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pluviophile Sep 4
you are like the sun
i might be flying too high
wanting you
you are further than i can reach
but close enough to hurt me
i can feel you melting my wax as
i come closer longingly
ignorant of my own doom
because i only realized
how little i knew you
so as i make a last attempt
my own wings tear apart
and i'm left
falling alone
Lady Narnia May 24
Stranded for years upon this tormenting land
My heart yearns to leave the forsaken sand
With new wings spread, I will freely fly
And touch the sun, the beautiful sky

Determined to escape, I diligently build
Using every last brainpower I've willed
Day by day, feather by feather
This will be my greatest creation ever

Finally, after so many dreadful years
And all the painstaking tears
My wings are complete, I'm ready to soar
Standing before a cliff, I see the new door

Taking flight, I battle the wind
Reaching the sky, it's more than I imagined
Watching the world below me disappear
I'm suddenly embraced by immense fear

The distance increases ever so morosely
and danger lurking, more and more closely
Doubt enters my mind, I quiver and cower
Will I reach my goal or lose my power?

My wings are melting, the sun is near
Flashes of memories of all I hold dear
This must be the end, I'm holding my breath
But all is blurry, this must be my death

I find myself upon cool, green grass
The sun is gone, what was to pass?
Underneath the moonlight, upon new land
I notice something different about my hand

A black imprint on the tip of my finger
Inspired by the story of Daedalus and Icarus with a mixture of a overcoming my personal, overwhelming challenge.
jack of spades Oct 2017
it was you and me until it wasn’t anymore--
i’m realizing that state borders are bigger than i thought they were,
that four seven ten hours is a longer drive than it used to be.
it was you and me until it started getting darker earlier.
i’m realizing how dark the sky is when light pollution blots out the stars,
when all i can see is the moon blindingly bright.
it’s the kind of condition that daedalus would’ve wished for,
because if icarus couldn’t see the stars then he wouldn’t have fallen.
i’m realizing how dark dorm rooms are
when there’s no one else there except the solid weight
of loneliness.
i either forget to fall asleep or nod off too early;
it’s not like i have anyone keeping track for me anymore.
i’m realizing how free i used to be, a car and a highway and time,
and i’m realizing how stranded i am now: i’m feeling the freefall
of finding that i’ve lost my feathered wax wings.
it was you and me until i stopped listening, and then it was
just you.
i’m still waiting to hit the water, with bated breath to feel the shatter.
it was you and me--
until it wasn’t anymore.
until there wasn’t any more.
whaddup this is my 100th poem on this site ayyye
n Aug 2017
p  o  p  !
goes the
eyes   of
when   in
her hand
laid    the

no    such
she    had
looked­ at,
like a still
before her

where  is
the pearl
ion she'd
ened out
f     o     r
herself  ?
where  is
the   eyes
she    had
s   e   e  n
herself th
rough for
the    past
century  ?

"what is
t   h  i  s
ction ? "

s  h  e

"it  is  the
i m a g e
of  souls,
d  e  a  r
it  shows
n  o  n  e
but    the
t r u t h,"

said   the
y o u n g

the    dear
a       mere
m o r t a l,
the  immo-
rtal,    who
d  a  r  e  s
tell        me
who i am ?

she  took  an
other     look
at   her   own
i   m   a   g   e

the   too   pale
skin   and   it's
effect   on   her
bland         face

and           then,
she     smashed
the       imagery
of      her    own

s                            l.
   o          u
europaroma roams 'hole o' ol' erf
in a sick bay's shower.
i joust, pasang, auteur...
Less there's
emergency paddock on a padang in deepest penang
where a poet might enhang up and enhangover
a bullshouty parangular
gush eng. gu cheng brain.
For shame! Don't stampede labyrinthine,

minopasangotaur - there's a c utoff charge
of impediments.
No c utoff charge f'rimpediments! Must o bundobustle
all the obsty bulls
hit in a belfry, rubblizing rings: bokk-ONG!
Pronk-****! Prang-BBONGG!
Shuntput all your ibexes in the one all-
terrain andnohow noknowhowishly set
joltheads off in lofts i bexen they'll lower ta
rubble lies.

Bullzinger: was bulsh/shy mouthbull of a man!
Then again, again, i was not yer bumpologically striking
averouge runnerat redrags, i was bottom of panto minotaur.
With a donkeydome,
rude *** health a shelf gored
- 'Bless thee, Bottom, bless thee.
Thou art translated!' ta quote quince -
autopilot beast and automaton burden
that'd reinaway at redpads, unheed fall ofall the inviting
moorish matadaughters. Non-
cowgirls w'also here, mensurating
their oestrus of antioxbitch tics
out in limp pumps, thim blungfuls,
reedy thin insounds of redsides whirring
out their whirth
i hadn't heard - perverse!

Linedead by blabyrinthe walls of a slump,
o daily braying prayereating
darkness onallsidesof hoarse Bull X,
Time ta Timetwo was the dark-ta-be for me,
         me for me ta be
squandered, borderline bard a lame
used tomb being
with no poet's two morrows,
no bi-mañanas poseablethumbs allow.  
But bimanal sands of evanescence evernascent
swon nows now: this was Clare-obscurity of darklonesome longsome Ago:
****** everywhere was over, there
under a distinctly unthere.

Under ozone ox id, hate
as drowsy and bizarre as prayer - by my dearest gods it was stale
as christianity! o my Dear Guard
now receives my love for Her, like a safe butting not a southern 'But...'
It'll be this love of recency even
in the Whenthingareasevenasfailedeverbes
- when we'll all even relieved, ex-ever,
halcyon as hay, wover' like wickerbulls
for weak bulwarks 'low an oilspulyied welkin,
when savaging soil on the seeds' side streamlets in like steamjets
of a spring unexperienced,  loads same subsight foul,
and we're all o ta outer nothingwith nothingin
annihilated without somuch as heroic overandout,
like those 'dimanches de décembre'
when i could not care for life and death's raw hide 'n' seek - i'll remem-o:
Love Came Thru Outta Darkness, that's Light Of What Was Not To Be
So Bad Much Longer.
4 CJ
Gabriel burnS Jun 2017
I don't want to be
a heartbroken Daedalus.
Let me have those wings
so I could be
the one to burn
into the sun
selfish, ignorant, oblivious.
Not grieving and delirious.
Incinerate this youth,
this dream to the root;
an instant ball of flames,
so but memory remains.

* * *

Cut my wings before I'm high
Are you my Daedalus?
We're not mature enough to fly.
I'm not your Icarus.
I'd rather be the liver
of Prometheus,
not himself who did deliver
hope to those oblivious,
misusing now his fire...

* * *

I'd rather be the liver of Prometheus
than live in this illusion of deliverance
The more you know, the more you're faced with ignorance;
and ignorance defeats you with experience

I'd rather be the wings of Icarus
and know the smell of burning feathers
than have a tomb stone like the one of Sisyphus,
no longer strong to push it from the nether
3 oldies sharing a common theme (no point in separating them)
It was spring
—there was a boy,
And with him was his father.
They sat along in rooms
That smelled of kerosene
And buzzed with machineries,
Their hands smudged black
With grime and plaster.

It was spring
—and his head was a golden halo.
How he was created,
I suppose we’ll never know.
So often the boy would ask,
“Father, father, what am I?”

(For if the father was trapped in his cage
With only a forge as his company,
Then what else could this little boy be?)

It was spring
—and the boy grew tall and proud.
Hair like fire and eyes like quicksand,
“My son, you will reach heights no man
Has ever reached before.”

It was spring
—and the father’s smile grew tired and weary
“I will not be caged,” and yet he was, he was.
Thus he took feathers from ***-knows-where
And built wings from wax and cinders.

It was spring
—and my son, do not fly too close to the sun;
See there?
That is freedom—just do not fly too close to the sun.
And the boy nodded,
Little long nosed liar that he is.

It was spring,
—they say, when Icarus fell.
And here was freedom:
Wind sharp like glass
And the sun too warm,
The world minimal between his fingertips.
He burned bright, burned fast, died quickly.

(And they say the waves were gentle,
As clockwork spilled.)
ctybuddy May 2014
What if I,
in artless youth,
had never heard that call to life?
Had never gazed upon that beacon
And found a world beyond my own?
I may have loved my ignorant prison,
cherished those gossamer walls of thought,
evaded that thirst for wretched freedom,
and left alone
those dank recesses,
content to slink away
existence upon existence.

Never would I have borne
the timid wings of aspiration---
a sudden quickening:
turning ambition,
turning desire,
turning identity.

Never would I
have kissed the sweet earth goodbye,
embraced the rush of wind and sky and soared
into the enthralling
the intoxicating
the cavernous--
Big Blue.

Ambition unbound!
How did it feel
to free the fatal sun-seared wax and flesh,
and witness plumed Promise plunge
into the gaping sea
perhaps resurfacing on some unknown shore?
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