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Amanda 9h
I sit on the sharp edge of the present
Fine line separating future and past
My legs dangling into the past
Preventing me from living the current moment
Dwelling on wrong choices made
Words I did not mean to say
Friends and family I lost
Each lonely thought grips me and drags me further into the canyon of memory
I am barely holding onto this cliff with my fingertips
How do I pull myself back up?
I put my hands in my pockets,
                                   protecting
Whatever can be found inside

I found it!
It was a child in a small red house,  and then an apartment, and then in a lamp...

3, 2, 1,
I Am the Genie.
You wished for my health,
You wished for me to stay,
And the last wish
             You gave it to me!
But I am not your genie...
I belong to the child,
To the past, to the future... But most importantly,
To the wonderland.

Take your hands out of your pockets!
The past
is in the past.
That's true.
But
sometimes
it leaves
fingerprints
on the future.
“Dads not home”
Is the phrase he’s heard for years.
“dad?” he called out in the empty home. He knew it was empty a second later.
10 years earlier he asked his dad to help with homework
“sorry son, Im too busy. Got a lot to do…”
30 years later he called his son “let’s meet up.”
“sorry dad, Im too busy. Got a lot to do…”
based on the song cats in the cradle by **** kid joe
a map of skulls and souls
reaped along routes of trade
a rat burrows into the demon's pen
of blissful greed and greed-
ing ignorance agreeing with
mindlessness, taken to com-
plying with heartlessness
shaved with soul-
lessness
into an empty machine--
a killing being
sentient of nothing but
blood battered faces and clean
of all graces--
a sweet decay of inhabitable spaces
do the animals care?
we decide for them
the discussion unheard, buried
in a coffin of laughing reproach
nailed shut, impaled
with ifs, ands, and buts,
but--
what if we didn't?
If one wants to
Play with the child
Let one be
More childish
To enjoy the flow

Remember that

Never dare to
Play with the sages
They live unattached
Mastering what to sense
When to response

Remember that
Genre: Experimenatal
Theme: If two individuals have different conscience, one is ultimately out of track
Anton 2d
I. as a kid i spied
on fridge -
rectangle bulge on metal feet

high, polished frame stood still
by kitchen angle
spider silked web
on bitter
food machine

my arm leaps swiftly
then i leak in

i catch four chic sieves
here carrying and freezing
empty steel

II. as a teen,
i gave my fridge
a renovation

i placed here
a shiny crystal screen
providing
instagram and twitter
connection

III. as a grown man
i'd
probly
add a laptop
speaker
blender
a coffee grinder

floor cleaners
wash
red hoover
wisks
and wipes
old dusty spider strings

'store substances
in frigdie box'
a flower goal

we'll store here
an azure planet
blurred by muddy wars

[
hmm
how could
we land here
some cans
and jars
and... food?
                    ]
Pyrrha 2d
I have a notepad where I quickly jot down ideas
Many are confusing prompts for a poem I didn't have time to write
However most are plans I have for the future
Specifically the future with someone I still have yet to meet

I write about the things I will say to them
What we will do and where we will go
I plan soft trips to Baskin Robins and little comic book shops
Vacations filled with theme parks, museums, and explorations

I write about the days we will stay inside
In our quiet little space we take up in the world
Rainy days where we stay in each other's arms reading a good book or watching classics and horror on the TV

Days where we will come home to each other humming a song or dancing about the room
How we will support each other through times of stress and confusion
How we will look at each other when we know our life's a mess
And how our love will get us through the calamity in between

I think about theses moments very often
I wonder if you are out there thinking about them too?
If the world was a stage and I was a play-write:

The wind: It was a musician, the muse of a heartbeat and whistling was its charm.

The leaves: The companions of the wind, they were the strings of the guitar. Dancing towards oblivion.

The flowers: They were the painters. A vision was their purpose. They played with colours and mystery.

The sun: It was the stage light, as it glowed upon the sounds of music in the air, the surface of the leaves, and gave life to all the trees.

The stars: They were the show stoppers, dancing in the sky. Revelling in the attention from the eyes of the observer.

The moon: The shy wonder of the night, sometimes barely visible. As it timidly sets the stage for another afternoon.

And lastly,

You: With a thousand stories to tell you’re in thousands of places at once. Looking for mountains to climb and things to design. You’re curious and too quick, never on the stage but merely an observer, but secretly you’re the whole show.


There are a thousand stories to tell,
So I’ll tell you a secret to this mysterious show
The script is blank, the pages clear white
And every minute new words appear
For I am merely following sentimental alliances
Just an observer watching as the future becomes clear.
Shlomo 2d
Freedom and justice.
Only if you're one of us, that is.
A shining star.
A beacon of hope.
The truth from afar, now seems like one of tropes.
https://shlomotion.co/poems/freedom-justice/

What does America stand for? Are we seeing its true colours unfold right before us, or is this just a blip in its continued dominance?
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