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“I smile a little,
every time nature takes back.
A factory once booming,
weeds growing through the cracks,
vines enwrapping walls,
shards of glass in tall grass.

I cry a little,
every time nature gives too much.
concrete slabs for carbon-emissions,
tall brick towers for heating,
glass cages for the parasite,
aluminum and plastic in short grass.

I stare a little,
every time nature retaliates.
Waves crashing against metal,
seas forming in concrete bathtubs,
wind flattening itchy points,
sun melting neat grass.”

A.V.
alex 3d
Have you ever felt a love so strong
that your chest physically hurts,
because you long for it,
with the entirety of your being.

A love so intense
it scares you,
breaks you like glass,
bring you to the edge of destruction,

But you don't fall over the edge,
and you won’t,
because they’ve got you,
tight in their grasp
forevermore.
Simon Bridges May 13
I wait
And wait
And wait

Gaia waits
And waits
And waits

I wait
To be captivated
Gaia
Waits to be released

                                 We both wait
Yusuf May 10
A tiny ember.

It nibbles at kindling.
It is now a marble.
It is fragile and weak,
and things appear bleak.

It bites at twigs.
It is now an egg.
Its glow radiates red.
The fire is not dead.
Smoke is revealed.

It gnashes at sticks.
It is now a head.
It twists and spins,
with a crack and a snap.
The twigs grow black.
The ash falls to soil.

It devours the logs.
It is now too much.
It slashes and weaves.
The world cracks and trembles.
The air quivers in fear,
and is dryer than bone.
Sirens wail in the air.
The ground is bare.

Helicopters arrive,
and water descends.
It roars in pain.
The fire has now been slain.

Everybody leaves,
sighing with relief.

In death, it tries.
It leaves something.
A gift.
A tiny ember.
A ******! A ******! Murderers all, including that of myself! A ****** of nature, a ****** through torture!
Burning the poison it supplies us, cutting her fingers, breaking her bones and stealing the marrow.
Stealing her tears and passing scars of permanence.
Scars of war and scars of death.
Killing her children and setting a pyre in her garden.
Till we break her mind so much as to inflict wounds on herself to fix us.
Her screams, shaking the ground we stand.
Her tears, flooding our minds and town.
Her blood, burning as to keep us away.
Her breaths, growing ragged, she breathes to blow us away, yet we continue.
While we lay, while we stay, while she prays.
Angels of death, trying to stop us, but alas, we build.
Build with her bones, build with her tears, build with her blood, build with her very marrow.
We break to build, build to break, break to build, and the cycle repeats of her very will breaking before us.
M May 3
I feel the holes inside of me,
The pain of witnessing and knowing unimaginable horrors and destruction feeling hopeless,
The music plays
Of ancient sounds old and new.
I hum along
Read stories of anguish
From a mere three hours away from me,
Divided and separated by language sound, cultural divides and walls.
But not by heart.
Never knew I could feel so much,for those whom,I was taught to hate for whom I was taught are different,
In their humanity.
When no we are all one!
Despite our perceived difference,
We are all human deserving and worthy.
Their anguish I carry along with me,
A brutal reminder to not dehumanize
As the music gets louder
My heart grows softer.
She hurts herself, it's all she knows                                                            ­                                                                                              ­                                                   
the pain inside grows & grows                                                            ­           
                                                                ­                                                        
It runs too deep from head to toe                                                              ­      
                                                          ­                                                         
                                                                ­                                                
How do you stop the wind that blows?                                                           ­ 
                                                               ­                                                     
Self-inflicted wounds, no relief in sight                                                            ­                                                                 ­                                           
Light the fuse on the dynamite                                                         ­                                                                 ­                                  
                                                                ­                                                      
She scars herself, but can't release the knife                                                            ­                                                
                                                                ­                                                  
Can't see the sun, it's always night                                                            ­                                           
 She cries & cradles her legs with her arms                             
                
Knows the enemy who does the most harm                                                      
                                                                ­                                                          You'd think that would set off alarms                                                           ­   
                                                             ­                                                 
Can't someone save her with their charms?                                                          ­                                                      
          ­                                                                 ­                                       
  She has never known the feeling of love                                          
                  ­                                                                 ­                         
Noone has held her high enough                                                           ­ 
                                                               ­                                                       
Is there some way she can rise above                                                            ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                
  The self-destruction she's proof of
I wrote this in 2010, after a serious breakdown
Dianali Apr 10
Turns out,
I’m a talented repairman.
A messed-up wall?
I’ll fix that patch,
and find the perfect paint,
to colour-match.
A misunderstanding?
I’ll shape the perfect situation,
So It can be flawlessly justified.
Yes. I’m a great repairman.
Because after all—
I’m nothing,
but a destructive tenant,
In the flexible lease,
of your heart.
Once I was told there was no need to be that skilled in justifying anything if I did nothing wrong from the beginning. Hit me hard.
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