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In this place
The air is so dry that water sulks.
The sky is a viscous brown mosaic.
The sulfurous fumes of old suffering linger.

A woman stares as if trying to unsee creation.
Words on a man’s tongue sound
like rhythmic coughing.
At the only stoplight
the crosswalk sign flashes “Don’t waltz.”

Strangers recoil from me
as if from an embarrassing stain.

People stream to the town square
for some indecipherable ritual.
Probably a funeral for the sun
or a snake oil sale.

Welcome to humankind’s true garden.
Not paradise but a place of desolation,
and what comes after is not exile but striving
and getting the **** out.

So long, mom and dad.
Harry Roberts Dec 2018
No faith in my country,
No faith in its people,
Idiocy of indoctrination
Free minds made feeble
'Till they follow like sheeple.

It's a cage of misdirection
The information is corrupted,
The people's rage will erupt
But at each other as constructed.

It's a sickly game of monopoly,
Lock you in prison for poverty,
Can't pay your way out then you'll fester in prison,
Awaiting the day 'till some old god has risen.

Attack the unseen and prosper in glee, The vulnerable, the ones who must fight, Attach like a parasite inside raise the Fahrenheit,
They'll either **** you or you'll die by your plight, The spoils of greed & it spreads like a blight.
Harry Roberts - Spoils of Greed
Patricia M Nov 2018
As I lay on my bed,
things pop in my head,
all of it about death,
making me see red.

The hidden dystopia,
that's inside my mind;
its dark and gruesom,
everything....not right.

Wishing to be alright.
But the mind says otherwise.
Out of sanity,
Bound by calamity.

People asking if I'm fine,
I say yes and fake a smile.
Why can't they hear my plea?
Are they deaf and too blind to see?
Just something going in my mind
Aditya Roy Oct 2018
I live in a town
Where the lights never go out
But the moths never come in
Because spiders are the citizens
"War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength."-George Orwell
Tufayl Myburgh Sep 2018
You used to be my pink skies and cotton candy clouds but now everything is grey, rainy and miserable.

And it makes me want to cry.

We're going in a different direction now and I am not the one who pulled the steering wheel.

I no longer see my open fields flooded far and wide with cherry blossoms and all the green sparrows have flown away.

They are crying now and I can no longer hear your voice.

Instead, it is all a barren wasteland. And the sand is not even at least the beautiful orange the Sahara desert always is.

All the portraits in my castle have gone blank. The castle itself, war torn, brought down to rubble as a result of the battle I fought within myself.

I may have lost the battle but I have not yet lost the war. I hope.

Unfortunately, our worlds did not collide as subtly as I had prayed. It was a violent mishap, an event outside of time.

I sit silently and alone in the centre of my dreams as I have witnessed them being violently washed away by ocean waves with my hands tied and bound by my admiration for you.

You like beaches right? That has to mean something, maybe a reason for you to stay a little longer.

You are my Dystopia.

But dystopia is subject to interpretation.

And what is yours will never be mine and what is mine you do not even want at all.

My dystopia sounds like it belongs in a book, but we all know how long that lasts.




*Be sure to check out Utopian Dystopia Pt. 1!
Pt. 2 of a story I did not know I began writing.
Ormond Sep 2018
.
So many ****** birds,
Grey, brown and black,
Suited as they sully in sun,
In feather and windy-speak
And dream, drifting to profit
Points, marring the globe,
They have so many ways
Of singing on their swings
Behind bars, murky birdies,
Gawking in the crowded fields,
Fielding, flighty questions without
Answer, winging all souls to oblivion,
Who fly, flustering, dusting with song
Twisting the air into pure falsehoods,
Curious, grounded pets for kingdoms,
For masters, fly-hoping in their cages.
.
Anton Stonelake Sep 2018
-October 17, 2230


White marble and the vitalizing smell of chemicals.

Our light and evenly coloured avenue, straight and decisive, reaches the distant horizon.

And all without trying.

The clear autumn sky, sterile and wonderful is well fitting our day of celebration, is it not!

In front, rows upon rows of men glowing with pride and dressed as myself, (why do I waste paper on the axiomatic….) move swiftly and evenly along to the beat, oh so evenly...

And arms move out and up on every beat.

For our jubilee has come, and a hundred years have passed since the necessary (and by them voluntary!) extermination of citizengroup 3.

Oh, whoever might read this joyous note of mine, what a day to be!


-O402
A poem heavily inspired by Yevgeny Zamyatin's dystopian novel WE
Tanay Sengupta Sep 2018
Welcome to the dystopian town.
No sign of life anymore
The houses are red and the air is brown.

No monarch to rule with a crown.
You will find bodies lying near every door
Welcome to the dystopian town.

You are allowed to frown.
But there is no one alive to blame anymore
The houses are red and the air is brown.

You can try making your way to downtown.
But, there is nothing left worth going there for
Welcome to the dystopian town.

You will see more bodies with their faces down.
While inside you will feel broken, numb and sore
The houses are red and the air is brown.

The sky is dark grey and brown.
Hope is not an option anymore
Welcome to the dystopian town.
The houses are red and the air is brown.










Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018.
All Rights Reserved
What do you think this poem is about? I leave this one to you. Happy reading!
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