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Tichozpytec Jun 8
Night is the time of discontent
An end of armistice that to day was lent
Ghosts of past surging through my bones
Future filtered through sepia tones
Endless abyss reopened once more
A deserted planet with an immobile core
Skye May 21
here we go again
the feeling of not feeling
the music without melody
the poem without metre

it all swims in my head devoid of emotion
these stanzas, those paragraphs, those conversations, that knowledge
they swirl and they shimmer but where has the tone gone
those non-verbal shades just evaporate like water

dickens, tolkien, tolstoy, plath
mozart, sheeran, queen, presley
van gogh, hirst, dalí, ito
nothing but noise when your heart isn't in it

now down some pills
write it down
go to sleep
and repeat this tomorrow.
Is this poetry or prose? That's for you to decide.
I despise the strict rules of conventional poetry.
I wonder when it happened.
When was the breakthrough.
When I started to feel nothing.

From what I can remember
I could feel happiness.
But I don’t remember how it felt.
Last months I don’t remember much.
I forget so easily, everything.

I believe it can appear again.
Somehow, one day.
The emptiness will start feeling less empty.
Less invisible.

When I was younger I barely had any bad thoughts.
But I’m thinking.
Was I happy or just didn’t know things so I had nothing to be sad about.
If you don’t know things the reality can’t hit you.
But once you get to know them
They will haunt you.

Like air going to your lungs.
You feel you need it for your life.
But in reality it’s just dust stopping you from breathing.
It doesn’t matter where you are.
Even where the air the clearest
You will breath the dust.
Jenniff Hill Apr 3
she is lost but she does not crave to be found.
her world went quiet but she accepted it cause in some sick and destructive way it brought her peace and she felt safe in her own madness.
And although her days are full of tears and anguish... she cant picture herself ever getting out of this labyrinth of suffering she trapped herself in.
this is her silent punishment.

  The killer
came crashing down
smashing,  thrashing through.
What is tender's  tender

       so  for itself,   to do?

As it runs
right over the top of her.

This taker.
This killer.

In the black,  
now in between
so lightless and thick..
        blotting out  all screams.

There is an annihilation  here.
A void.

A terror.
To stay, means certain death

      but to leave  
      also means certain death
      So the  d is m e m b e r men t   begins
      As she is ripped, completely into half

And those halves,  into half..
.. into half
--into half..
into half.
     And still it tears.. rips..  shreds.
Until all,  in between
is nothing  but black.
A black it can now  pretend to fill
with all of its empty promises..

and all of its counterfeit, everything.
And then--  just up and leaves
once it is fully satiated.

     And for a while..
     the black had something.

Clinging to the rocky crags
on either side of the unlit valley
are the pieces of her--
war-torn and shuddering.

Of the black, black   empty.
Of what is now  fully

   and  completely  dark.

      ~       ~      ~       ~

Timmy  ain't real tall
but look at his stature,
as his majestic strings   dialogue
the introduction.

And Warren's gotten so fat
See him now, looking so dearly,  back
at his half-pint of Chunky Monkey--
picking it back up,  for the fourth time..
scraping... scraping.. scraping..

But watch his eyes  light up
as Timmy looks up--
  over the top
of those wild-man RayBans

And with a gentle nod,  it all begins..

-- as our Warren  now digs  deep
into his Gibson's beautifully-wanton  ways..



­    Rectifying.

Clarence, the Magician..
Stephan--  Humble, Unparalleled
And Dave's  so chill
he's part Creole.. I just know it.

So great a cloud of witness:
surrounding you, my beautiful..
coaxing  you.

    Identifying it all for you.

"He came dancing across the water
         Cortez,  Cortez..

            What a killer."

ah Neil..
tell me, my brother
have I lost my way?
--Warren digs deeply into its start
as on the edge of my bed
I dig deeply,  into her.

Love is a much more beautiful killer.
Abby Feb 19
Where to begin?
All beginnings must meet their end.  
I’m falling in.
Too late to stop this momentum.

Fleeing the ghosts of history.
Silhouettes cloaked in black.
Can’t shake the words that raised me
from life to death and back.

Why speak at all?
Things unspoken can’t be undone.
I’m chasing this.
Who honest claims they never run?

A chance to fight the finish.
This dance may be your last.
No future can convey that
shaped only by the past.

What’s hope but fraud?
Faith in willingness to be won.
I’m looking up.
Praying for breath that’s never drawn.

I came here seeking answers,
But what I sought was gone.
No meaning found in victories,
but in the moving on.

What does it mean?
Nature, nurture, or divine force.
I’m bowing out.  
Seeking an end to this discourse.  

The loudest form of quiet,
that e’er resounds in me
is in the sound of nothing
where something used to be.
A musing and my interpretation on the self-same titled song by Grieve the Astronaut.
Axion Prelude Aug 2020
Silent morrow seethes with reverie
Disdain knows conscious plight
Such sweet tones, bereft of fate
A calling to behold the Black Rose

Awoken, seeing truth and trust
Beseeched by wistful grandeur
The spark which lights the fire, lit
Blanketed upon darkened doubt
Unrivaled in parity
Unknown paths collide in curiosity

Each day atoned by dauntless breath
Exhaled, in part, in effortless fashion
Connected by embraced truths
Such beatific composure sought
In empty eyes, the void refilled
Intrigue, compassion, the rose blooms

Sightless endeavor retains composure
Meandering thought
Heartstrings grasping at lovely ghosts
Amid a flightless trek of intrigue
Reprieve, connections awaiting home

To seek the embrace of their shadows
Faith breeds time to bear her visage
Both lovely petals, and poised thorns
Chance, beckoning to see it all through
My Black Rose echoes fate, untold
In whispers of silent fairytales withheld..
Where is my Black Rose Queen..
My Dear Poet Jan 22
An only guest
when company is a broken chair

An empty chair
placed beside a wooden table
in a vacant room

Faded initials carved into a table
made from the trunk of a dying tree

The tired branches of a tree
that can no longer hold on to its leaves

The scattered amber leaves that can never
turn back to the colour green
fray narte Jan 5
Without so much as a burst of white light, without so much as a beclouded face, lingering — I want to go quietly now, like sawdust in a country road — like seafoam under a gray sunset.

My mind insists on leaving.
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