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Poetic T Oct 28
Claustrophobic in this vessel
                 that I'm
contained within.  
I'm floating on a sea of waves
                                 that never settle,
but slam upon my
                     subconscious membrane.

Stimulating my pools to never close,
                              but stare into the vastness
          of unfulfilled gazes.
The charcoal stain within the white cleaner
                       than the pool it resides within.

I feel like I'm a victim of non-consensual birth,
            never wanting to be in this void less

Could I delete this construct, make it static.
                  Yes, but my breath is continual,

and my morality keeps me tied to this frame.

              I'll have to live, even though i didn't
agree to this sting tying me to this existence.
So maybe, we are glow sticks,
that need to break to glow.

So maybe, we are caterpillars
who digest themselves during metamorphosis,
to transform into a butterfly.

So maybe, we are stars
that need to collapse
in order to shine brightly.

So maybe, we need to breakdown,
to pick up the pieces and cast ourselves
as someone different.

So maybe, we need to shed
to become a better version.

So maybe, all this
was never a destruction
but a birth to something beautiful.
Poetic T Feb 16
Your all an effigy of hollow constructs.

You may want many things...

   But All are  a man made construction
bound to collapse under inferior

Leading to fatalities
within proper reflections.

For irregular constructs
are always going to falter,
and crumble.

As there base is weakened over time..
Poetic T Apr 2018
Tempo of rhyme that has a distinct
             taste of perpetual numbness.
Where the rhythm of our moments
 counted down in  numeric breathes.

Antiquated concepts as in the fluidic
                         verses of where we are,
                                      Where we were,
                              and our culmination.
Momentary between noise and silence.

We are all constructs of visible passing,
within all are finite chimes
                     in the existence in eternity.
The chimes of passing never really ring,
        But shatter within, ending our time.
Hurricane Mar 2018
Well yet again its late at night ,
And yet again the only sound is the scratching of my pen against the paper of my lined notebook and the strange clicks emitted by my keyboard as I type this ,
Yet again I'm trying to write things that will evoke wonder and admiration,
But yet again I'm stuck in the trap of writing to feel not writing to help.
Yet again I'm trying to figure out what the universe has planned for me ,
but yet again I'm beaten down by societies code.
i feel like im being swallowed whole
Nylee Dec 2017
My tea's gone cold yet again
yesterday's ink stain still the same
even the clutter & the litter still remains
sleepy haze affected the brain
today was much emotional drain
and I try in vain
to construct another line
which fits the rhyme
but I got no time
I got to sleep, Goodbye.
Nylee Nov 2017
They ask me to speak
but I have no words in the head,
I am the blank state
and they are not going to wait.

Their voices erupting
their sounds disrupting,
the construct of my thoughts
turning it too short.

It feels ridiculous
how empty my mind feels,
words do not say
what they are suppose to.
I loss my breaths midway
forgetting to open my mouth,
they say to speak loud
they are being unnecessarily rude
they do not know I can't.

It surprises others that it is not easy
to find your voice in midst of the noise,
silence though nice gives you no presence
and no one comes to my defence.

Try clearing my throat
struggling to open the mouth,
waiting for sound to let out
with words that support my cause.
BSeuss Oct 2017
I thought I was writing
new forms of poetry.
I realize now it was not
at all to be.

people whom read my works
must be kind for not
boycotting my hypocrisy.

Stephen Rutledge Sep 2017
What moments we hope to encase in amber,

Though revisited,
To feel as though we are returning home,

Though nurtured,
The times we were less alone,

Carefully we construe,
All we once ever knew,

Though the minds resin do not hold these moments,
For reconstruction distort preservation,

And memory in the mind,
is only as real as the ideal future
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