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Ziya mansoor Mar 2019
You was made from sand &you will be buried in sand ,
You would be taken care by yoir parents and then,
You would take care of them
You will crawl to take footsteps , then you would back to it with a stick ,
You would be innocent by birth and also by the endless sleep
Your life goes as a CYCLE
A REVERSE CYCLE
enjoy the time between this
Because you have a little time to be back to birth :)
Sierra Mar 2019
Sunny turning violent white.
Everything's still, covered in sheath

Warming breeze under a rain fall
Animals begin to awake

The scorching sun, dripping of sweat
Running freely, adoring the light

Starting to dim, color is falling
Succumbing to the nearing cold

The cycle repeats, never ending
From Winter. Spring. Summer. And Fall
A simple poem. 10 lines, 8 syllables per line about the seasons
Saint Audrey Mar 2019
It never takes much
I wonder what I could possibly do to impress her
She's plucking gold threads in the air
Bits of string she finds hanging all around her
When she's flying like that
When she's hanging like that
Even her feet trace above my head

When she's human
I feel sick
Because I feel lucky

You know those wraps on her wrists
She keeps them bound up for a reason
She needs the memory, but it's not for me

She's not like me
So distinctive, in all the ways she knows
In all the lines she's memorized
And in that saccharine emulsion
Still seeping from her
I hate the taste of it

Gently floating on the breeze
Walking across lilies
I wonder what I could possibly do
To impress her.
Bridget Kellum Mar 2019
Since I can't have you
I'll write essays
On Richard Gansey
The III
Sunflower Girl Mar 2019
when i was born
my mother said
it felt as if a new mathematical state had come into being
       new creature.
              new possibilities
              
when my grandfather died
my mother said
it felt the same- as she sat in that old room, his spirit slipping into a new form
       old creature
              new possibilities
Poetic T Feb 2019
As late snow fell,
              euthanising
                                    the buds.

                            Frozen foetus
           of spring,
                      never blossoming.
Cedric Feb 2019
‪I see people struggling with what they learned.‬
‪I’ve yet to learn anything.‬
‪My mind just feels empty and blank.‬
‪There’s nothing in it but abstract forms that ellicit vague and varied emotional responses.‬
~
‪Suddenly, without warning, “it” attacks.‬
‪But my apathy would invalidate “it”.‬
‪But “it” stays there.
Waiting until I feel again.
Until “it” re-triggers my emptiness and apathy.
Waiting to be filled only to be spilt and reduced to nothing.
An absence, a darkness, an abyss of unfeeling.
A deprivation of senses as if something has died.
“It” just does what “it” is intended.
At first, apathy dismisses “it”.
But soon, I regain my consciousness.
And “it” subdues my consciousness into apathy.
“It” is an endless cycle.
There’s no other word for “it”.
~
It is just “it”; an entity that lacks words to express, a phenomenon.
An anomaly within me.
I’m tired. Academically drained, lacking passion and dreams. Lacking aspirations, goals, ambitions and motivation. Lacking a future outlook. Trapped in a cycle of an empty mind and a broken body. I don’t feel anything but heaviness. Maybe this is depression? Lapses in memory? Random aches? Hypochondria? “It” swallows me whole.
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