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Oculi Oct 4
While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
The black tar envelops my unmanly sigh
A cigarette in the moon's light with a stranger
And the howling of an unsightly beast

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
The fog obscures everything in sight
I'm questioning the night sky on its numbers
The forest looks in disgust and curiosity

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
I'm bleeding out, I'm bleeding out
While plucking feathers, my ear drum pops
I say my goodbye and flap my bare wings

An ornate door leads to the mausoleum
A huge crack showing the entrance of grave robbers
The youths wander inside to belittle their ancestors
And my ballad softly floats above the ground

While plucking feathers, while plucking feathers
The young man rests near his anvil
Opening his book of poetry on an empty page
Only to find the blood of the martyr seeping

While plucking my feathers
Will the youth remember my name?
Will I be forgotten as a nameless man?
Or will I be the poet of the next century?

Pluck my feathers or don't!
Pluck my feathers or don't!
Pluck my feathers or don't!

But do not forget me and the steps which I took
Do not forget my babbling, my bish and my bosch
Do not forget my gifts, you, receiver of blessing
Pluck them rhythmically, slave, rhythmically

My feather falls, slowly to the ground
It is the last of its kind
And as my breaths draw to a close
The children laugh gleefully
Unknowing the end is near
Extinction on my name once and for all
Pluck my feathers no more, slave,
I've just blood to give.
Ars poetica.
I pick at my past with a scalpel
Clumsy, desperate
Leave no stone unturned
lest there be blood underneath

I pick and pick and leave myself raw
Spilling filth on the pristine floor
of your easy conscience
The life not examined

I pick off the shrapnel carefully
where it's meshed with flesh
I know I don't look like myself
but you'll get used to it
I always found that explanation weakens art, don't you think?
Creator Sun Sep 19
Hold on to that thought
To that object, to that lot.

Keep trying, keep living
Keep doing what you love.
Something, anything
That keeps your mind above.

That doesn't make you sad,
That doesn't make you cry.

That doesn't start the cutting,
The dying and the lies.
Something, anything,
That makes you keep breathing.

Clutch that last straw with all your heart,
Your mind, you soul, oh all so broken apart.

Your bones are shattered
And your will is fractured.
Your mind is mutilated
And your heart has ruptured.

Black and white.
The colours of the sky.

They make me want to fly,
Soar so high
Above, so that I will never have to
Come down again.

For though my body is broken, my mind is free;
And that's the object that I sought to keep.
Random word generator gave me 'keep' outta many different words and I just guess that I did freeform and a bit of rhyming. The poem is a bit depressing yet uplifting at the same time and I don't know if anyone else enjoys bittersweet poems.
Phil B Sep 12
Humanity is restless in its pursuit of
pure, and unbiased comprehension.

But we are as blind as the ants,
Who navigate a pheromone soaked
sensation scape.
Only able to perceive perfume
trails, and the colour they emit.
Like the warm, hazy lights
of a carousel river steam boat,
They pass each other like
perfect strangers in the night.
Amidst the dark and misty waters
Unafraid to surrender trust
to the twinkling of an eye,
the faint smell of musky cigars
on collared shirts, or the
Incandescent shades of a lip.

We have yet to leave our ancestral
cave homes, full of mad desperation to
capture, define, and preserve the
fleeting forms of nature and it’s denizens.
Sand and ochre kicked up and splashed
in deeply passioned abandon,
as fingers raced and traced the earthy canvas,
Etching, marking, tracing and screaming.
Until, in the end, the exertion itself
is impressed into the rock-face wall.

Other, similar endeavours may well include,
The many voyages and explorations of
Early settlers and tribe folk,
in attempts to map the sprawling land masses,
from the tips of snowy doom filled mountain tops
down to the last measly grains of sand on distant coastlines.
And even now in the modern era,
The sky itself and the cosmos in its enormity,
Probed forever deeper, but never reaching
Its absolute depth.

The creating, and dividing, of art into
it’s multiple facets of genre and subject,
Always pushing outwards in the need,
yes, the very drive to express anything,
everything, and nothing at all.
Emotion itself made captive to
Staves of rhythmic and melodic
progression and regression.
to plumb the very essence of a note
would reveal a beyond Planck length
Spectrum of wave and particle,
Eternally ringing out into
The collective consciousness of the universe.

This isn’t a poem, so much as it
is a personal meditation into
The finite infinity we experience
From one moment, to the next.
Much like meaning, we can only
assign so much burden to a word,
only place so much faith in diction.
But that’s perfectly alright,
Because without ambiguity in
the shapes and forms of metaphors and simile,
We lose a sense of the PROFOUND.
The innate desire to find meaning,
in the most personal sense, in anything.

And really,
isn’t that the most beautiful thing
Ever?
Composed overwhelmed and in awe , of  everything, and nothing.
Creator Sun Sep 12
Late.
You're too late.
Too late
To stop what you inadvertently caused
Too late to apologise.

Too late to go back,
Too late to reverse
The damage you caused.
To him.
To me.

Late.
You're too late.
Too late to say sorry.
Too late to be sorry.
Too late.

You're just too late.
Don't be sorry.
He never wanted you to be sorry.
He just wanted you to notice him.
To acknowledge him.

Not to ignore him
Bash him
degrade him every time
Every time he comes to you
And asks for a second chance.

He is one of us.
He was one of us.
And you should live forever
In guilt
Of your sins.
A draft for a possible dialogue at the ****** of a passion project :)
serpentinium Sep 8
i think of those lab rats
living their lives
blissfully in cages
hand-fed fruit-loops
and poison

they’re happy
says the veterinarian
scribbling notes on a clipboard
while the rats drink sugar
water and run on wheels

fate is not kind to lab rats
their years are already so short
a drop in the bucket compared
to the well of time humans draw
from greedily

death is a shadow for humanity;
it is the thought gnawing on the bars
of our mind, the ghost of an animal
running endlessly on a wheel
that we placate with toys and treats

we call it housing enrichment
because even lab rats have a home
because we choose to personify everything
even the things we ****:
carbon monoxide, bloodletting, a severing of nerves

and when they breathe their last breath
we write in our journals that the animals were
sacrificed, not killed, not murdered
dying for a cause bigger than them
for science, for knowledge, for gods on sterile altars
sacrificing animals in science is a tetchy subject for most; even some scientists. i just don't want to forget the importance of a single life--that which we **** to help others survive. note: scientia potentia est translates to 'knowledge is power'
Ian Aug 23
There is, a back and forth,
Between the burning desire of confession,
And the cold despair of anxiety,
That spins my mind in such dizzying circles,
Only solution being: inaction.

The strife that comes with such a choice is staunch,
Unwavering in it's indecisive nature,
Ironically enough, this feeling is reflected,
Like a mirror image, that much is quite certain.

Perhaps more frightening then this inaction itself,
With it's insidious grip on my thoughts and wishes,
Sending my worry into a fury so blinding,
The mind incapable of dwelling elsewhere,
Only solution being: longing.

Oh, the melancholy that comes from such a deep longing,
It's influence tugging not just at the heart, and the spirit,
But at the being, the pain of seeing so clearly your wants,
Unsure of how to truly take grasp of that which you love.

It is a wonders if this longing is just like that mirror,
One of the greatest wonders to cross this weary world,
Because in knowing such an intimate truth,
There then remains not a moment unfettered by anxiety.
Taking a different approach to the storytelling here, thoughts on the feelings it conveys?
Emma Aug 18
You’re so unhappy.
And ******* but doesn’t it make you special.
Afterall no one else is unhappy;
Your pain at night is the warmest thing.
It gives you your driver’s license,
And you drive right the **** over me,
Your tire marks beneath my skin.
I catch secondhand misery from you.
You think your barbs are justified,
Baby they’re uninspired,
And just because they hurt don’t mean I need to hear them:
That’s not what truth is.
You wound because you can,
Too afraid to apologise and so you spoon out excuses
Boys have used before.
Like chunky lemon milk,
We linger past our expiration.
ALesiach Jul 27
Mommy, Mommy
please don't cry.
Here I am
by your side.
You can't feel me,
you can't see,
but in your heart
I will always be.
Now dry your eyes
and rest awhile,
holding me
in your mind,
remembering me
with a smile.

ALesiach © 02/17/2015
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