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Thinking outside the box
is growing harder everyday
I'm here from the school of hard knocks
still there's so much more to say
My life has had its ups and downs
yet it's been colourful too
I've entered the stage of reds and browns
where once it was all blue
Rainbow colours melting fast
within my own mindsight
all richness taken, was built to last
now fading as the light
Soon time to spread my angel wings
if the lord says I deserve
but I'll not have what a coffin brings
smoke my last preserve
Written during the toughest years of my life and how I'd like to imagine my passing from this world to the next when the good Lord says its time. Death isn't something to rush headlong into but it's also something we should accept. It is after all natures way.
It is one thing to advocate for equality, representation, and unity.
Indeed, each is an inalienable, fundamental right.
But it is a whole new beast to lay waste
to anything that frightens you or that challenges your beliefs,
or that simply does not mirror your very own ideologies.
How heavy the hand of tyranny that now lays across our mouths,
yet how light our opposition.
Though I do acknowledge the delicacy of the issue at hand,
the fragility of the minds of hysterical mobs
who resolve to smashing windows in blind anger,
who ***** out free thought in daft castigation,
or who ban books even, it seems, like those monsters of history
to which they declare themselves to be diametrically opposed-
even in light of that, it is no excuse
to remain subservient to senseless autocrats
and the absurd legislations they bludgeon us with near daily.
To do this – to do nothing - is to lay down and die
without dignity, spineless and shameful,
though it seems that only myself and a handful of others
can recognize this.  Indeed, how easy it is to glimpse from the fringes.
I, a man of only twenty-seven years, do not recognize you, America.
I long for the days of comfort (so far removed from them, I am)
when I could safely retreat into the lofty and quiet halls of my mind
to enjoy a self-assuring thought that only I created -
a thought with no real purpose but to occupy me for a time,
to entertain me in my moments of dull apathy.
Now I shudder in a cold and contrived prison of vetted words
and unnegotiated mandates where I am told
to wrap myself in our flag to keep warm, to feel safe,
that this is for my own good.
I do not recognize you, America, for this thing you have become.
Zygos 2d
-I scream at you for bleeding everywhere, when I myself feel like an never-ending open wound.

-Lazy, laying, and filled with disdain we sit and let time wander through the dusty halls.

-Suspended in mid-air, twirling amongst light and darkness, I wait for movement to occur.

-The smog has lifted, but we remained mentally clouded and uncertain.

-There's plenty of food, but nobody eats. We stay still until the sun sets and countless clouds of *** eagerly activate the palate. Then we feast meagerly on snacks and drink and drink and drink until tomorrow blinks into our vision. We clean until the space feels open and momentarily alive, only to wreck it through the night to create purpose for the next day.

-The fragility of the day immediately crumbles in my hands the moment I make contact.

-I'm holding my breath, hoping all the air will keep me afloat.

-Because in the end I'm just a scared girl, shooting arrows at the world trying to pinpoint my direction.
Darkest places I know,
the corner end of my soul
Depression, anxiety and fears
is all I even known.
Amongst all peers,
the loudest kid in the silence of being alone.
Guess I was on my own,
with these negative feelings I own.

It's a dark place
that shadows have another.
Growing up, not shown
how to fight my demons by my father.
Seemed foolish for loving everybody,
giving all I had and I am.
Tell me is that why I feel like Mr Nobody?

There's a dark place,
much darker than the empty nights
Beyond death or feeling alive,
not even safer to be inside.

Your greatest enemy,
is all the thoughts on your mind.
I've only seen the brim of light
as the shadow left behind.
Friends,
are people I feel don't know me,
they must ignore me.
Those who overlook me,
but I know it's really just me.
For all the problems I have,
I tend not to see.

All the dark places I've made
the foreshadows forming out my brain.
Never one to be plain,
but also the one who wasn't the same.
Out of the bunch,
the dark kid with a light heart.

Just like art,
by the tormented artist's craft.
I seem to be raised in the dark,
the dark is really just my past.
By living alone i am escaping a haunted house. to leave is to be spat out undigested, a bone picked clean of meat but spared the marrow. it was always me who refused to be easily swallowed. it was always you who hated that.
We both know this haunting didn’t seep out from the walls, it was set in every room. (you made sure of that.) in such a space, articles of comfort are more unpleasant than bare walls - far worse than nothingness, they are marks of you. it is true you have built a home. but it is not my home.
Your haunting is pristine, white walls and tasteful furniture. beautiful but unwilling to be dwelt in. in polished mirrors, everyone is dirt. at least a gutted, rotting place could have been somewhere someone like me was loved, some long time ago. even claimed by mould and time such a house is less of a haunting than any space shared with you. at least i can imagine those crumbling walls as having once been the pillars of a life. at least among them i am clean.
if you are a leech, i am water, part of blood but never enough, you consume more than i alone can give you. you consume more than i would part with, even if i could.
if a home with you is a haunting, a house alone is a half dug grave.
but at least theres work left to do.
at least i wont be rotting alongside you.
A poem about refusing to be consumed by something that claims to love you.
Damage or repair,
so often tyred of life.
It's constant wear and tear,
going round in circles of fear.
But that's life for us all, so **** wheel.
Andrew 4d
Do not fear her for her scars
or hate her
for how many times she has cried -

Love her
for she is broken,
respect her
for she has lived -
know that she is a mountain
that won't crumble
with tomorrow in mind
~
I’m mesmerized,
By your scarlet hue
You stand so confident
Because you know you’ll bloom

Everything about you seems so perfect
Like you’re a living dream
It’s so alluring,
Your beauty is so simple, so elegant
No need for customizing

The world is so vivid when I’m with you
I’m more mesmerized for who you are
You’re so rare
You’re my shooting star

Pt.II
Oh shooting star
Where have you gone
I’ve been looking for you
For forty days and forty nights

My world has turned to gray
So colorless, so empty
This is what I feared of the most,
My biggest nightmare

Change is a part of life
I lost my heart
And I fear I may never get it back
The worst has come
And I now mourn the past
These happy moments,
They never last
TD 4d
It is not in the words we say
but in how or when we choose to speak them
that creates an impact.

What do we see behind our testimony?
Are we giving lip service to ideas propelled by fear?
Are we compelled to cater to a narrative that belittles one and uplifts another?

Has the source compelling us to change
created movements that perpetuate change
that crosses the divide?
Or instead, used pain to destroy all chances of hope for some,
and stirred dissension in others.
Power cloaked in repentance,
weapons of warfare laced
by silver tongues in pursuit of personal salvation.

Loud speech only covers sins,
it does nothing to heal the sores
the beleaguered mouths
that wretch in open spaces.
Are we corruptible pawns or warriors for peace?

Are words a means to an end, or a bridge to give light and joy to all?

Words do not have souls, but humans do.
They are broken more easily than they are built up.

We cannot bring truth to the past and change it.
We cannot hide the shame of an ancestry steeped in mistakes.
We learn from them,
but do not dismember the voices of imperfect people
who discovered truth beyond their errors,
beyond the angst and hatred
and strove for change.

We are weak
imperfect,
all of us.

No one is only singled out on their merits
they are bound by them
propelling them to further understanding.

Words are freedom fighters.
Words are oppressors.
Yet they are what we make them
what we imperfect label them.

The present is here--at this moment.
We cannot waste words on ideals that shift with the tide.

Our freedoms came by a hope for shared freedom--
not singularity.
Not an ill-begotten desire to pick and choose what cause we seek
for a sense of purpose.
Our souls are our great equalizers
and they've existed since
before ideals became ostentatious trophies,
before preying on the weak became a sign of strength.

We are generals of generalization,
some sourced from the darkness,
others based on sad truths.

Sad truths that can make us bitter,
or create impactful reflection and change our hearts
so that we can love others until they long for light as well.  

Are we soldiers joined by a brotherhood
blood that transcends our histories
that encompasses a compassion
which goes deeper than our mistakes?

Or are we driven to be vigilantes
enacting our own form of justice?
A justice that gives no one a chance to truly live
but only to survive?

Think--imagine--every word uttered is a future changed.
Deliberate before delivery.
Our tongues enflame hearts or
are welcome salve on open wounds.

Thought-filled silence
is more impactful than
haughty speech
and heated blood.  

A genteel action is far above a violent storm,
it is the eye and the storm
combined.

And words are a beautiful rapport

when we embrace our faulty fellow man.

Before sharing becomes a self-serving display
and truth a little less important than lies
let us remember that lives begin and end

on the weightiness of words.
TD Aug 2020
It is not in the words we say
but in how or when we choose to speak them
that creates an impact.

What do we see behind our testimony?
Are we giving lip service to ideas propelled by fear?
Are we compelled to cater to a narrative that belittles one and uplifts another?

Has the source compelling us to change
created movements that perpetuate change
that crosses the divide?
Or instead, used pain to destroy all chances of hope for some,
and stirred dissension in others.
Power cloaked in repentance,
weapons of warfare laced
by silver tongues in pursuit of personal salvation.

Loud speech only covers sins,
it does nothing to heal the sores
the beleaguered mouths
that wretch in open spaces.
Are we corruptible pawns or warriors for peace?

Are words a means to an end, or a bridge to give light and joy to all?

Words do not have souls, but humans do.
They are broken more easily than they are built up.

We cannot bring truth to the past and change it.
We cannot hide the shame of an ancestry steeped in mistakes.
We learn from them,
but do not dismember the voices of imperfect people
who discovered truth beyond their errors,
beyond the angst and hatred
and strove for change.

We are weak
imperfect,
all of us.

No one is only singled out on their merits
they are bound by them
propelling them to further understanding.

Words are freedom fighters.
Words are oppressors.
Yet they are what we make them
what we imperfect label them.

The present is here--at this moment.
We cannot waste words on ideals that shift with the tide.

Our freedoms came by a hope for shared freedom--
not singularity.
Not an ill-begotten desire to pick and choose what cause we seek
for a sense of purpose.
Our souls are our great equalizers
and they've existed since
before ideals became ostentatious trophies,
before preying on the weak became a sign of strength.

We are generals of generalization,
some sourced from the darkness,
others based on sad truths.

Sad truths that can make us bitter,
or create impactful reflection and change our hearts
so that we can love others until they long for light as well.  

Are we soldiers joined by a brotherhood
blood that transcends our histories
that encompasses a compassion
which goes deeper than our mistakes?

Or are we driven to be vigilantes
enacting our own form of justice?
A justice that gives no one a chance to truly live
but only to survive?

Think--imagine--every word uttered is a future changed.
Deliberate before delivery.
Our tongues enflame hearts or
are welcome salve on open wounds.

Thought-filled silence
is more impactful than
haughty speech
and heated blood.  

A genteel action is far above a violent storm,
it is the eye and the storm
combined.

And words are a beautiful rapport

when we embrace our faulty fellow man.

Before sharing becomes a self-serving display
and truth a little less important than lies
let us remember that lives begin and end

on the weightiness of words.
I used to believe that my words didn’t matter, but as I age I’m learning how the tongue can be wielded a terrible weapon and yet when seasoned with truth and love a beacon of light. One of my biggest regrets has been the damage I’ve delivered when I lived vicariously through a false sense of who I wanted to be and was caught up in my own insecurities.
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