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Zywa 5d
Progress is the storm

that has risen at the gates --


of Eden's garden.
Historical-philosophical theses "Über den Begriff der Geschichte" ("On the concept of history", 1940, Walter Benjamin)
Walter Benjamin bought in 1921 the painting "Angelus Novus" ("New Angel" / "Young Angel") by Paul Klee, painted in 1920, about which the 9th thesis is about

Collection "Germ Substance"
Malia 7d
i have words inside of me
and i can’t say
any of them.
i don’t even know
what they are.
what happened to my voice?
it feels like it’s been a while
since i had something to say.
living underwater, living like a corpse.
i wake up and then go back to sleep
because “awake” is not “autopilot”.

why am i so tired?
I have been feeling…slow, lately. glitchy. staticky. stagnant.
Thomas W Case Feb 19
On days that
I have a
difficult time
writing, I let
my mind wander
to another
place and scene.

Today
I imagine a
musty attic.
It smells like
mothballs and
old perfume.

I stumble upon
an old trunk.
And when I look
inside
I find hundreds
of my poems that
I wrote and
forgot about.
I thumb through
the brittle pages,
and read.

"Hey, not bad.
This one is pretty
good.
Hey, here's one with
multiple layers.
Writing as a
metaphor for
******."

This silly exercise of
mine just netted me
this poem.
Wanderlust of the
mind promotes
creativity.
Now I can nap,
after I ***
of course.
Check out my you tube channel where I read my poetry.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P2roycihKc0
To be a poet
Is not to burn the paper with your words
but to be heard
when drifting smoke of love and life is gone
the poet in us carries on
when ink and page and pen are embers
it is the beauty one remembers
Travis Dixon Jan 16
Art
Art is a creature—built

from bones of failure, tied

with tendons of tireless days, wrapped

by fiber upon fiber of hopeful nights, filled

with blood of laughter and despair, pumped

by a heart in a beloved cage, neglected

at the behest of a brain—crawling

through a maze, trying

to stumble and walk

and run and jump

and fly and

land
Jeremy Betts Jan 3
Like a drug taken for a quarter century, this writing doesn't help like it use to...
See,
I'm starting to feel like it's working against me
Holding me here in pain and misery
Cleverly disguised as creativity
I use to lie and say it was a way to get rid of all this negativity
But I've spilled so much blood and tears onto stationary
...and not even purely metaphorically...
I should be completely empty
Hell, I think I might be
I think it's moved onto draining my energy
Can I still call this writing therapy?
Is it healthy or does it keep me from a new me?
Holding tightly but in spite of me
Hiding a different side of a complex personality
A new level of maturity
Is it actually helping any?
Today it's hard to say, but maybe
Unfortunately, it's something I'm good at, a skill I enjoy and I don't have many
So I've begun to notice I look at it differently
It was suppose to help me let go of the painful unpleasantry held in many a memory
But it woke a part of my ego that I didn't know would grip so tightly
It might have been a mistake to rely on it so heavily
It's no longer moving along the story
No cautionary tales to learn from because they never become history
It becomes a bookmark that I don't use properly
I never move it to the page I left off on and now, I must admit openly, I'm doing it purposely
I keep the worst of me right next to me, close as a frienemy
All because I notice I DON'T write when I'm happy
And I like to write so I dance around emotions strategically
I don't know if it's anything worth saying but writing is calling and drawing me in closely
A ghostly presence that when I look closely I see my identity
It hasn't always been but is now a big part of me
But does it want all of me?
Can't say either way with any certainty
No AH-HA moment, no clarity, only a death grip on disparity
So I recklessly walk the line of happy and tragedy
Like a DUI test on the side of the freeway, drunken pageantry
Eyes closed mainly
No thought of mine or anyone else's safety
Dangerously close to calamity
And I just worry

©2024
kenye Dec 2023
Bet I’m in the belly of the Beast
With this enemy ofMe
Do I fight or flight or Freeze?

Cause either way
this *******’s
coming straight At me

I was only a dark forest away
From where I needed to be

I never metaphor for anxiety
Like this one
*** Imposter syndrome

Mara’s army fires arrows
Of self-deprication
And self-doubt

And i hit the ground running exhausted
Hot and heavy heaving
To the four-on-the-floor

At the heart of the war…
She was doing yoga in the distance
And as she rose to mountain pose
I let my mind slip back into the prose
Where I fetishized her
Like some sacred ******* object

Caught in the act like Actaeon
Watching The Huntress bathing

Basilisk staring me down
Like Artemis cloaked
In her wild fury

And as she rose to mountain pose...
She held a crescent blade
To the throat of the horizon
Locking her eyes in
As she stood over Gaia’s mouth
Spinning up **** Magick

Earth the power back from the word
She channels power back from the void

From womb to tomb
To womb of the tomb

She creates
She destroys
Her body, Her weapon
Her own ******* choice
These are lyrics from a song in my rock opera. This is about delusion, abandonment, addiction, guilt, shame etc.
Don’t let them run the gamut on your soul
https://on.soundcloud.com/EaPpp6X2BMkRksjK9
Thomas W Case Dec 2023
There is a
force at work that
doesn't want me
to write.
There's always
something vying for
my attention.
The phone rings,
the kittens want
played with,
I get *****.
All I have to
do is think about
writing, and the
next thought is
I should take
a nap.

To read about
writing
isn't enough.
To promote my
writing won't cut
it either.
To finish one more
poem, to communicate
something worthwhile
is what will help
me sleep tonight, and
keep the undertaker
lonely and afraid.
If you get the chance, check out my YouTube channel.  My book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems is available on Amazon.
Chelsea Quigley Dec 2023
Here I ponder,
Inside my room.

Breath hitching,
As the clock strikes noon.

Warm feeling ,
Gone all too soon.

And now,
I am full of gloom.

For reality,
Lives here in my room.

It is safe,
Like a child in their womb.

Dare I shake it off?
This feeling of terror,
And doom?

For life is my mind,
Cheerful and kind,
And I shall not live in gloom.
Chelsea Quigley Nov 2023
I live
In false reality,
So they say.
A world of 'nonsense'
And 'immature play'.

A world where one
Cannot be torn.
No heart to break,
Nobody to mourn.

For here I lay
On my bed,
To breathe.
Creating a creation,
Only known to me.

As Stars and moon
Begin to shine.
Through world of wonder,
That is only mine.

And this little truth,
Is truly divine.
This poem is solely about the truths of Maladaptive daydreaming, to escape the reality of life to enter your own. Please do enjoy!
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