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rgz Feb 2020
Look at the way she moves
I see her in my dreams
dancing with colours
painting shades of serene

The canvas she adorns
is layered with her screams
her name is dark here
but I see what it means

Her eyes have been tempered
through fire and deceit
to burn is the cost
of a lovers heartbeat

Her voice is a story
of violence unleashed
her words, allegory
cascade through me

When angels are fallen
only they grieve
baring their souls
they forfeit reprieve

Her blood is the reason
my veins are replete
she drowns in the flood
so I can still breathe
Clear as it seems
Zero Nine Nov 2017
Games are for boys -- I was in the wrong.
No other opinion ever matters,
and how I know this, it makes me sick
Middle of your twenties dedicated to
card and computer games, but
never once was your attitude cool as
you thought it was.

Maybe I'm wrong, but I play for fun.
Maybe I'm naive, but I play to feel free.

Games are for boys only --
sometimes for girls who "aren't like other girls"
but then look what happens, Mary,
you get exposed to **** enough,
you'll become an *******.

I want to have fun, but I can barely breathe.
You all want to be competitive until you lose
in a way you never thought you would,
then suddenly the competition's a farce
and you're not okay, because of that list
you made, the one that has acceptable
and unacceptable ways to win and play.

I could be mean if I wanted to, but sometimes
the truth does work.

Sometimes the truth does work.

Honey, if you're hurt that you didn't learn
what you should learn in kindergarten
you are more than welcome to join your
toddler friends in the playpen
Hehe. Apologize? Why? I have more fun without you.
Zero Nine Sep 2017


I'm just fine
I spend the long nights
In an intimate dance
Touching myself
You're not interesting



What about me?
What about me?
It lies
in limbo
a beautiful
glistening chrome
the wind
from the sea
stings salty
tears for the
deaths of
youths and
one man
whose name
is not
spoken but
whispered along
the cobbles
of the shore
nature at
its most
tells all
and nothing
a secret
like that
of Midas
but the touch
is silver
not gold
tainted heavily
with guilt
the tale
sung by
the breeze
but not
the villagers
their tell-tale
hearts thumping
as they
pass by
for they hear
those voices
that will not
be drowned
A poem I wrote when I was about 16 after visiting Maggi Hambling's Shell sculpture near Aldeburgh. I had managed to arrange it to resemble a shell on the page I wrote it on but can't quite replicate that here.
B Young Nov 2015
When dead men tell no tales.
My poetry still spouts from the grave,
to the tune of taps, a melody over the air,
signaling I shan't be saved.
She drops me off at the intersection of last year and tomorrow.
I look ahead with anticipation and
behind with sorrow.
Why do I cry out in distress?
Is my life really such an unheralded mess?
Or, is this path of distraught paths really the
god’s way of kissing me, saying, “son, you are
indeed blessed."
These pills cloud me, the gods of medicine hear
my plea and require a copay, a fee.
My vowels propel through space and time,
With a rhyme I dance with the
art angels in a basement of grime.
Carry me on the wings of pestilence,
I refuse to let go of this golden glow.
4am 5am 6am

I wonder
as I wander,
where this absent cavity in my chest
will be filled.
I go to the ocean, to the sea,
only to see the waves lap against me and,
for a moment I feel free, yet still absent from life.
I traverse the plains to find myself
lost in an empty great wild American praire expanse,
until I find myself trembling at the foothills
of the great mountains rocky of the west.
Climb, I must, or die alone and
hungry still absentness beating
within my chest.
4am 5am 6am

— The End —