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A Simillacrum Jul 2018
Have you ever clicked that button and seen the next page?
For those missing it there, here, I'll explain.
For just seven US dollars and fifty US cents
a month you can subscribe to this event
and receive two disconcerting things.

First of all, the page itself says you'll be favored by the staff.
Secondly, you'll have more influence than those who don't pay
to influence the trends, which means, control of what is seen.

If you're confused, let me use a modern analogy. More online games than ever use this method of operation, free to play on one side, the other pay to win.

This keeps the total number of overall players high, and with these two sides in the same environment, it's only a matter of time before the desperate give in to this disparity and express piety with cash else completely fizzle out.

That's exactly what we have here. If paying expressly means you immediately mean more to this environment than those who don't, what the hell is the point of this at all, Elliot?

Why not bite the bullet and fully implement a pay-wall?
That way everyone who gives you money can be left alone in peace and harmony to ****** their ***** and/or their *****.

This might work with a game which contains intrinsic rules and values, but to use money to decide the fate of art is the same **** that's been going on for centuries.

Notice to the newer names on this site:

Beware.
You are a commodity.
You are a $

And if you air a grievance, the names who give their money will jump to the defense.

Can't you just be happy and not complain?

The poetry they use their sunshine to boost,
funny,

says the same thing.
LOL. XD.

Cover that ***** with pitch and flick the match.

Nail in my head, from my creator.
You gave me life,
now,

Show. Me. How. To live.
A Simillacrum Jul 2018
It was dark and day
the day I read the words came straight
from [redacted]'s brain placed upon
this coded page

Oh my delightful
bedstand book took the rope and pulled
from the poetry a noose
with which to cull

its zombie
body
infused
with life
only as
love peace
& pros
per
ity

[redacted],
imbue
me be
fore I
leave

O,
please
Anne Scintilla Jun 2018
your smile, a spotlight carelessly blinding from a mile.
your hands, of warm summer —a soft paradise.
your cheeks, a little rosy when I speak.
your mind, complex as your words.
your eyes, a universe in demise.
your cry, harmonizing mine.
your lips, I left unkissed.

despite everything,
my memory of you,
is vividly fleeting,
as if you didn't.
why?

AS
roxanne Jun 2018
As drops descend from his face, rolling past his heart to be soaked up by whoever might pass underneath

Blanketed in a wispy layer of mist
he grips her hand tightly

Wanting to get up from the place he’s been anchored to for so long but not ready to
The dull sinking feeling that resides over him, pushing him further and further deeper

into the surface

These absent buildings clinging around only setting him in his place,
at the edge of perception

What is left of his mind begins to drift, leaching out like a plague of activity across a circuit board

And exactly like a switch, he finds something she hid inside of him
An incendiary note, left
Time itself seems to stop for a moment,
sparking from him

Setting her soul ablaze
so vibrantly scorching her existence

And so, I stand
In witness

Of such an ethereal sight
and see
just the smallest details

where drops turn to streams and paralysis turns into a rigid tremble

Managing to unclasp his hands from where they were
he shivers

Placing his hands onto the pavement
unfamiliarity seeping out his fingertips and spilling

the snow melting softly around him

Unknowing of where exactly I am, he tries to compose himself
But he doesn’t notice that his legs have gone unused for so long

Struggling to stand like a newly born lamb he stumbles
thankful for the absence of those buildings

His breath unconcealed in the spiritless atmosphere
Caution in the wind veiled by snowflakes

falling

Just like before, the sheets of ice lay atop, varnishing what seems to be a landscape of optimism
Obscured by crimson flesh and soft chimes of melancholy that resonates within him,

a sun rises

He begins to stand
The mist circling his feet, trailing him as he makes his way beyond the buildings

Beyond the colourless town
Beyond his travesty
His heart still so sharply yearning for what once was but couldn’t be
to something more

And here I stand
A distance so short

away from him

in an entirely parallel world
Watching him as he takes the first steps out of the mist
closer, and closer

he steps

his face, as cold as ice
detached from this harbour
transcending gradually into consciousness

I decide to put my reservations aside and reach out for him
the light piercing through his lifeforce
irises so profound

an abyss of magnificence
alluding to what could only be the unfaltering desire of inception
the temptations that captivate him
releasing him from where he once stood

and so he realises;
The snow is no longer dripped with red
and it is instead

an eternal springtime in his mind

enlightened
the new surroundings
curing him from the dangers of his thought
beaming with new hope

and for the first time

I see in clarity

an angels wings repair itself
from the depths of grief and desolation.

and then I weep.

For nothing could have prepared me for the sight of this journey.
(the end of a beginning to another)
Tatiana May 2018
All aboard the train lost to time,
feel it lurch forwards as bells chime.
Signal this present departure of mine,
and past departures on this narrow line.
© Tatiana
IA Mosura May 2018
To find you is to not find you.
Even if I walk the earth from end to end you aren't there.
Even if I had the ears of all the world, your voice will not be heard.
You rode on a bus I can never chase.
You dived into a sea I could not sail.
Time is our chasm and time is no longer our friend.
The leaves of my home can't fly to yours.
I sent you a million letters but you did not reply.
I stood by your doorpost but you never opened.
Your lights were already out when I came by.
How long will you hide?
When will you come back?
The streets are gray.
The sky is red.
The colors will wait forever.
There's no artist like the one who's gone.
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