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Zywa Nov 13
Two people will form

a community, any --

trio will split up.
Saying among the members of the various Reformed churches in Holland (Michigan), from AD 1847 - quite different from "two's company, three's a crowd"

Collection "Wean Di"
Secret Poet Feb 26
These paint splattered tear drops falling on the canvas.  Shaky brush from these rattling thoughts, and joy division playing silently in the dark.
Joy Division is such a vibe
This world...our world , got it's differences..
It held a beautiful statistics..a brilliant geometry of lives..

People sketched, the unnecessary graphs..
in the name of castes , colour , gender , nationality and what not!!
Hence created the ugliest line of division..
about ,who can be the numerator and be above the community line..
and who can be the denominator and live under the poverty line..

Some crafted wealthiest names..while others had to hide their tears under unfinished roofs..
Some  chased for their own rise...while others have to eat the only rotten rice..

Multiplied the division deliberately..
Added up the differences wanting-ly..

We should evaporate the boundaries ,  we drew in our life's charts....
should redefine our lives ,  to decrease the death rates...

Let's choose humanity over cruelty..
Helping over hindering..
Love over hate..

Remember ,we all are alike..
'cause every being has to make their first cry after birth..
'cause every being has it's last breath..
every being has to breathe till death..
every being have to bleed when cut..
Math's creating the difference!!
Science finding the solution..
Humanity is being jailed behind the bars of human's hearts!!!
Zoe Mei Sep 2021
Look on me dearly:
your stolen sullied sullen

daughter. I could dig you up
to hold your bones but

want only to wash myself
away, like white foam

from the seashore.
If I burn what is buried,

is it cremation
or disintegration? You would fly

ashes in the wind, like a wish

lift, like an altar of lit

Think of learning of your blood:
yellow skin and rice paddies

and great-great-great-great-granddaddy
grey for the Confederacy.

Do two halves not one whole
soul make? I take

a breath
and leave it

Johnson Oyeniran Sep 2021
Pettiness runs deep in our species,
Humans are nothing but a disease.

We're all naturally racist,
And we're also full of hatred.
LR Thompson Aug 2021
Division runs rampant through unity on the break
Torches flare as rage flickers smoldering kindling to flame
Erupting the perpetual boils that fester beyond infections wake
Fearful that lives saved are endangered for propagandas sake
Nay, the divisions that split rip to shreds the patriotic fabric
Shorn to threads amiable friendships that broach enmity
Between brothers bound by blood shared
Bleeding red in concealed unison given to each at birth
As mighty Gaia trembles under the weight of shrugging Atlas
Beseeching the old gods to return to former glories
Resting lonesome Olympus from its divine pantheon
To quake and shake the shared foundations built
Atop mountains of lies stacked one after another
Before the heavens part and holy Elysium repels
The hearts of both men and women who dared divide
A house unified on sacrosanct liberties inherent
Gifted to the corruptible souls of humanity
On the premise that justice should be for all
That hold the highest values inviolable
By any that would rabble-rouse the masses to forgo
The established law of the land on such flawed premises
Where words hold greater authority than actions convey
And peace is but a pipe dream puffed in perfect rings translucent
Fading before the light has a chance to cast dark shadows
Imperfect in their reflection yet somehow flawless in impression
Oh, if only we were not like that famous allegory
Confined to our own individual caves
Then maybe our eyes could open wide and once again
Let in the truth that we have for too long allowed to blind us in hate
Perhaps the fates would halt their furies
And end our shared torment avoidable
Unifying a once noble people to again stand proud
A beacon to a world begging for freedom
Clearing the fog of war and lighting the path
Back to the house we once called home

By L.R.Thompson
krm Aug 2021
He broke his neck thirty years ago
I break mine more with each
promise of keeping you in my life
but Ian Curtis is on my mind a lot,
grieving for souls I will never know.

Some of his songs are so sad,
like hearing the premature
snap of his bones

Cannot help but resent
how clever society is
to glamorize the unglamorous,
even I am aware
the flowers upon graves are not just for
aesthetics, but we are still always trying
to cover terrible tragedies
with beautiful things.

Am I just as guilty?

I cheat on you with him.
His spirit through my headphones,
hoped if I listen intently
the narrative changes.

purple marks on your neck
just that weekend you
taught me what a hickey was
and how they felt good

yours’ declare ownership,
not declarations of love.

You walk into art class,
purple painted across your throat.

If love could save Ian,
had I lived in the mid-seventies
he may very well have lived forever
and his throat painted by love,
rather than the bruises of a noose.

The letters I wrote you were in vain,
my mistake quoting those Smiths’
Morrissey is an *******
and so are you.

I still
am too scared to
wonder how far I am willing
to go
to reap the benefits of sorrow.

"New Dawn Fades"
tears into my heartstrings
feeling responsible in
the prevention of another

I grapple onto
what a savior complex was,
your dead father
the tracks on your arms made me cry
but I thought it was stupid.
It made me hate myself more
why could I not learn to undo
my drive to save anyone,
but myself

The phone call
where I broke up with
you and you
pretend to
overdose on the speaker

One of us had to grow up,
had to make it out alive
And I love you again,
every time Ian's ghost
sings Isolation.

And I leave you there,
sure, to end the album
after the final song.
At sixteen an obsession with Unknown Pleasures and ******-addicted boys.
syzygium Feb 2021
There is one
It grows
Free, it continues to grow
But tension appears
And welcome as it is,
It must be relieved

So now there are two
No growth
Opposéd, they cease to grow
But war is their task
And painful as it is,
It must form a dance

So now there are three
Formed of syzygy,
A pleasant mirage
Inspired by vague memories of Parmenides and vegetable dreams.
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