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MayC Jun 4
it may sound crazy, but
do you know how many
species of ducks are there ?
beautiful, gracious, colorful
ducks.
well, of course not.
because you'd rather
spend your time
crying over another copy
of a swan.


-May Colde
try to find the beauty in the unique.
Anastasia Jun 1
my hands
ache
hoping
for something truly real.
i hate waiting
with doubt
and hopefulness
mixing in my head
making a deadly poison
i want
to feel something
soft like a feather
or course like sand
something
running
through the cracks in my hands.
i want
to feel
something real.
im so tired
My inner voice is speaking to me,
telling me to give up
On all the paranoid things that has been happening.
Feels like I'm a feather
Left upon to drop
But the wind is stubborn
not letting me to be in the place I'm supposed to.
I'm struggling ,suffering
But incapable.
Incapable of being my own,
And to be, where I should.
Feels like I'm a feather.
Gabby Apr 26
Upon a hilltop deep in the woods, there lies an iron box. Red and rough. They say that all the worlds secrets lay in this iron box. But no one knows for sure. Many have tried to open this box, all have failed. Men and woman. Boy and girls. All have tried to open this box. There is nothing to show for it though. Not even the tiniest of scratches have been left on the box by all the tools that have been used to try to open it. Today there is yet another crowd surrounding the red rough box that lays on the hilltop deep within the woods. People with axes and crowbars try their luck. Still, the box remains whole. A young boy makes his way through the crowd and stands before the box. An older man chuckles at him and holds out his crowbar. "Want to try?" asks the man.
The boy shakes his head and steps closer to the box. Gently he lowers his hand on to the top of the box, his eyes flutter closed. The box glows under his hand. The soft yellow light flows over the box until the whole thing is glowing that soft yellow. A click sounds and the boy pushes the top of the box off. The whole crowd is silent as they watch the boy. How he opened the box with a gentle touch.
"How did you do that?" the man with the crowbar exclaims to the boy.
"I just asked the box to open." the boy responds before he slips his way back through the crowd away from the box.
Quickly the crowd pushes and shoves, trying to get closer to the box to see what is inside the box. What the world's secrets are. But when they get to the box all they see is a single white feather.
Ainnoot Apr 16
we used to be so uplifting to each other.
I have never felt so featherless.
they say the early bird gets the worm
but is that really why you left?
was I holding you back?
when I only wished you the best.
it seems the good times have faded
like your love for me.
I stay by the phone
hoping one day you'll be calling.
I see you in my darkest dreams
but I can't wait to go to sleep.
I just feel you should know
you are just so hauntingly beautiful to me
I guess you once knew me,
Like a sparrow knows its song.
I guess I thought you knew me,
But I guess I was just wrong.

You believed I was too weak,
Too fragile like a feather.
So you danced around my feelings,
Predictable as the weather.

But oh how you were fooled,
For you are so mistaken.
Cause the things you think that make me weak are the things that have forced me to strengthen.

So, no, I am not a feather.
I am the whole ******* eagle!
I rise above the hardships,
While you run away like a weasel.

I guess you forgot you knew me,
But this bird has found her song.
So with this blow you now must know
That it only makes me fly strong.
Z Apr 1
31
we are more than sinew;
i think of you constantly,
how we are of botany
the study of things that grow together

as i entwine with you
you call my name audibly,
my blush is my honesty
you say my freckled skin is feather soft

and i believe you because i always will
and i'll relieve you til you are fulfilled
until the spinning earth has stopped
Oculi Mar 14
What a spiceless world.
One full of orange, then blue.
One full of purple, then brown.
To get through the waters of the womb, you need steel.
Where blood is flighty. And mud is shallow.
To love, you need to ****.
To hate, you need to birth another.
A pool of men stronger and faster than a colony of ants.
Who are you, when you've lost all your feathers?
When the bridge above you has collapsed?
Who are you, once again, when all you've known has turned to order?
When there is a hierarchy? Where do you fit in?
To make wings, you need a brother and a hammer.
To fight those orderly *******, you need to call upon your own filth.
To waddle through your own ****, your own ****, you need to drink the elixir.
Not some shallow nectar from the gods. Who are they, anyway? Who, who are the gods to question the almighty? You were always better anyway.
Who upon this mound of dirt, ****, ***** and mercury shall question the authenticity of your command, when they're all dead in the ground?
Will there be anyone?
Will it just be you?
You knock on the door of the rich man, but he does not answer. You paint his door red in your own blood and scream.
What has occurred here? A clash of babies dressed in stardust under a sky of light violet?
Maybe a marriage of scales and feathers disguised as ones you could care about?
You know nothing of this world, and that's how you always got by.
You dig through the pool of used needles, you drench yourself in others' diseases, you embrace a death of most painful circumstance and you cut off your limbs one by one.
Only then, at your final moments, tongueless, waddling your chunks of once arms, legs and wings around, drowning in your own *****, can you ask the most important question.
What if the world was the opposite?
A story that I could claim my own. Something that resonates with me. I hope you understand.
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