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Norbert Tasev Mar 20
Today, it is crippled with all its nerve strands, and the Man as the official heir to the throne of the evolutionary chain is weaving into itself; Who can still be alive and the victim in the grinding mill wheels of weekdays? With his scary, huge injection needles, he wounds every day like a wounded Sun - punching my face for a long time or tram in a bar-leaning shop. ***** stings, teasing spits and howling blood

stools drowned in themselves as addicted to themselves as the ultimate hopeless: expelled from their homes! But the Hearts, the proudly lion-drawn Hearts, the clean, unclean, spotless consciences: Cared for and well-kept spiritual gardens, still flutter. - Century is powerful, indomitable

crocodile-willed wake-up Jancies, diva-matrons, fleshy cups - they are leaning over flesh pots for fat snacks. On the ground, the main editors dig traps, hard-pressed piles -

there is nowhere to flee the stoic masses of despised manuscripts - There could only be at last a sounding, cymbalized human word, Chairs and sermons without preaching on Goodness, Truth, Morals, that we are one-hearted in our humanity, and we are no longer strangers!

Those who help with self-will, and with unbridled compassion, hold upon us the easy mercy of their alms. Has the development of the world begun with modern means of mass communication? Are the long-awaited fortune-tellers of immortal castles in theaters, theaters - thunderstorms - still lit?

- That's how they live downstairs: The one who swallows a lot of food is fine and spends on himself. Anyone who helps will be deliberately oblivious - the anti-horror of cultural ignorance infects everyone! "Now the world is pitifully petty and hateful." Luck dancing on the hands of pecking-down little kings, luck and honor or humanity may no longer have a shelter here - because a exploitable, grabbing marionette puppet in the delicate hands of the Man's Boys is stuck in the air of job interviews:

The gorillas gnawing at them, like the Adonis on the mallard kittens, giggled, "Mobile phone! Buy artificial nails! " - That's left! "No longer need immortal confessions on the dragon pillars of wounded-hearted sunsets, nor any universe-lovers." - no brainwashing stupid - Morals! The power of human hearts, understanding on earth, Peace in your hearts! Between the Aggastyan Mountains I stretch my bow like a bow and whisper my voice!
Raven Oct 2019
I've written about it so many times
but my pain is still invisible,
wrapped up in beautiful words.
I wish someone would rip them apart,
revealing the cruelty of it all.
But still i'm standing here
dressed in a blanket of suffering,
trying to turn it into something beautiful,
but i've run out of ideas.
I'm trying to make you notice me,
lying in the arms of solitude,
naked, scared and worn.
I feel so vulnerable even thinking about it.
My only way to speak about it is poetry
and i've already said everything,
I'm only repeating myself.
But it's in vain,
comfort's still out of reach.
stranger Sep 2019
eating the inside of my lip
and uncovering my back in the moonlight.
I walk the streets nonchalantly.
No hearing.
Just sight.
And taste, the taste of the inside of my lip bleeding.
I was raised to be just and to keep my eyes on the sole thing that interests me.
Meaning everything.
So it's all I do.
I sit and stare unwillingly.
Keeping track of the eyes that read me and the ones that are just passing by.
Considering.
I'm built around the social construct of being lonely.
But not really.
I'm losing the fancy words I used to fight for just like I'm losing myself.
As I leave more me on my bed than anywhere else.
I shaved today to feel a hint of self interest.
It was completely useless.
I couldn't give a **** about myself with hair or without but that's just too much to confess.
I've been trying to sing more and dance and give into the so called creativity I harness.
It's all a lie.
It's all a distraction.
It's something I want to call motivation but can't.
Am i meant to rot in the lifestyle of a movie miserable human?
Walking the streets and spazzing on my bed.
With my dreams swept out of my head.
I look in three separate mirrors everyday.
Who am I and why am I not dead?
And that's the million dollar question.
Because somehow the moment everything collapses we turn to the forbidden.
But either way I digress I'd be too afraid to do it to myself.
I've found billion other methods that make me feel that they match the situation.
**** this poem.
It's another excuse for my insomnia.
Another excuse to justify why I woke up at 11 just to fall onto another bed.
All the memories I've collected, play me such a theatre show,
And I watch wondering if they're the dream from last night or real life.
And it makes me question again.
Who am I and why am I not dead?
Not because I wanna die necessarily but because at times I'm rather lucky.
Like the universe repays me.
Like the universe cried a single tear of mercy and out of all the people it rained on me.
And it still seems like I'm ungrateful.
The universe is mistaking my head for someone else who maybe instead would know how to use that luck efficiently.
I am no such mastermind.
I've lost my book based intelligence when I was 11 and gained my eyes when I was 13.
Ironically.
So who am I and why am I not dead?
Living a paradox withing irony itself,
I'm handmade by multiple clichés.
Or that's what I think.
My dreams seemed nice until people tell me they're just a fantasy.
Oh but look at me, 16 and complaining about dreams.
I'd end up a great housekeeper I'd tell myself though nothing stays clean.
I feel old.
Old in a way I've never felt.
Like by the time I'd reach 30 I'd already be dead.
Or maybe again,
Is it all on my head?
Adolescent scent in the times of complete desolation.
I stand and I don't understand.
Who am I and why am I not dead?
**** some nights, my talent for insomnia really shows
This world is celebrating a new found existence while I'm just calculating the distance of my head falling to the floor.
Its a new year, a new hope for the hopless
Theres a casual affair with the maiden next door
And when that doesnt work i know where the dope is.
Its Underneath the floorboards, next to my crushed heart and broken dreams,
Washed up fantasies and unstitched seams.
Because Ill be incapacitated this new year
Kept away from the pain and the fear
Of being sober enough to face my own reflection
Hidden from the complexion of my stone cold eyes, the consistent mellow stench that looms around my scars, and the blatant mistakes in the shadows.
The heart breaks and callous hands
That are both held together by shackles and brands.
I will not remember anything,
Plunging down into a new year.
Depression strijes again this year
MKB Nov 2018
It’s been awhile
Dead light
And
I

Have you been watching
Little me?—
In all my corruption;
Has your sentient ablution—
So tried—
Decided to set me aside
In my hiding?

I grovel here;
Blind.
While You glisten—
You listen—and weave
Serene discomfort
Into a little-soul
Like mine.    

Supine and slight—
I trace Your patterns in the
Night and try to name them
As others have
Before me:
Dipper. Orion. Northern-light:
Compass bright.

Are they suppose to
Mean Something?
I cling to their instruction
And move nowhere.  
Your pictures do not wear the weight
That answers
Do.

Can I sough purpose
In their Recitation?
—For I have wanted for comfort.
I repeat the names—
Cardinal ghosts in dotted-frame—
But their direction
Alludes me.

Oh, You Pin-******—
You Old-Flames—
You Astute Celestial Hosts.  
Have You hung silent
—In all Your knowing
Just waiting
For me to let go?

Do You know the cold of war waged
Alone?——
Blueprints of rage have rewrote the
Geography of my limbs:
I am not my arms my legs I am not
My breaking
Heart.

My hands aren’t mine, anymore.
I have never been so
Stolen.

Hey, Heaven’s map of decussation:
Do You see me down here
at all?
Praying for Your mum
Eureka call——
To pull me past
My boxing halls?

You are all l have left—
to follow.
Tired of feeling lost.
Tired of letting go.

But it could be awhile
      Dead light.
Hopelessness is a heavy might:
But I thought—just maybe,  
you might—
Wait
For me.

I face you
In the night.
—Until I get there.
Me: the tiny nightmare.
At the edge of sleep’s reprieve
Before I face the mourning,
Bare.
Carry You-Ruelle, Flurrie
𝓛𝓐 Nov 2018
when there's so much pain to bear
and you can barely walk
heaviness weighing down your heart

and then
you're so numb
you're so empty
you're so desperate
to feel
to fill
this hole

the hands that once suffocated you
look like help from heaven

and you'd hold them
you'd hang onto them

as if they were the last shred of hope
and you're so scared of letting go
frightened of not feeling anymore

you don't realize
you're only sinking
lower
and lower
while they feed on your hunger
they're rising
higher
and higher.
JJ Inda Nov 2018
tippy toeing around once more,
still all that fails is true
and lies are grand for while,
until, always until.
-alone isn't always solitude
or lonely,
but it is.
I see the words in the air
and when I reach,
they scatter.
I'm keeping quiet
and very still,
maybe something will happen,
or someone might come in and talk
and I can put the pen down
and admit it's useless.
ashley Aug 2018
hello
im sorry i couldn't love you the way you loved me.
im sorry i held your heart hostage for six months before smashing it into a million tiny pieces.
im sorry i couldn't bring myself to feel what you felt for me.
i tried, i really tried. with everything in my being. i wanted you to be the one. but now i feel like im meant for no one.
sometimes i cry. sometimes i feel as if what i did was a mistake. sometimes i want to come back and make you happy again, even if it means setting myself on fire to keep you warm.
im sorry for everything i put you through.
maybe im not a hopeless romantic after all.
i hope you find someone
Audra Apr 2018
He stands there hurting
But refuses to cry out.
Life goes by,
But I look up.

He can’t stand anymore
But says sleep was a stranger.
Life smiles along,
But I can’t go on.

He never sleeps
But claims it isn’t that bad.
Life says he is introverted,
But I make conversation.

He pushes and receives injury
But says he can play.
Life agrees and hands him a ball,
But I give him a worried look.

He won’t tell me anything
I don’t know how to get the truth.
Life won’t let him be
And I can only be for him.
MfP Apr 2018
Dancing
To the rhythm that plays inside my mind
Enhancing
When the things around me begin to unwind
Listening To the beat
Trying to make each step, every word, and my thoughts match it
Hoping
I don’t mess up and trip
Wishing
To be able to slow down and catch my breath
Asking
Why is it going faster and faster
I’m feeling my feet stumble across this stage
Frightened
I won’t be able to pick myself up again
m.f.p
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