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Words out my mouth
Are deadweight
And drop to the ground.
I think in tongues, whispering back and forth
Between ears, my conscience runs like a sewage,
Damaged;
Who owns the most hurtful guns?
Yet across the expansion, maybe
Home to reason why we some Straddle the Atlantic;
Staggering between notions
Which I don’t remember forming
Echoing in a chamber-
How do I discern truth from fallacy?
Make sure to take care of me also
Don’t band, don’t block me, out
Here is so cold, with all the dangers I’ve challenged alone
Dancing to fight a cold I face full-frontal
Is a weary stride all it takes to break the spell?;
Or maybe we’ll learn from the wounds
That leave scars we can see still
A mild case of impostor syndrome,
a severe symptom in the form of
confabulations without instigations,

are the base of our disease.
Who we are, is glued to our
actions, due to devour
what our soup tasted like before it all went sour.

This is nonsense, this is weak,
this is no writing of which people speak.
Is it even right in use to say the things, written.
Stop longing for the time of long before,

when we were all still ridden
of conscious thought and feeling,

back when we were reeling in and out, casually,
of our devout inadequacy.
When do we deserve a title and when are we what we’re called?
when I died
I did not sense or feel myself
leave the body
I was just inside
and then outside
there was no sense of time
of pain
of anything other than conscience
there were no walls, no pressure
no sky or ground
no sea or wind
only thought and light
as I've never known
and then
I was not dead
all had returned
all that I had suddenly despised
blinked back in
and to miss death less
I simply wrote it off
as a beautiful nightmare
can't sleep
Lovely Jan 30
Why do I bother?
Trapped in desire.
Feel so close.
But I can't touch the fire.
The sun goes up, then the sun goes down.
Day after day.
My conscience, she drowns.
We only pray for winter when summer comes around.
Don't look away...
I'm afraid of who I am.
Today, the winds howl on and on.
Please hold onto me.
I'm slipping away.
My dreams are starting to get freaky.
But don't worry, I'm still dancing to the leaking sink.
Drip drop, drip drop...
I'm starting to think I'm crazy.
There's no need for their worries though.
Because I believe they already know that careful gets boring.
And how would they know what's good for me?
The moon comes out, then the moon fades away.
Night after night.
My conscience, she drowns.
You're afraid of who I am.
Tonight, the rain pours on and on.
Hold onto me.
I'm slipping away.
Please spare me from myself.
It's hard enough with everyone else...
I think my soul's rebelling.
Can someone tell me what I'm thinking?
When the sun goes down and the moon comes out.
Day after night.
My conscience, she drowns, just a little bit more...
If one wants to
Play with the child
Let one be
More childish
To enjoy the flow

Remember that

Never dare to
Play with the sages
They live unattached
Mastering what to sense
When to response

Remember that
Genre: Experimenatal
Theme: If two individuals have different conscience, one is ultimately out of track
Saying Yes, I'm evil,
Is like saying
*****, conscience, *******
DON'T
WARNING: ILLUSIONARY
Fainche Siobhan Dec 2018
subsequently to
what's been done—faults after faults,
the guilt is heighten
Rizna M Rameez Oct 2018
An evil laugh
Is a cry
To wash the guilt away

And **** conscience.
22.10.2018
Ppl are generally good. I think that’s why, you see evil characters laughing, as if a portion of them is resisting and they try to laugh it away. Like tears of killing conscience.
Think about sass. Sometimes you **** ‘em too harsh.
Mystic Ink Plus Oct 2018
1+8=9
2+7=9
3+6=9
4+5=9
3+3+3=9
4+4+1=9
1+2+3+3=9
2+2+2+2+1=9
1+1­+1+1+1+1+1+1+1=9

Different could be,
The way
The time
The conscience
Towards the universal wholeness

In the cosmic delusion
For the sympathetic joy
One could be anywhere
In between
The above
Genre: Abstract Spiritual
Theme:Humanising Mathematics
sunprincess Oct 2018
I brake for turtles and squirrels
Pretty much anything that creeps or crawls
Unless it's pitch black in the country,
And the moon is on holiday
Then it's clobbered likd the armadillo,
And so is my conscience
Actually had to brake for a squirrel today
He stopped in the road and sat there
with an acorn in his mouth
Had to blow the horn three times before he moved
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