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Simon Apr 2021
The lamp is now representing itself in the absence of being semi-peaceful. While having the inner-struggle in just simply trying it's best to get by....
After this very truest representation had sold itself to the highest bidder (being its own inner weakness giving into the symptom, that is "giving up"), without so much as a single plausible (enough) explanation...
Things don't become tolerated (very well), anymore.
After all, it's up to the standards of one's own grief to now simplify the very behavior (in their own sequence, after sequence, after even more sequences that have sheer luck tied to them without hesitation for utter pleasurable shame for the results that clutter the very cog in the wheel) that gives freedom in the disguise for wonder. Wonder...that isn't including its own freedom, as that's just another common (filled) sense illusion, now.
It's the very scenario that agrees that it hast to become order to see its own self for what it had become....
Meaningfully speaking, everything up to this very point in time...comes with an arresting degree for silencing the inner willpower of an inner voice that can't (safely, very well) reach for the outside world (and even remotely reach out into the outside world, like...AT ALL...)! And simply express (for the life of itself), its own symptom. Not only a symptom (or two...) But more the very part as to how, or why, or what essentially became of itself...when it started feeling this particular (and more peculiar way...), where it doesn't know how to handle itself, anymore (in that very dire moment for shameful results). Especially the guilt trip that it starts to feel (all the sudden), when it begins feebling itself over such hesitating tip-toeing maneuvering. But what comes (next, anyhow) with so much as a single that there's always a certain something, (or certain someone) truly waiting for you on the other side of a spectrum (where you have yet to truly notice in ALL such forming varieties upon the certain specified number of emotions bleeding itself DRY for the appreciation of finding a solution too it's current problem....)
Once you understand this...or more like correcting the wrongs (that had up to this very moment in time, had made you this spiraling short-circuited piece of machinery, or justful faulty technological prowess...) Gives you the very nurturing desire to bid farewell to your own inner strength. Just so you can now have the very pleasure of now purging past this unknown barrier on the other side of this spectrum that has this very certain (someone) waiting for you...that will then of course, give you that single, (when you least expect it...) RESTART! That had been in an orderly fashion ever since the very beginning (when you first started first experiencing this symptom in the first place). A trapped scenario full of crippling sequences of events!
Descriptions, or even visuals are lost...without defining what a lost light (who's very brightness is increasingly going dim), doesn't even have the very means (as of yet) to truly become recognizable of the ("notice of things"), for simply "why" it's becoming this very way, in the first place...?
Nylee Mar 2021
Is it me, is it you, is it us, or is it my head
I can't recall well how it had begun
but has it been always like this
Always losing at both ends
Replaced so easily, you don't look at me
Least bothered, left at my own device
My own bone to pick, you have no time to give
Restless, relentless, you would drown me in deep waters
I keep waiting for you to save me
The pool of tears is crystal clear
Displaced, delude, I have been reduced
My value to me rose to all time low
Where in the world you would find me
I am in the jungle of my own vice
Don't seek the worst in me
I would fall on my knees yet again
But my destiny has always been it.
Dying, well not surprising,
Drought, and the last drop.
Andrew Rueter Dec 2020
Should a poet consider
what their work looks like in portrait mode
and adjust their lineation accordingly?
Or should the responsibility be on the reader to use landscape mode?
Araoluwa Jacob Nov 2019
This device in which they call, "phone," has now become a source of sadness every time I set my eyes on it and the first word that my eyes encounter is "Mummy"
Which one should I do?
I am stuck in the world between those two
The green might bring joy or pain, for her voice most of time times makes me feel disdain
Pick: my grades. Distraction, I face
That's all she ever says
and whenever any good words come out of her mouth, they don't last long because they come with warning reminding me that I can be foolish most of the times
Red I pick, punishment I feel. Pain, I'm inflicted
I guess she is my supreme being
Never will she admit that from her mouth, but when I cut the call, I remember that she made love and I was the result so if not for her, I would not be in this world.

But then ... I'm stuck in the world between those two.
No red
No green
No cut
No pick
I just let it ring and dance to the rhythm.
skye Mar 2019
bow to the light
that keeps us
awake at night
some pieces that i wrote in a blink of an eye
annh Dec 2018
The opposite of end-stopped
Poetry; the trick with enjambment
Is to never complete a sentence, phrase, or thought
Within a single line of verse; but instead allow
The syntactic unit to run on
Unexpectedly, like a distracted self-drive tourist
Attempting to navigate a multi-lane freeway
Without indicating
Dean Russell May 2018
When I was sixteen
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
This made perfect sense for I sought seclusion
From fright in my mind; I was hunting a delusion.
What was wrong and what was right
Could never be far or near or protected with might.

When I was seventeen
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
This made perfect sense for I hated my mind.
Suffocating in a body howling with mistakes scared and lined.
Escape was hollow and deprivation
When a cold numb murdered little sensation.

When I was eighteen
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
Laughter and warmth within and around,
Let us take a photo to capture what was lost and found.
Often I will reminisce about the night it all made sense
But I cannot remember it all, let loathing commence.

When I was nineteen,
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
Now, I did not understand
For I could feel and touch and fall and land
Without sorrow or destruction at what I could not achieve.
Everything that happened, I knew now it was time to leave.

I am twenty six now,
And I remember when I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
Digital memory captured it all
And a scroll reveals the forgotten, the joy and the fall.
I didn’t realise at the time we place our spirits into devices so lean.

So let me tell you;
Guess what?
We are now all just a great ghost
in a pocket machine.
using technology in the present will remember your past and can predict a future!
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