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Christian Bixler Nov 2016
We walk through life,
blind,
knowingly,
and not;
willingly,
and not.
We see the
world,
and let it
pass,
unremarked,
taken as
a fixture
of eternity,
for the
most part.
This, is not
the truth.
The world
is not a thing
of diamond,
not a thing of
light, or
of spirit, wholly,
although it is
all of these
things,
in part;
It is also an
earthen world,
a fragile world,
a beautiful
world,
and one which
we are quickly
stripping of
its beauty,
and its life.
Our world is
dying, and
we are the
cause.
But, there is yet hope.
There is still
time, to
turn back,
to leave behind
us, all this
pain, and
desecration,
and soul-wide
apathy;
there is yet time,
but not for
much longer.
Therefore, I
charge you,
all who read
these words,
and feel them
within your
heart,
change.
Now.
Revitalize your
lives,
revitalize
the world.
Every action
has
significance;
think, before
you act.
I charge you,
do this
thing,
for yourselves,
and for the
world;
and I swear
to you, before
God, and
all the infinite
immutable
and yet
ever-changing
light,
of eternity,
there is yet time.
There is still hope.
the world will
change,
and flower,
for all of
time.
I promise you.
It will.
The world is a thing of beauty.
will you help to preserve this light,
to heal this suffering, inflicted
in the greed of our race?
Or will you not.
There is no other
option.
Devin Ortiz Nov 2016
I'm sorry you think me offended
I'm sorry you refuse to see
I'm sorry when I show you the mirror
that its white fragility you see
I'm sorry that I don't fit your narrative
that America is the greatest to be
I'm sorry that it hasn't been, not for people
like me
I'm sorry that you can't accept it's different

But I am not sorry for who I am
Nor am I sorry for what I believe
Not sorry for the truth
Not sorry for my protest
Not sorry for the bruising words
Not sorry for the wounded ego
Not sorry for the things to come
Not sorry that I'll never quit

Just sorry for you.
Angel Aug 2016
I am artfully crafted yet with a fragile heart.
Be careful with your words and actions,
It might bleed me and cause me deepest pain.
Please take good care of me. Please.
Mica Kluge Jan 2016
If you're going to be immortal,
what point is there to anything?

If you're going to live forever,
then there is no beauty in experiences.
There is no need to do anything
or to not do anything.

You can do something ridiculously stupid,
can ***** up everything,
but it will never matter.
In the end you won't matter.

You will exist on,
long after the record of anything
you messed up has crumbled to dust.

So, what's the point of living forever?

Why be immortal?

There is such beauty in the fragility of mortality.

There is such beauty in how
those under the boot of mortality can be so fragile,
yet shine so bright.

They glow to light life itself,
and, yes, the do burn out,
but they lived.

You, on the other hand, will endure.

You will exist.

You will never truly live because you'll never die.
Joyce Jan 2016
First touch.
So tender with intensity.
First kiss.
So gently your lips are
diliciously.
Our souls so fragility.
We will always have
beautiful memories.
I will never regret.
The day we first met.
I still can see it so visually.
You haunt my mind recently.
I have no control to think
so explicity about your loving me.
Just know that sometimes
all love must flow.
If you can't hold on to it.
You have to let it go.
Rachel W Dec 2015
I do not
think that I
was meant
to break away

For now
My thoughts are scattered
and
shattered
like shards of
glass

I
do not know when
I will find
a light
or a hope
for me
in this darkness
that drowns
me

I do not
think that I
was meant
to break away

For now I
cannot sleep
I have
no
identity

I am
broken
and forgotten
crushed underfoot
by the
masses
like
shattered glass
We are made of the finest spun glass, just waiting to be shattered.
Madison Y Dec 2015
Glass wasn't made to shatter;
Paper wasn't made to tear.
Fragmentation is a side effect of carelessness, not of life–
Not of love.
A rose is not meant to be crushed, pulled apart petal by petal, simply because it is soft.
The doe, graceful and wide-eyed, was not created to die at the hands of a man indistinguishable from a snake in the grass.
The monarch does not flutter with lithe wings to be caught, classified, and pinned to a page,
Nor do the leaves change hue, turn crisp, and fall to be crushed beneath an entitled foot.
I do not paint my eyes so that you can watch me bleed black and gold down my cheeks,
Nor do I wear my heart on my sleeve so that you can rip it apart valve by valve.
I am not your window pane, nor your blank page; your willow tree, nor your frozen stream.
I am the rabbit sleeping deep in her borough; I am the bluebird flitting between trees.
I may be fragile, but that doesn't give you permission to break me.
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