach and drowning her.

III.
Burning bright. He is burning so brightly. In the factory of mirrors, he takes a hard look. He's a flammable book. And it's a pleasure to burn. "What are you doing?" She asks. "Putting one foot in front of another." He answers.
Leone Lamp May 2021
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...

`~05/10/2021
Brittany Ann Jan 2021
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

conformity.

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
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