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The words don't link here
It's too cold
Too loud
Too messy
The words don't link here and I hate it
between the hat and boots
an old man stands
withered and totaled
with every breath taken
another months rent paid
and every time I blink
another decade passes by

but with each passing year
another candle stands
as the cake burns brighter
in the age of my doing
than the year before

while others await the
next coming attraction

while others rage
and never move on

while others drink
poison and wait

while others hold onto
an extreme admiration
for the total of their deeds

while others are out
walking and mingling
down the streets
and celebrating
their stupid existence

my piano tongue will
cope with the bottle
and write poetry
like taking a shit
it exits my body
and the weight
had being lifted,
but one is excrement
and the other is soul,
essentially the same thing
pending who you are
or who you were

and my two best friends,
loneliness and emptiness
will put on party hats
make some noise and
sing songs for me
under drooping streamers
where the living remain
physically present and
absent minded
once again.
It’s my birthday today
noren 1d
It often happens that you find
some potato chips so irresistible
that you keep munching them
till your hand comes out empty of the packet.

Some desires are so engaging
that you do not worry about overindulging in them
till you realise how they have blanked your heart.
my poetry is shit
cause I'm not a poet
I'm in pain
and empty inside
i need to write, only
when i feel sick
i am nothing
but a memory
a thought or a forgotten dream

i am nothing                  
but my emptiness
my vicious goals and my silent screams
Axion Prelude Dec 2014
planted seed; they let it grow
through much defeat, it’s never known
a smile's disguise seethes bated breath
my sole escape be only death
I've turned new leaves
From Brown to Green,
Yellow to Red,
Dust to ash.

A week ago
Was quite warm,
Cold didn't bother
me very much.
Now I shiver,
Not alone without
But without within.

Guess I'm dying.

Not forever,
But for now.
Not a new death,
But a constant one.

That's waiting
I do suppose,
wanting things now.
Expressing fickle desires
Through prose.
But your needs now
Aren't the wants you'll
Have later.
Those are never ones
You plan for.
To live in constant wait is to perpetually fall alone through the slips of time.
Kara Petrovic Sep 12
what could empty you?
          in the weight
of our divines
the un    thinking
deep within us
strokes of pure spirit
      our fleeting fall

labour — the early war;
                 original sin
in between the earth and sky
            is the shade
            of the galaxy
why limit sorrow?
why blank the source?
             we go on
and put life first

ignore the    remnant artifacts
                      merciless undoings
turned pools,
                      nudge    of time
ordinary notes of care
unleashed poisons
into skin

history’s suitor to time,
remember   remember
the blank silence echoing

days go on,
               sleep escaping
crying out
                   it was a home.

cursed nights into mornings,
         who can make of this?
what once was theirs,
          whatever is left?

emptied, murdered, obliterated
             an annihilation
of the ego
              the anguish,
                     the anguish

eyes still seeing last touch
ancient alone abandoned
what is a year
              a month
               a decade
but a moment?

—lost and burned
            futile devices,
fervour’s writing

mailed to the void

and the sea?
        the sea?

the saltwater dead, my love,
the saltwater dead

the last great epitaph
of our love:

           i am nobody
           i am nobody
           and you
           are gone

oh, August, a season deceased,
tell me again
the hieroglyph
of your name
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