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Watching the world burn
I pause motionless for a moment and their heads turn
Who can remain still in this trembling state
Locked into to the grip of deaths embrace
I looked out into eternity and saw no hope
Yet I felt no fear, I held no dreams in my hands
Not a single spark of faith in my mind
Yet the days goes by with a tasteless pain
A senseless thought of what could be
I want to live my fantasies, just like you
But I'm sitting here watching the world burn
Motionless for a moment and I can't care
Caring is painful and my heart can't be breaking always
Fiery flickers of love rip apart my despair
Leaving me burnt and turned to unfathomable misery
All because I saw that our heaven was built on hell
Our worthless wealth, made in China
This disposable planet, soaked in petroleum filth
Could you look them in the eye for a minute
Only to feel the dystopian horror that you call beauty
Trying so hard to express this perspective
Living alone in this lamentable lethargy
If I said nothing, who would rise to break the silence?
Efuse apart from our celebratory mania
Refuse to remain in a myopic mesmerization
A hopeless hypnosis of comfortable mass hysteria
How do you call me confused, when you are conscious?
And if you are merely amused, ponder this poetry
Pity this passing plea for empathy
James Rowley Jul 27
I:
I stopped for breath;
It was earthy, the soil
Was putrid to the touch:
Death oozed out of the cracks
Of the river, bubbling unnaturally.
Life was naught where I roamed.
Squeezing the last drops out of the bottle,
My cracked lips groaned, the silence strangled my memory
Only the weak were erased that day.
Four years ago I think
She ruled herself with a spring in her step
Before the sludge, the acid sludge
Wiped her dreams away
And ushered in the sun of winter
To never see summer again.

II:
Speckled with dust I carried onward;
The terrain flashed with familiarity
As I stepped into the darkness of her home
If you can even call it that anymore;
Her smile is a deep crimson, the blood of the many
Line her barren wasteland. Sometimes I face the winds
Instead of hiding; but they bring those hollow, pale spirits
Ever closer. They only stop
To torment; their whispers perfectly pierce
And destroy the hope I once had.

III:
They tell me sweet nothings and extend their hands of absence;
I cower in the darkness to stop their screams.
The scimitar of radiant light cuts through the night
As I prepare to face the wasteland again.

Swallows, sloes and willows; gone are the days where
They lined the earth and made it smell whole again.
Now we lay motionless in dreams long lost
Lonesome as I was, the ghosts haunt where I once were.

IIII:
The path in front of me winds endlessly;
Shattered and incomplete, it beckons me
To wherever it decides to take me.
For I am naught in the wasteland;
I will wait for her to come back
But the sands of time are not on my side.
Feedback would be appreciated
Diana Apr 17
My movements were eternally not my own
My distinctions, decisions, discrepancy,
Also not my own.
The creation or establishment of a newborn,
Covertly an awaiting infection of control and scare.
Because only a newborn had nothing to fear of this world or district.

I fear the air, the sun,
I cannot trust the outside,
I belong far from fear.  
How must I walk if it’s controlled?
Do I march or run?
Do I look up at the sky or close my eyes in terror?
Do I engulf the fear like a sharp knife or let it eat me up instead?
Not knowing will do both.

I’m writing here because it’s my own words,
Not a speech or sharing of my gospel.
It’s a sin to my kind,
But I am not like that kind.
Please allow my independence hidden,
I can't stand the scare.
We need a new word for Dystopian
These days it's got kind of Utopian
When did death and destruction become a fashion?
And is THAT really the worst we can imagine?
Well, it all looks a little Cyclopean

For example, I'm fed up with intergalactic Global War tactics
Let's have The Earth almost destroyed
By a kilometre wide swarm of Alien hemorrhoids
Let's give our future a final **** spin on its axis
Lets have some proper post-apocalyptic dystopian praxis!
Sorry about this... But sometimes my love of language gets the better of me.
Untitledheart Feb 14
The screams
Are
Unbearable
As I head south
I hear them
Echoing
Echoing my name
As if
I am leaving
A whole world
For a dystopia
Of love
This poem is generally me struggling with the way my life is turning out right now. Am I doing the right thing? Is this the right door to open? Was I meant for this life?
Patricia M Jan 20
Another sleepless night,
spent in the labyrinth of the dystopia I hide.
eating away the innocence that I have left inside;
and its leaving the feeling of hopelessness on its flight.

nights that is filed with thoughts,
thought that are about death.
keeping me up all night
on days that I don't need it the most.

it's endless;
it won't stop,
i can see light.
but can't seem to reach it.

help! help! i cry out in plea.
but no one notices .
its the reality of which they do not want to see;
and its all because they want to live in a place called paradise.

a place called paradise...
where everything is perfect,
where you do not need to feel troubled,
a place where I want to be.
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 hell 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
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