Jabin Jul 3
My pancreas busted.
Sugar was too sweet.
The candy I trusted
Has taken my feet.

I thought it was virtue.
Truth, I always sought.
I must now bid adieu
I won't take the shot.
Many dictators and thugs
Actually look much  healthier
Than all the Gurus
Who advise people
On their health.
I think that having a conscience nowadays
Is extremely STRESSFUL.
People who profit and thrive
Off the suffering of others
Aren't so TROUBLED.
Like a python,
After eating a full meal
They sleep well at night.
That's why it seems as if the most BRUTAL people,
Like the Rod Stewart song,
"Forever Young".

The wave of morality ends where the
                                    sands of conscience begin
The weight of thy pleasures ebb within
Thou left for a jubilant spring vacation
                                    I ventured for a new sensation
Deep in those doleful dens
                                     I a pig, wallowed in a sty of sins
Each pleasure a fledgling albatross
Each chance a tiger to satiate
Each night a new place dossed
                                      down depravity
A new threshold crossed
                                      strong winds to the frozen lake of
                                                                ­   treachery                                    
Now my skull has been hollowed out
                                            by fatten maggots of the conscience

A cynic once said
"One goes to bed early because they have so little to think about"
I haven't slept
                                the echos have kept
                                                            ­                my eyes have wept
Now I wade in that low tide with boots of iron
              How far do I walk
One more step to feel relief
              How far do I sink

A bloated corpse decorating coral reef
Anish Poddar Jun 18
Those shadowy emissaries
That pass the mind’s great lidless eye
In slow procession through the night
Do fill with color and with sound
The sleeping brain’s vast sweeping bound,
And populate its cityscapes
And alleys with amorphous shapes
That shifting form and countenance
Convey the tides of fleeting thought;
And oft become dark shapes of dread,
Parades of faceless horrors, such
That when I glance their looks are changed –
Each lineament is rearranged –
All meaning or remembrance lost,
Or masked by sweet forgetfulness.
The secret that there lurks within
The labyrinths of memory,
Still tainted by the stench of guilt -
And strengthened by the voice of fear -
Still screams from some dark hidden cell
The lurid blasphemies of hell,
And births itself anew each night,
Each morning dying with the light,
Yet nightly grows in hateful strength,
Corrodes the sturdy locks of will,
And claws through those great iron doors
That lead to waking consciousness.
When you attempt
To heal your heart.
When you strive
To restore your compassion,
Don't expect anyone
To be your Ally.
Sure, the United States,
And Saudi Arabia,
Are military allies
Against Iran.
In reality,
I see the beautiful photographs
Of photographers in Iran
On 500px
They have the same aesthetics that I do.
Their  characters are probably similar
To my own.
I might be
A "Public Enemy" too,
Failing to find alllies
In the restoration of Love
When I try to leave
Hatred behind?
Sanjali Jun 10
Thinking in a corner
Silly Poet mumbles,
“What if the truth
Could simply be numbers?”

A voice persuades
“It’s not what you say.
Foolish Poet!
You’ll never find your way.”

“But if I could be three
And you could be ten
Could we not find
Where it all began?”

Silly Poet spoke
Then shied away
Afraid to argue
With one’s own shame.
Silly Poet needs some chocolate.
the muse of her daytime mind
cast in paper and plaster
burns in effigy of her wandering heart
directionless tones seep from beneath her lip
as her hot eyes scatter place to place
in the neatness of arranged stuffed animals
who neither claim or deny
just gather dust like a memorial to the passing ages

the 8th muse sits entwined
in the onslaught of the forest's burning desire
to grow unchecked by man's hand
to grow despite the sea of grey gripping the sky

her bland flesh
in pastel colors
just clings to the rain
running like makeup under tears
and the handcrafted sketches
of paper-thin smiles
are but a foretaste of masterpieces to come
she will find her own Sistine Chapel
for her soul to wrestle
she will find the word redemption
and know its meaning to the core of her soul
© 2018 mark john junor all rights reserved
Aa Harvey May 3

What is love, but a feeling?
Why do we follow it so blind?
What are our hopes and our dreams?
Why do they change over time?
What is an oath of love and being faithful?
What is marriage, but a commitment to break?
What is our destiny?
Is it simply what we make it?

What is life and living?
Who decides who lived right and who didn’t?
What is philosophy, but thoughts to be spoken?
And believed by some and disagreed with by others.

What is the meaning of life?
Why can there only be one answer?
What is wrong and what is right?
What gives you the power to say that?

What is opinion without fact?
What are society’s thoughts?
What if we didn’t believe all we were taught?
What if we broke the rules?

What is money, but pieces of paper?
What is wealth, but a status symbol?
What is a conscience, if it is ignored?
What will bring the end of the world?

(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
A friend he is,  
to guide me the way,
He tells me there is a path of good and bad,
and one would leave me rather sad,
He's the one who keeps me company when it seems I am all alone,
He's the one who keeps me going,
only knowing he'll miss me if I were to stop,
A good friend is he,
many would say a great friend,
but I prefer to refer to him as the best of friends,
If I were to go he would want to come too,
My friend's name is conscience,
My best friend
(Although I say conscience is my best friend, I have a lot of best friends.)
This poem in which inspired me to write this poem: A Letter to the Person who Broke Me by: Elizabeth Steilen  https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2454155/a-letter-to-the-person-who-broke-me/
Cné Mar 27
I smell the air
and taste the breeze.
I sense a presence there;
a kindred spirit next to me
that hovers everywhere.
Mused by Jeff Gaines, as my conscience
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