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dead poet Feb 10
patiently, i wait -
my legs crossed,
and my heart too.
much time has passed
since the inevitable happened,
and yet, the light of a clement morn
never fails to justify the agony
of dying stars in the night sky;
or the ones too dead for even the
darkness that consumed them.
the heavens dispatch their
messenger birds to nook the
forebodings into the branches
of trees whose roots have shrewd
under the weight of logs that
outline their ascent.
such trees call upon the sages
to enlighten them,
and to warn them -
for they know too well how the
message might confound in the grips
of those who practise hedonism.
perhaps, the light has always been
too blinding for mortal eyes.

the flowers bloom all the same;
the winds usher the fragrant truth -
slowly, but surely;
and i lie in hope for the
rancid thoughts to inevitably
take on new meanings…

patiently.
Man Feb 9
It's a funhouse of smoke and mirrors,
Where the unnatural angles & fumes
Have clearly affected their proprietors.
It's an old-timey, ****** circus;
The performing artists are mismanaged
By ringleaders who may be animals.
It's a rigged boardwalk game;
The hoop's too small or pegs too thick,
Baskets too tight or ***** too corpulent.
You can hit it square on,
Swing the hammer with a force sufficient,
But the bell hasn't been ringing.
Grab a hotdog,
Order a slice,
Get your popcorn & crackerjacks,
Your cotton candy & cream iced.
That sugar is a rush,
Like laffy taffy freebased off of a fish which is Swedish.
Get in your distractions,
Cause I don't forsee you winning.
Vianne Lior Feb 9
I’m the marrow in your doubt,
The splinter when you reach out,
Static in your clear transmission,
A fracture dressed as definition.

I’m the bruise beneath your pride,
The grin your guilt can’t hide,
A cipher etched in sleight of hand,
A kingdom built on shifting sand.

I’m the hunger in your feast,
The echo posing as the beast,
An atlas with no map to give,
The ruin in the way you live.

I’m the ache you chase to cure,
The flaw that makes you sure,
Not the ending, nor the start—
Just the shadow stitched to heart.
waiting in line
for something interesting
this light of mine
will always be the best thing
waiting in line
to see a new movie
i saw it online
it looks pretty groovy
waiting in line
to ride a carousel
the names of every animal, couldn't tell
waiting in line
for a celebrity to sign
my snapback hat and then
i'll feel divine
waiting in line
to drive and see you
traffic always makes
my time seem few
waiting in line
for the next train
the carriage stops now
they all look the same
waiting in line
to get something to eat
hunger moves throughout
and pain through my feet
waiting in line
to wait in another
i've been in here for days
don't want to be a bother
waiting in line
to an elusive pit
people line up
so seen as fit
waiting in line
'till i finally leave
the photopass shows
only five seconds on the screen
waiting.....waiting......waiting......
done.
inspired by time spent waiting in queues.
Santi Feb 4
It’s strange.
Lilies still in the wind.

An extraordinary wind at that.
Wind with a purpose so impertinent
It became love.

If you didn’t know any better,
You might name it something sweeter:
Abhorrence.

Your eyes sharp
And soft with desperation
Look at me for answers.

I’ve never seen anything quite like it
I marvel and speculate alongside you
We fall into a steady and cyclical dissonance
Are the lilies still anymore?

Yes, the sky is still blue. The grass,
Green.
It’s rather lovely.

I feel a tug. A pull.
With ease I lean into its plea
Spilling into silence,
I am gone.

You are here alone.
Delicately gilded, you are safe.

The lilies still in the wind.
Utterly strange.
:) hello
Zack Feb 4
Stand atop
your                                                            ­                                         dunes
manifested
Dreams
from infallible convictions
Eyes — open
with pretentious ecstasy
Gawking
Your waves — in a waterless sea
Stand
facing the winds
permeating
your pedantic desert
Eyes — water
Assurances — seeping in
Indifferently
ravishing your                                                             ­                      dunes
Lie — buried
The sand’s absolute
Like sediment —
manifestations overlaid
Eyes — close
against the winds righteous pursuits
You wonder
how you missed the direction
whence they came
Repentant Feb 4
You strike a matchstick
and name it hope—
watch the flame gnaw
its own tail, a hungry ouroboros.

Your hands tremble like cities
under siege.
The skyline cracks, a porcelain plate
held together by spider silk.

We are all archaeologists here,
digging through ash
for the bones of who we swore
we’d become.

Some nights, the moon is a pill
that won’t dissolve.
You swallow it anyway,
let its cold light pool in your ribs.

The world is a fever dream,
but listen—
even wildfires leave behind
soil thick with tomorrow.

So let your heart be a dandelion:
ugly, stubborn,
and impossibly
easy to love.
Inspiration: Combines existential urgency (a "burning world") with intimate resilience, blending natural imagery and mental health metaphors. The poem mirrors modern anxieties but leans into hope as an act of defiance.

Key Elements:

Ouroboros metaphor: The flame eating itself reflects cycles of destruction/rebirth and self-sabotage.

Urban decay vs. nature: "Cities under siege" and "porcelain plate" contrast with organic imagery (dandelions, wildfires).

Medicalization of coping: The moon as an undissolved pill critiques how society medicates existential pain.

Archaeology of self: Digging through "ash" to find lost versions of identity.

Dandelion symbolism: Represents overlooked strength and the beauty of persistence.

Structure: Free verse with short, punchy stanzas. Enjambment creates urgency, while the final quatrain offers a resolving, mantra-like closure.
Falling Awake Jan 29
From the harshness of Everest,
To savage war trenches,
There's the will to survive,
While keeping your senses.

And once you do,
Life has a way,
Of taking it all,
anyway.
Been reading and pondering about survival under extreme circumstances.
another workday -
ignore the catastrophe,
bury your conscience.

another number,
type away the foreboding,
count down the minutes.

another dollar,
think about the bottomline,
excess overflow.

another warning -
it is coming to an end.
when will we wake up?
existential haikus as the rich becomes richer (and we become casualties)
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