Farhan 1d
Nature is a giant clock,
Where lives ticks like moments,
Every second, a destruction,
Every second, a moment of creation.
What then life is, the beginning of an end.
Haleigh 4d
Converse shoes and sometimes vans.
Most of them aren't worn up because there's always new ones.

Skinny jeans and crop tops.
Whoever understood these shrinking styles?
This generation of despair and confusion.

Teens who look up to eachother more than their family.
Teens who find satisfaction on the side of a sharpener's razor or the end of a cigarette.
Teens who live in their young lives more than their parents ever did.

We're seeing chaos and murder of little children.
Wars in countries that hates eachother.
The oxygen thats thinning right in front of our faces.
And how much poison being thrown at us, brainwashing youths and toddlers.
Making them miserable without them being aware of it.

But this is the generation that knows the power of loving eachother.
The generation that uses that power to stay alive.

We're living on the edge.
We're seeing what the world is becoming.
And we are the only hope, to get shit back on track.
Hell even adults say that.
It's not love if it doesn’t destroy you,

It’s not love if it doesn’t drive you insane,

It’s not love if it doesn’t change you,

It’s not love if it doesn’t make you question the world,

It’s not love if it doesn’t make you fight unknown battles,

It’s not love if it doesn’t damage you in the prettiest way possible,

It’s not love if it doesn’t show you stars, galaxies, sun, moon in his/her eyes.

It’s not love if it doesn’t involve madness.

It’s not love if it doesn’t come with devastatingly beautiful destruction.
Society in peril,
Morality on the fringes,
The sound of a bullet leaving its barrel,
The sound of a casket’s lid closing at its hinges,
Oh, somewhere our better half cringes.

For every person looking to preserve life,
There are four others looking to destroy it.
Though compassion is our signature tool,
Oh, only a handful of us ever employ it.
There is no neutrality when our conscious hearts fail.
If our better angels remain silent, our darker halves prevail.

Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.

Everyone has a two-ton war machine.

Festering in heat,
Moral fabric unweaves.
Desecration,
Denigration,
Desiccation,
The remains of a sacred bond left tattered by deceit.
The sound of a stained glass window shattered by thieves.
Oh, somewhere our better half grieves.

The enigmatic future inches nearer,
An ambiguous choice becomes clearer,
The sound of rattling, an empty heart,
Battling, an empty mind.
The sound of hurried footsteps…
And there are others not far behind.
The blind guiding and seeking the blind,
Oh, somewhere our better half searches to find…
A shelter from all of these two-ton war machines.

Everyone has a two-ton war machine.

Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.

The pain lingers,
Morality rests in tatters,
Miniature death-bringers,
The sound of a bigot’s daggers,
The sound of a depressed man’s gun facing backwards…
After he decides that nothing else matters.
Oh, somewhere our better half staggers.

Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.

Everyone has a two-ton war machine.

The temperature escalates,
Morality thrown out with the spoils,
The sound of tension as it elevates,
The sound of blood as it boils,
Oh, somewhere our better half recoils.
Because everyone has a two-ton war machine.

A guilty conscience, a burdened soul, a heavy heart,
And a two-ton war machine.

Society in peril,
Morality on the fringes,
The sound of a bullet leaving its barrel,
The sound of a casket lid closing at its hinges,
Oh, somewhere our better half cringes.

Everyone has one ounce mercy,
Three pounds sympathy,
Angelic grace,
Godly uniqueness,
Divine understanding,
And a two-ton war machine.
Destruction is easy
You just need weapons and gone in flash
But Days, months and years of grinding
Is what it takes to rebuild from the ash...
Written when earthquake hit my country. Small portion of the whole poem..
She Writes Apr 11
She loved him
Like hurricanes love destruction
Cleaning up the aftermath
Of their devastating relationship
He realized why storms
Were named after women like her
the United Nations
ever and again call to raise billions
to help countries devastated by war
or other mostly man-made catastrophes

I suggest we operate by the causality principle:

the countries who sell all those arms
    and military support to the warring parties
    or leave the natives no land to grow their own food
simply use the money gained from their sales and appropriations
to help the refugees they created
    build up all the cities their weapons destroyed
    provide a living for the farmers whose lands
         have been sold to agrobusinesses
    pay for the education of all the children
         unable to have schooling
    reconstruct the societies their greedy actions destroyed

sounds like a fair proposal

doesn‘t it??
voodoo Apr 4
What was it about omnipresence that appealed to me

so much that I destroyed myself -

one mountain at a time, one boundary at a time -

until the alarms stopped going off at breaches?

The magpies don't sing when they're sad, so what am I

when I laugh at myself for crying?

Who am I looking for when my pillows waft voiceless lullabies

from a bed half-empty? (half yours, half mine,

and I don't know which one's missing.)

What was it about hedonism that disgusted me

so much that my body rejected kindness -

every peace offering, every affectionate touch -

until it could no longer hold itself together?

Metaphors, like escaped prisoners, running for a life anywhere that isn't here,

anywhere that isn't me,

and I fold and break into myself

in muted, nondescript implosions.
our classic tales of war and victory
tell stories of substantial gains
in land, human resources, treasures,
from Homer, Cesar, Charles the Great,
to Ghengis Khan, Napoleon,
the Spanish, then the British empires, etc.

today, dictators are delighted over victories
whose gains are endless miles of rubble
      shown on television
devastated cities bombed into oblivion
     that will take decades to rebuild
     and populate again
hundreds of thousands people killed
     mostly women, children, and the elderly
     who could not flee in time

how can one who has been the source
of so much suffering and devastation
     harvesting bombed-out cities
     laced with corpses
claim to be victorious?
A W Apr 1
Falling asleep,
            more like a leep in faith and all that is good.
            A jump into your conscious, praying
             you don't see another monster.
             Another fear behind your closed eyeslids.
             A full, peaceful rest before the haze.
             Dreaming of spirits and emotions holds me awake these past few nights.
             Along with the dread of my real fears like heights, that follow.
              If I wished upon a star, I'm afriad in my sleep the devil will call.
              There is no telling what I will dream of tonight;

Prediction

Fear

Insecurities

Loving memories

Or self hate and destruction.
I couldn't sleep well these past few night.
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