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No
Derelict  recondite
alone and Hemorrhaging.
nocturnal ebullience,
sporadic . Effulgent ,
Paltry
surreptitiously vacuous and limpid
to deliquesce upon perspicuity at its core
abhorrent , perhaps surreptitious assuredly altogether banal.
Marginal, salacious      nominal not liminal.
decrepit cerebral palimpsest.
Sesquipedalian abstrusity .
Obumbrated syllogism stochastically innervated.  
Berated lugubriously .
Masticated openly opaquely supercilious
mellifluous synergy extirpated redundantly.
language is  the  key , the vessel and the prison.
Cadmus Apr 30
[Narrator:]
A bird once flew with joy, chasing the horizon.
But the sky grew heavy, and his wings grew tired.
One evening, he fell by the quiet sea.
A young girl found him, her hands full of dreams.

She knelt by his side and asked:

[The Girl:]
I found you trembling near the dreaming tide,
Your feathers torn as though the heavens cried.
Tell me, worn traveler, where have you flown?
What hunger drove you past the worlds you’ve known?

[The Bird:]
I chased the rim where fire and heavens kiss,
A line of gold no hand can ever miss.
I sang to suns, I danced where eagles dared,
I broke my heart on dreams that never cared.

I rose, I fell, I rose again and bled,
Until the winds unwove the life I led.
The sky, sweet child, is vast, but it forgets;
It makes no grave for those it once begets.

The sky is not a temple, but a field of knives.
The stars you seek will teach you how hope dies.
To fly is to wager all you are and own,
And to be forgotten even by the stone.

Freedom is a flame that eats its own,
A summit where the winds strip flesh from bone.
Dreams build their monuments from broken wings;
Songs leave behind the silence that they bring.

[The Girl:]
I hear the hollow echo in your song,
The mourning stitched between the bright and wrong.
Your wings are altars where the old prayers bled;
Your eyes, a ledger of the tears you’ve shed.

Yet if this is the price that freedom claims,
If every flight must carve itself in flames,
Then I will pay with all I have and more.
Better to burn than to be chained ashore.

[The Bird:]
Bold soul, you walk the edge where light falls blind;
You court the storm that cracks the clearest mind.
I too once roared against the tethered clay,
Believing wings could tear the night away.

But listen:
Not every fall redeems the climb.
Not every song survives the mouth of time.
To dream is to accept both birth and grave,
To build, to lose, to give what none can save.

[The Girl:]
Still would I leap, though cliffs erase my name;
Still would I sing, though silence be my claim.
Let it be said: she lived, and she was free
And when the end came, she did not flee.

If dreams devour, let them feast on me whole;
If stars betray, still shall I bless my soul.
Better to vanish in a sky of flame,
Than bear a life untouched by any name.

[The Bird:]
Then fly, fierce child, into the ruthless blue;
Let winds unmake you, they will make you true.
The sky is cruel but it remembers one:
The heart that dares to burn brighter than the sun.
This poem is a metaphorical tale about a young woman challenging the weight of social traditions and limitations, choosing the perilous beauty of freedom over the safety of conformity.
Kngblaq May 2
As I travel through life's path
Fogs of uncertainty cloud my sight
Like the butterfly in the caterpillar
I drank of life's bitter river

Further and further I probed
Asking questions that beguile the old
Deeper and deeper I looked within
Searching through every life's inn

In that state of complete confusion
A fire ignites within bringing illumination
Shedding light in dark alleys
And reducing mountains to valleys

Within my soul a journey began
An unwinding path, where shadows spin
I longed for the truth, in every crease
As I embraced the parts I had release

With each forward step I dropped a mask
As I found strength in my vulnerability
A mirror telling stories untold
Of trials and triumph, young and old

In this inner world I found my way
Through light and night, dark and day
I learnt and forgave and let go too
As I discovered the beauty in me anew
Finding purpose in the chaos,
and rising against all odds
Overcoming obstacles and embracing new found freedom
silvervi Apr 29
Phone-diction
Became a conviction
Everyone is bound
Without exception

Phone-world
Offers no restriction
It's a convenient space
No eviction

Phone-time
Equals the injection
Of dopamine
There's no rejection

Phone-crime
Doesn't yet exist
Each year a new smartphone
Seems hard to resist

A phone back in time had this function:
Connection,
These days oftentimes - it's the opposite action,
In search of warmth, love and appreciation,
We lose ourselves in phone-solation.
Hopefully this poem can make us become more aware of the madness we're supporting on a daily basis and for starters not take our phone to each room wherever we go. Maybe reading tonight instead of playing that phone game. Maybe calling a friend instead of texting. Maybe turning it off for an hour or two. I believe we can find healthier ways through this. We're not alone and together we can motivate each other. I want to open that space, to start that conversation. The new "normal" can be actually very damaging.
whispers in the winds breathing,
Never is it screaming.
The wisp of wind Is Calling us,
Yet hides its own true meaning.

Bound to the silence of forever,
Flowing without fail.
A sacred truth buried in what?
Truth is, it cannot tell.

Mountains stand as structures so strong,
These relics deemed eternal.
Layers form masses. Time gently passes.
That stand as nature’s journal.

The bitterest truth is etched in stone,
Carved deeply into they’re being,
Yet bound to a fate, that nothing awaits.
They’re cursed with never leaving.

Like the ocean’s forceful,
Mighty sway, that never truly moves.
Seeming to be as boundless as me,
Yet made to traverse in set grooves.

The waves that crash, display a mask,
For it only expands to recoil,
An infinite realm of life within,
To never feel the soil.

The sun will rise, then set, then rise.
The fate that has no fate at all.
It treads a path consistent to last,
But will not and can never fall.

It soars as if it stands for freedom,
A slave to this deception,
For in its path, it’s truly shackled
To this haunting misconception.

The grand clock's perpetual winding,
That never is fully wound.
Delaying or pausing, just not an option.
And no filter quiets the sound.

The hands of time that hold the scroll,
Unable to write the plot,
Emotion within its aching sound,
Expressing a purpose wrought.

The metaphysical body walks,
It thinks, it feels, it reacts.
Emotions wide open, truths unspoken.
My mind expands but to retract.

My conscious subdued by truths untrue.
This lie that's so deeply instilled.
We exist to consume from cradle to tomb,
In this cage that we've named "free will".
I sit in a trance as the morning sun sifts through the porch window.  Music from a Carolina wren taunts the world with a glorious tweet.

My wife invades my trance, “Look what Amazon brought me.”

My reply, “That’s nice, honey."

My eyes fixed on a headline, “Colleges are cautious about graduation speakers who might provoke the government!”

Freedom of speech, where have you gone?
Are you hiding in the canyons of the Appalachian Hills?
Concealed in the wheat fields of Kansas?

Will ICE deport the songbirds to Latin America
because they sound like freedom?
Songbirds, freedom, deportation
Lynn Apr 27
How is the bird to go home
When all it knows is the cold
The rainy and the harsh
The curses and the shots
When it tries to run away
The darkness coerces it to stay
So even if the bird is free
It will never truly be
ellie Apr 26
A bouquet of flowers is a sweet gift,
peonies pink, roses red, orchids white.
Stems neatly trimmed, wrapped and delivered swift,
a sign of care, igniting new light.
But be wary of ill-fated decisions,
of carnations, tansies, roses – yellow.
Of clumped, wilted bundles, inner collisions.
A sign, that love will not be what you sow.
Maybe, instead, find the seedlings for you,
and remember every flower can grow.
Water, sunlight, and the will to stay true,
could be enough, to see them bloom and glow.
And while flower language loses voices,
remember your right – chase your good choices.
wrote this for my english homework heehee
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