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TD Sep 20
Billows the volcano angrily
lava spittle dribbling down his chin,
"I'm at the mercy of the clock.."
his lolling drone like a dull metronome
clanging to and fro.

Fists shake in angst
their ephemeral silhouettes
disintegrating into the miasma.

Biding our time
we are all just blowing smoke

and cancer sells.
I apologize for this. I'm not trying to be so fatalistic at all really. As humans, I feel we chase after permanence like it was something to grasp--like we have that kind of power, control. We can make good choices in life, but to say that we control outcomes entirely seems a bit conceited/foolhardy really. We can impact change, but our outcomes depend on something more, at least that's how I believe.
You are asked
And your words cast out meaning,
Yet their selfishness is returned.
And you cower, crying for silence
For kindness not to be spurned.

Is is all too much for what we have created?
Towers of dogs fighting.
Fallen compasses,
On an empty path
Is it all too much for what we have inflated?
Hands over eyes.
Blind dogs in the tall grass.

And your words cast out their meaning,
They lay out the welcome mat,
Yet on days to come, they fester
And turn you on your back.

Is it too much for all?
Is it too much?
Is it?
Is?
I.
telling the truth and it festering into something else by the hearer
Breon Aug 27
Now I have seen divinity
In clearings wide as all the sky,
All grassy green and riotous:
Long blades a-rattling, aimed at Heaven,
Warring with an unseen wind.

And I have seen futility
As plain as winter's frosty breath,
Where fields of green gave way to death
And skies of blue surrendered, too,
Wrapped up, abandoned in a white tomb.

They'll muster up for war again
When Spring trips in to dance and sin
As if their bellicose endeavors
Ever had a snowball's chance.

And here is Hell, their every movement
Sisyphus against the rock -
Each blade of pristine imperfection
Dances by the wind's design.
I didn't realize I was drawing on Alan Seeger until he was already in the poem. I don't write anything that doesn't end up here. Inspiration is fickle. I need to practice more.
Katherine Apr 8
We are tired of years ago tired of to be tired.
I’m a clock in the shape of a woman, counting months in weeks
Weeks in days in hours in minutes in seconds
Recorded in the strands that make me
Water slipping through my hands, I’ll ask you to keep it safe
But you only have your own hands to use.
Hiding from a rainstorm
is supposed to be tranquil :
                the patter of rain...
                the rumble of harmless thunder...
                watching the storm, but never feeling it...
Just raindrops on windows, with you safe inside.

But what if that thunder is the breaking of a friend's heart?
The lightning, the slashing of her dreams?
Her storm is raging within a snow globe…
From the outside, beautiful and perfect...
Unless you know the truth.

Thank God for that glassy protection, right?
Except...
             For all your good intentions...
             And best efforts...
             And wishful thinking...
All you can do is stay by her side
until her world settles.

What if that storm was a torrent of bullets,
Tearing her to pieces?
You can only watch,
Untouchable behind bulletproof glass...

I mean, at least you're safe, right?
… But doesn't it hurt you to witness it
Without being able to intervene?

What if that rain is made of salty tears?
Heartaches and losses and sorrow...
You can try...
                 and be there for her...
                 and phone and listen...
                 and offer every ounce of your comfort...
But no matter what you do...
God still controls the weather.

I mean, at least it isn't your own suffering.
… But that's just it, isn't it?
There's no doorway through a wall of glass.

See,
The very best part of chrysalism
Is that you're hiding on the inside
Within your own peaceful world.

The worst?
You can't swap places.
Have you ever had a friend who deserves the absolute WORLD
and yet she receives nothing but bad luck and sorrow?
It breaks my heart.
If I could carry that burden for her, I'd do it in a heartbeat.
But that's not how the world works.
River Reed Feb 25
Crying eyes
Never dries
Forever masked by my devilish disguise

Time and repeat again

Closing distance
Beyond the blur
Intrusive screams and seething slurs
Makes no difference

Time and repeat again

Fleeting retreat
I’m in too deep
Tear tattered sheets
Just following trends

Time and repeat again

Hoping for miracles
Choking on eerie tolls
All in my head
Tearing full — unaware (and repeat) I tread

Time and repeat again

Subsiding pain but repeat I’m drained
Infinite circle —  REPEAT! I’m drained
And again and time and repeat

Crying eyes
Everything withers, e’en leaves of a tree,
Lush and full of life, verdant canopy.
The years take their toll, brittle death sets in,
The floor greets darkness the bare tree lets in.

The living have their time, then fade away,
Life lasts a moment, death years and a day.
We perish, and the preserved go rotten,
What we did, who we were, long forgotten.

Our long days belie our shortness of years,
The ground remains dry, unchanged by our tears.
Nothing yet lives that won’t see its last dawn,
There is no forever; all will be gone.

Plants return to earth, and us back to dust,
We live in denial; should we adjust?
Everything withers, e’en leaves of a tree.
I know this, yet, I am compelled to be.
Instagram @insightshurt
Blogging at www.insightshurt.com
Buy "Insights Hurt: Bringing Healing Thoughts To Life" at store.bookbaby.com/book/insights-hurt
Matthew Jan 16
When I was young enough to know that I did not fit in.
I proposed that I was an angel
that fell from the heavens and lost their wings.
All I had to do to make friends was find them.

So I spent the next day frantically searching for my wings.
Sobbing with despair when I never found them,
and looking at the sunset only slightly out of reach.

Even now, I never found my wings.
But I did find other fallen angels.
A rare poem of hope.  I really like this one. Do you know what that means? I don't know.
Xallan Jan 15
I have been halted
My potential has been dismissed.
Halfway through puberty, my thyroid stilled
Dependent on daily doses of artifice
Taking vitamins, supplements, medications
For all my unnatural natural disorders

Already bloated with self-hatred, I dream, yes-
I wish and hope for impossibilities
Denied me by my biological construction
Dreaming, wishing, hoping is futile.

I am forever limited.
My frame is weak and small and pathetic
I am swollen with disgrace, I work
I act and I cause with no effect
I cannot speak to my reflection in the mirror
Working, acting, causing is futile.

I will always be held back.
My body will release blood and tears instead
My flank makes my figure obvious
Hidden, buried,
I don't desire to resemble a perfect muse
I desire the average, out of reach
The mean. The median. The mode.

I deceive myself with mindless motivations
Persistence, Perseverance, and Patience
All lies, the real truth is time ends all.
All my hopes, all my joys, all my pains, and yet
I see in the tea leaves in the dredges of despair
I perceive the hopeless reality
Time will end my life.
Edward Dec 2018
I must go.
As I turn, I see,
Hidden by my eye,
A blossom.
A beautiful, fragile blossom.
But the tree is dying.
I must go.
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