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Patricia M Nov 9
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 15
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
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 16
.
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.
.
-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
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!
Hartaz Kaur Aug 20
Most heavenly of places, this world now
Of endless beauties, a sight that wows
They're statuesque and wax-like, but hey don't fret
No wrinkles to combat, nor ripples of fat

Gazing into their arresting green eyes
That of the rabbit's, resemblance lies
Uncanny it is, this puzzling scene
Manufactured they are, from the same jellyfish gene

And since its time to seek paradise,
My wandering hands caress the prize
To search for weakness, now I must
No amount of fondling, stirs any ****

I've come so far, and this is what perfection costs?
The smoothest of skin, has left all thumbprints lost
A sci-fi piece. A world where women have their genes edited and are manufactured to perfection. The result of placid, animated statues however fail to arouse the faintest stirrings of ****.
Aa Harvey May 24
Death is written on every page


Black sun on a sea of ash.
Darkness falls; light is not coming back.
The raven calls in the midnight hour.
All that is left in the garden are uprooted flowers.


Summer is dead like the corpse of time.
Frozen in place; bound to ground within twine.
The little lights no longer shine.
All is darkness in the land of the blind.


Tears mark the route he took,
To a place without any good luck.
The tricks are played like a funeral dirge.
All is dirt.
All around are the widows in white.
The only black dresses are saved for the brides.
This is another day of eternal night.
City of angels who have lost their lives.


Broken dreams lay in the gutter and doorways.
The only lights left are the fires that rage.
Death is written on every page.


(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
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