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Tran Thuy Anh Feb 2021
as it were
i  b r  e    a      k
full of wasted grace
making the dry dust
that remains
my instrument
writing all the wrongs
new lyrics
for an old song
time lost
to an arcane rhythm
m      a  d
from the absurdity
of this life
that I suffer
in verse

through crescendo

and endless

Psychosa Jun 24
My existence  is forlorn.
From my body, I am torn.
Withered and stripped,
My soul is worn.
Inside brews an endless storm.
Oh how I long to be no more.
Life is labour.
All is entropy.
From the moment
we're born,
we decay.
We must feed
to renew,
we must breathe
to energise.
We strive to prolong a life
we never asked for,
living inside a machine
needing constant maintenance
against built-in redundance.
What an existence!
Ayla Jun 16
Are my lips not enough like honey?

Are my words not sweet as Eden?

Do I palely compare to the affair of your dreams?

Woe, though I still love me.
Happy for you but sad for me
i read
an article
on self-realisation
about how
we are an echo
of the universe
and how
we can use
that awareness
to unlock
   our greatness

it stated that
an echo
is merely
a vibration
from point
   to point
across an expanse
it explained that
all objects
throughout the universe
   with energy
that all objects
are a manifestation
of energy;
we are
nothing more
than clusters
   of energy
through space
and time

over time
echoes weaken
and fade
into nothingness
returning to
the universe's preferred
state of equilibrium
that cosmic balance
between order
   and chaos
which existed
long before
our disturbance
and will surely
return again

the article
was meant to be
an aid for
   inner peace
but it seems
i may have
   the point
Psychosa Apr 12
as I sit alone,
I am bound by It.

It is empty;
It is fleeting,
yet It is undying.

It has begun to consume me,
not by Its reality
but my own conception.

I am Its slave,
and It is my reaper.
Filomena Apr 2
Worthless, worthless, says the preacher
Self-important, self-taught teacher

Worthless, worthless, says the buyer
Yet your price was never higher

You get it cheap, and start to boast
And then leave nothing for the host

But emperors are like their clothes
Their what and whether no-one knows

You take their treasure in your hand
And feel your fist is full of sand

You search for some security
See things become, but never be

Why seek to run a perfect race,
If past the sun is only space?

Would you rather face the end?
Or live to chase the wind?
Late 2018 - April 2022
Alio Mar 30
Am I to be a poet?
Who writes of all he sees?
Who spews his dreams across the page?
Reflecting harsh and cynical?
Deep within old age?

Shall I grow much in wisdom?
A Sage who’s never enraged?
Filled with patience, hope, and heart
Because he lives on stage?
And his mind on a page
His rage in a cage
The readers head
Filled instead
With the things he never said

What shall I be?
Should I dart to share my art?
In forms of clay and word
Which never will curd but always will curb
And roll and refine
As gems from the mine
That make the most beautiful ring

That’s what I shall be.
A gift,
Shining bright.
—a ring—
Dinamus Mar 12
A sweet story being told
Melting, it fills the mold
Every word is a piece of us
Every new world on the canvas

Couldn't you see
Every part of you and me
Has shaped the flowers
Until they became ours
Even this poem is a reflection, uniquely, because your mind has made it a part of you and has written its own story.
Sarah Richardson Dec 2021
Don't allow yourself to close your eyes;
To sleep or rest, to look away.
You see, you know,
They all lied to you.

Immersed in it's ambiguities.
Meaningless suffering,
Life is unjust.

Left behind.
Drowning in real
Refusing to ignore,
It's killing you.

It is all truly there,
It is all that there is.
Onerous to accept it.
You're creating a war with a reality
Who only seeks to destroy.

Nearly lost elation,  
Thoughts transmitted in times of joy,
Hope at times afforded.
Faint memories of it will linger,
Just try to hold on.


You think so highly of such a lowlife as yourself,
Or are you it?
Are you it?
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