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David Hilburn Jun 16
Time passes a thought
To another, in a climbing sense of renderings...
We see the call to unify, in a shy voice ought?
Today was a marveling hour, we could marvel's ends...

Bite me...with a resolve?
They said the sour news is a welcome sunshine
With pets and history to come at all...
Of a younger moment to be quiet, for a composure of time...

Hours as we know, a fixation on else
Can be, the truth be found in a place of sin
Was this imagined tongue, the saying of wealth
Yet to be, the stir of justice of what is a craved wince...

Of passion over a legend to become, our friends
The tale we notice, and simplify by devoid and avoid
Is but a loose remark of such to roll and imbue, the like we end
As if the world knows any better: the fight of certainty's choice...?!

Sly or slime?
Tows of redoubt, between lovers or a heroism of dry finality's
Sunny as we should note, is about the hour I am trying
We see the traitor of commonness and pence, our humor is...

A rushing eye, to know a catastrophe
That is being a silent opportunity, to approach though
And worth the implied key, we find in the future feat
Of lying to the misses, when a game is for those we hosted, should first owe...?
No, brain disease smells like glue with a sesame bun in it (not, hamburger)
What do you get when you cross a cow and a vampire bat? something that needs less iron in its blood, bud...
Ray Jordan Nov 2021
The moving blanket of clouds dull the light of day
Darkening my shadow in my little room.
My body feels the energy of rain and wind
Tho I am only witness, not in contact.
So, I write upon my tablet as my thumbs touch each letter
Crafting the work seen here. But I have not to say.
No purpose but to write. No sense of story.

That is who I am.
A bit lost today. Weather has me in a condition.
Nat Aug 2021
My hands feel limp and impotent
My fingers half-numb across the keyboard
I've never felt so thirsty for understanding
But nobody in the world is quite what I want

I'm not going to shut my door
Even if all the cold air leaks out
I'll stare into the frame and
Maybe something will jump out
Maybe it'll all just rot with me
Maybe something will happen to me
Because I can't happen myself
All I can do is stare
Vale Luna May 2021
Time slithers away
Fed to the infinite void
that is the past
It slinks slowly into the present.
Why do blood and roses
share the same color?
A crimson droplet
A crimson petal
Both fragments of life
One salter that the other

Throw me in a cage
And watch me bite at my tail;
A ravenous dog
ruined by the boredom of captivity
Tick tock
Another droplet
Another sliver of life
It falls into the puddle
Back into the void.
Self harm triggered by boredom.
Anisah Feb 2021
second-rate skies standing solitary
frozen in their own mediocracy
conforming to the wills of majority
because I'm bored out of my mind

fingers tracing the swirls on the ceiling
feels like gravity herself is competing
and all I'm doing is moving, listless
I guess I'm out of time

so maybe I'm a little distracted
like particles of light are refracted
perhaps just a little compacted
from the cages you call fine

living without joy is no policy
so they make it out of complacency
questioning the laws of morality
and answers by design

but I'm reading all the words that aren't written
and suddenly I'm willing to listen
the stardust we're made of will glissten
because freedom I will find.

- Anisah Mariah
Travis Kroeker Jan 2021
Life tastes of old bread and long-opened chips.
A haggard breath hanging in the heat.
A swollen tongue lolling and sticking to the roof of your mouth
getting in the way of lazy words that seek to dash the doldrums.
Sometimes the gaze of life is piercing and sometimes (now)
it is donut holes iced over and left out overnight
and then left out overnight again.
The muted voice of an underwater murmurer muttering
into cotton-filled ears something half-hearted and uninteresting.
Life is umami for dessert after a gluttonous feast
and never have I so craved the bright citrus peal
of an orange.
Aerien Nov 2020
I have resigned myself to this;
time stretching onwards a pale weak grey like that of a dove, promising peace
-- sod your peace, after all, heaven is a place where nothing ever happens --
-- heaven is Las Vegas -- everything and nothing all at once,
and around the corner of my hesitation
comes a voice as lifeless and mutilated as the rest of me:
"shut up and live."

I have walked unshoon through dust-choked wastelands
where they strung belief and imagination up
from the flagpoles, by their throats
and burned all our dreams to light up
a night grittier than a mouthful of gravel in a desert.
tracing my tracks and trails by the bloodprints
left by bare soles lacerated by shattered dreams underfoot.
"just shut up and live."

I have dreams, curiosities, wondering too deeply
what the last moment on Earth would be like,
what it would take to breathe through the end
and run face-first into oblivion or whatever's beyond it.
I sicken, and weaken, and wake up gagging on my own sweat
and the echoes of a voice made harsh by dysagapi:
"shut up and live".
Raghu Pratap Oct 2020
Why does it take long to write a poem?
are months consumed into few fleeting feelings?
a poem is severed.
Of feelings that need to be let go of,
a delusion of a listen,
poem doesn’t listen,
what does it do?
An appearance for
no purpose,
but to be outside
is like braving the wind
to tell the wind you have braved it,
is this a poem?
None of us know yet.
Mounting feelings in an abandon,
a poem deceives,
and leaves them for dead,
for forgetfulness is eternal,
and the rest rot in several lifetimes,
but the burden?
Unburden, eventually?
The poem is ******,
Can we let go of it at all?
It persists.
We let them know we were there,
to come face to face with selves of us,
that we have avoided,
does the poem really look out for you?
And asks, pretending you know?
Do we need no end?
We are here to while away time
and tell them
we whiled the time away.
My heart writhes of pain, in the chilling fire
The fire for which she gathered, tinder
My quill and his ink froze, in the chilling fire
The fire which she gathered for my pyre.
My vellum sits bone-dry, in the chilling fire
Her fire, which burns my voices to cinder

Every fortnight, I see her glistening eyes
Reciting a monotonous sonnet of grey
That sonnet would never ever suffice
In sheathing me from her stagnant voice
As she smothers my final embers of life
As she “graces” me staleness from life’s fray

Her brushed hair, smooth in bronze.
Her florid face, baroque and supple.
Her lips, curled to a fluttering smile
Her gait, silent, steady and subtle
Her eyes, icy daggers skewering my heart
Her fingertips, flames freezing my breathe

I await in void as her hand rests on mine
Glaring the gloaming sky with heavy eyes
She drained my soul into a dead mine.
But... she birthed my precious Daphne
A shallow stream began from my dry eyes
“I miss our waltz, I always did, Ania.”

The ink on my quill began its flows
My heart repose, as my Ania mellows.
But sorrow, clutch me, she was my Ania
I shall see her very soon, in our meadows
We will have our Final Waltz, Ania
Yes, Ania; Our joyous waltz to Follia.
Identify the hidden virtue of the character, the character's identity. The answer might be in her name. Anyway, enjoy this lovely little creation of mine.
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