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M C Sep 2019
I live in an optimistic room.
A facade of shaped mirrors.
A shell that lingers, marked with scarred runes.
A hell where a demon lies
dreaming in his tomb.
Ambling about an amiss womb of ignorance
my nature is twisted.
I resisted a restless pessimist who has insisted
I entered into a house of horrors!
Where hubris is heavenly
and pain is pleasure.
Guilt is a given
and treachery means treasure.

My sins surround me.
Too slothful to even pluck the fruit
my gluttonous hunger devours
an empty hand.
In this way, pride and lust also follow suit.
My avarice is of envious repute,
but of the things I envy
I cannot refute.

One last forgotten folly.

An abandoned demand.
A deep,
is the seat of my soul.
Fiery wrath
now frigid.
Instead of a furnace
an empty
Axion Prelude Jul 2019
Falling backwards

I wanna spend my love on you
got me doing all the things I do
investing time and faith in you
you gotta do, what you gotta do

holding down listless commentary
sifting through every memory of us
building up, holding my breath
just to take a moment of you in

falling backwards
take us to the here and now
momentum breaking down

I wanna spend my love on you
distilled dreams caught me thinking
untold sights and sounds, dancing around in the clouds
questioning this way we livin'

falling backwards

If I could surmise us a plan
That wouldn't take much to bring us out of, it..
complacent, adjacent
but never close enough, to you

Oh, you..

Falling backwards
But I know where I wanna spend my time
and all I wanna do, all I want..

I wanna spend my love on you
one step forward, two steps back. it's always this way, it never hurts any less..
Steve Page Apr 2019
These are not ***** words,


These are European words.
UK Politics
8M Dec 2018
The gray arch stayed, broken
It could not survive the fall
Now it's here; in ruin
If only I could've saved it.

I've seen this arch a thousand times
Been here before I was born
Civilization loved the arch
But now, they're gone.

I did not know where they went
I hope it was somewhere nice.

Wildflowers grew near the arch
Yellow, orange and green
I picked them up; then dropped them
Now's not the time for flowers, I thought
Then walked away.

The fall was devastating
I did not know what happened, but
Destruction lay in its wake.

And desolation was born.
I am sorry if this made you sad.
ryn Oct 2018
Run the bow across the strings,
and play a tune.

Play my soundtrack.

Play it soft yet sharp
and wrenching.

Play it in the background.
Let the notes run in conflict,
depict agitation and foster
an increasing sense of foreboding.

Because I lay still this night
in perfect disharmony.
Daviaso Sep 2018
Five of us sit together
Four are boys
Three are gamers
Two are sick
One is me
Maybe one day people will know what this signifies, but currently only the five of us have a clue.
M Aug 2018
A chair in the corner sits huddled with the shadows,
while a second chair lowers itself by the door.
A window between the chairs hangs silently on wall,
as the curtains whisper with the wind outside.

Towards the left of the window is a shrunken bed,
with bedposts like redwoods and the body of a willow.
On the bed is a bundle of fabrics and tweed,
twisting and spinning amongst eachother.

Joining the first chair is a spindly wooden table,
with wobbly fingers and with only three legs.
The top of the table is clustered with trinkets,
pinecones from Alaska and feathers from Pompeii.

Littering the floor are denims and glass,
clothing and pieces of vases strewn under the door.
Thrown under the second chair is a pair of old shoes,
weathered and worn and left to die.

On the walls with the window is doodles and sheets,
drawings of childhood tapped in the space.
Paintings on the plaster are dusted with flakes,
burdens of memories of past and future.

In the center of the room stands a coat stand of mahogany,
standing tall and strong in the ruins of its lost kingdom.
Unaware of what goes on outside of his window,
all he knows is the dust and objects trapped with him in the room.
Transferred from my account from AllPoetry. :)
Devin Ortiz Mar 2018
Before, I wrote of Masks.
Mutilated stories of written flesh.
A carnal retelling of misfortune,
In the pages I wore upon my face.

Now, I am just another Mask.
A solo sonnet amongst scoreless faces
Beyond them, a broken boy
Hostage to disharmony.
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