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Sarah Lane Jan 30
Time is a prison
That I cannot escape
It drags me back and forth
Lashed against square walls
There is no break
In its relentless order
It’s like a tyrant
Commanding my existence
Everyone else is trapped
In their own ticking prison
But they stopped fighting
Gave into the stupor
Rats on a wheel
is much less painful
Than running up against
Time’s unforgiving confines
Why are we all roped in?
Is there no way out?
Of this looming pendulum
Pounding in my ears
Laughing at hope
A sarcastic witch
Where is God?
He doesn’t put himself in a box
His days are unnumbered
This is a joke or a game
I don’t want to play
I just want to be free
This monotonous pulse
Every second dictated
Drives me into madness
But I’m the only sane one
who still acknowledges captivity
I will conquer this regime
Even if God is the dictator
Because there is only void
Between the beats
Blackness, stillness
That’s where God hides
Beyond time, beyond life
I will break the code
I will find Him
If He’s not there
At least, I will be free
In the peace and quiet
Written as narration for a character in a short film created by my husband.
"I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor.
That's my dream. It's my nightmare. Crawling, slithering,
along the edge of a straight razor … and surviving."
–  Col. Kurtz, Apocalypse Now
~

Remember
the golden age, Wally ***?
And the songs
my mother taught me?

We sang about what was.
Or might never be.

Like permanency.
Distinction comes
out of stiff and frozen silences.
Take it with
a spoonful of disdain.
Take it in the eye.
Actors are like breakfast cereals.
They're obvious
and according to taste.
I stopped needing them
long ago.

Beautiful
Tallulah.
Beautiful,
"less to this than
meets the eye"
Tallulah,
dismiss me,
that I may be free
to find Tennessee.

Open windows
and closing doors.
Always a breeze,
but never a way out.
Right on cue
the cards shuffle.

Butter and cotton *****,
tricks of the trade.
I mumble to be heard.
I am legend
to disciples
of the Method.

I wear my friends to bed,
burn them like newspaper.
They call me "Bud"
—cigarettes at dawn
after devouring the night.
And now my song ebbs,
as the stylus hits the leadout groove.

Tomorrow, I'll be better.
Today, I'm just me.
Carlo C Gomez Aug 2020
The space between.

A time to sell yourself.

A time for passing.

Sometimes I touch the right.

Too much, the wrong.

Resplendent deterioration
we live by.

With casuistic slogans
and closing doors.

D'you know disembarkment
leads to land sickness?

It does.

And who can then make
heads or tails out of
the qualms of tolerance
and his cousin, ignorance?
Grey Feb 2020
I know that what goes up
must come down.

I just didn't think that our love
would decline so rapidly..
Dec 2019
Oscar Sep 2019
like stairs,
it's up or down.
i teeter on the middle,
hand on the rail,
one foot in the air.
the stone steps
are
steep and they go high;
my legs ache and i can't
see the top.
letting go,
do i climb or do i
go down?
mental decline is something of which is barely ever registered from an outside perspective, we watch people crumble to dust and we breathe in the ashes of their remains. we wonder : ' who knew they felt that way ? ' but we never ask or think to find out. in truth, the biggest flaw in the human species is the ability to see and to notice nothing at all
Faizel Farzee Aug 2019
Madness consumes the idle mind
Question everything
These words I speak is divine
Yet we follow the masses
Like we completely blind
Hoping to find
Worth in this world
Yet everything’s a lie
This is our time to shine
Break free from the stigma
It’s about time we draw the line
Our morals decline
Yet we think it’s fine
Believe me I know
These words are not benign
Take this as a sign
I managed to break free from the chains
Of this cosmic design
Questioning my motives
Will only bring us down
I don’t mean to whine
The world has declined
Look at this world truthfully
I bet you will see it…..
as I see mine
Open your mind, look at the world through your poets eyes. It's a dark cold world....let our words be the light
Pauper of Prose Jan 2019
What of the young Donna
Reclining with book in hand
A sigh circling her lips
A glaze greeting her gaze
Her thoughts bored of days
Endless days
Depthless days
Where every voice and all actions
Are slowly stewed
In rich stock of routine
And people arrive, bowls in hand
Forming long, bending lines
Like the Depressions of old
Where defeat, distrust, damage
Linger and lay
Within the sleepless eyes of many
Inspired by the painting A Decadent Girl by
Ramon Casas
It's not natural
For beauty
To be factual
Who's duty
Is it to define
So I must decline
Your perpetual
Argument to define
The indefinable
This is based of a conversation I had with my coworker about beauty.
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