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I'd love to love
I'd hate to hate
I lived enough
My path is paved

I used to use
The good to know
My soul refused
To let it show

I filled the gaps
With violent pours
And now it leaks
Out of my pores

Catastrophe reject
The hollow amass
Let him hit the reflex
Let him stand aghast
Freestyle written in 11 minutes.
It is said there is life out of Earth,
Not just moss or some germ livin’ in filth;

There are beasts very smart in Syluthaarme,
A big rock with a vast digital farm,

Where they work not at all or too hard,
Have one ear, but three legs, walk backward,

Got one eye gazing far far away,
And complexions of more shades of gray

Than is seen here on Earth. Among the mass
Live a few who belong to no class,

But pretend that they share illusions
The less smart breeding mass envisions.

An asylum it is for the sane
In the insane’s needed stead feel the chain.
Hossein Mohammadzade
bakunawa Aug 23
take care to never
confuse magic and
illusions in your mind...

you only call it
a lowly 'illusion'
when someone else
is fooling you

but it's always
ever been 'magic'
when you're the one
robbing yourself blind.
'tis weird right? like we can grow into the disillusionment from smokes and mirrors but still call it magic as if a mystical lexical escapism from the bittersweet fact that it's also called trickery.

nonetheless, thanks for reading^
And she lost her appetite
For books,
They failed her the world they had
Promised in their
Nonfictional narratives: the theory Of Politics, the magnanimity of History, the golden outlines of Economics she felt so proud to
Have touched on her fingertips;
In times gone by,
She could see they pivoted.
She had no use for
Empty things anymore;
Casual walks, casual reading  Casual coffee, casual ***
That the world glorified and lied;
Her rigid mind used profanity
Against whatever was termed
Casual!
Casual was disturbing, blinding, addicting,
Accountable for everything that
Became usual, by the book!
She used to devour books once--
Word by word, space by space, Page after page,
Chewing softly on the paper
Breaking down to its last molecule,
Until she could taste the wood pulp
In her mouth;
She savoured the taste of the dead
Trees on her tongue
And it edged sharper, her mind
Wiser, she bustier!
But the butchers caught her
Poetry in their poultry of unreal
Policies in no time, they farmed
Her brains and she bled profusely!
And the world watched and shrugged
Casually!
She sold her soul that smelled like Papier-mâché and the butchers Could see its potential in the gleam Of their Knives of the dark;
She burnt her books to make some
Light and saw
Through her burning flesh,
Other meats appeared to take her place..
the world as we knew had changed drastically around us, wise minds are sell-outs and bought by leaders of every nation. Books do not uphold the ideals they had shown us, we fell into a series of disappointments.
Marla Oct 2017
Holding down a button
Until everything turns
Black as pitch
Is just like clutching
Someone's throat
Until they can't
Move another inch.
So much life and vibrance
Flashes across this screen,
Yet it seems to tear
happiness apart
At its fragile seams.
Technology is quick,
It's capabilities are ample,
Yet my mind has gone slow
From ingesting only samples.
As such,
It is time for me to quickly depart,
For using you has made me
Everything but
Smart.
Marla Apr 13
Gilded stairs leading up to heaven
As plastic fans cheer all around
You step to the beat of flashing cameras
Running an exposé on how you're so profound
So walk that strut and keep acting tough
Work 'til you burn 's still not enough
People never satisfied with your art
What brings you together tears you apart
Ylzm Apr 5
Be inspired not from without
of those you imagined yourself desirous to be
but rather be inspired from within
from discovering the unique self you truly are
the one you and the world never knew
the mystery and the wonder the world awaits to see
and the reason that is truly your reason for being

But the world demands success
defined from templates of history
imposed without care for who you are
but only for what you count for them
you, seduced with morsels and crumbs,
freely choose to be slave for their profits

And so alas the world lost
the truly free alienated

becoming

one weary hungry step at a time
discovery drifts to disillusion
mystery remains mystery
wonder turns to ruin,
despair and cynicism
the flicker of reason
burns dim
if only
on hope
of

eternity
voodoo Mar 29
"If you'll make me up, I'll make you." - Virginia Woolf


How much of who we are are just stories? How much of you is made up in my head and how much of my flesh is your fabric? It reverberates between the cells of our bodies (our prisons): an entity that eludes definition and strings a cosmos betwixt our ends. In your silvery light, you are the moon and in my eyes, you are transcendental.

I know that only light makes you real. My mind brims with sunshine and it makes you sing, it makes you shimmer. Such ephemeral glory we held in our hands, beheld in our sights.

We shift in space; faraway glints of reflections. You flicker on your lonesome, your ashes I cannot douse with my sadness. Feverish at fingertips, I draw sigils to trap you in my mind. Phosphorescent and bleeding, as if anything could ever escape the damage from our names.

Winter's early dusk sinks around us. It's so cold and you're so warm, I know I'd go anywhere with you.

But we ruin too easy. I see you in the reflections of my mind, separating your image from who you really are. Everything I touch becomes surreal but here you are, still the same. A prosaic body that learned to glimmer in my light, still lunar in your way. There's nowhere to dive when you're only a surface, I can't peel at layers that don't exist.

In this gloaming, you can now see the light. In this gloaming, I now see your void.
for K
Sue McCoy Feb 21
They fed you lies.
And when the nasty flavor grew
Too strong
And you choked on the *****
From throwing up the lies
Into a scratchy brown paper bag,
They laughed
And sold you a mint
To hide the acrid aftertaste.
Juhlhaus Jan 13
Long ago my mother gave me birth.
From her molten womb in the cooling rain I took shape.
Wind and water gently fashioned me
And smoothed my hard edges.
Through riven clouds the bright sun warmed me,
And in the mist life wove me mossy coverings.
Day after day I listened to the wind in the heather
And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.

Men found me on the mountainside,
Stripped me of my mossy cloak
And hauled me away on a cart of wood,
To be used for the glory of God.
With metal tools and hammer blows they fashioned me
And gave me hard edges.
They stacked me high on top of other stones,
Fitted me snug and sealed me in.
Through narrow windows colored light shone on the floor below,
And in the darkness voices rose with scented smoke,
Singing of the glory of God.

Men warred with other men, took each other’s lives
And threw down what they had raised up, for the glory of God.
Scorched by angry flames, I fell
From that high place to lie broken in the ashes.
Wind and water gently washed me
And smoothed my hard edges.
Through riven clouds the bright sun warmed me,
And in the mist life wove me mossy coverings.
Day after day I listened to the wind in the ruins
And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.

A shepherd found me in the grass, lifted me up
And carried me away in his arms.
He nestled me alongside other stones
To keep the wandering sheep from deadly cliffs.
Though riven clouds the bright sun warms us,
And in the mist life weaves us mossy coverings.
Day after day we listen to the wind in the heather
And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.
I would not have thought a stone could possess a soul, until I visited Scotland. This poem was inspired in part by a visit to the ruins of the Cathedral of Saint Andrew. I composed the poem a few months later, after a friend suggested I write an essay describing my spiritual journey through disillusionment and doubt. As I pondered this, it seemed that no essay could ever convey my bound-up thoughts and emotions, but a poem might begin to do so.
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