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Piotr Sordyl Jul 2017
Whenever one lays their eyes upon us,
What is perceived is something that exists
Only at the peripheries of their mind, while
Things that makes us, us, are the opposite.

One would gasp in awe at someone's beauty,
Shiver in excitement about their courage and might,
Imagine countless friends and lovers they have;
How success is their husband and joy is their wife.

Surely, for them, talent blossoms like a flowers,
And everyone knows when and why they laugh, and joins;
And if they ever cry(why would they at all?),
More than one soothing arm awaits their call.

While what is unseen lurks beneath beholder's delusions,
Who wants to see what one envies most and searches for
In oneself in vain. As how they see us is the opposite
of us, true, but the opposite of themselves at the time as well.
Brandon Burtis Apr 2017
I saw you little bird
And I told you to stop chirping
I saw you flying by little bird
And I told you to stop chirping
I’m not sure exactly what I’m doing wrong
But attempts are hardly working

I told you to leave little bird
I told you to leave and you kept coming
I told you to leave little bird
I told you to leave and you kept coming
You always follow me little bird
So I guess what’s the use in running

Now you’re still here little bird
You’re still here and I’m hardly moving
You bring me to tears little bird
But now your soft chirp is almost soothing
If you ran away little bird
I’d no longer know what I was doing
What is you little bird?
Pity: the fuel of self esteem;
a false sympathy,
never to help the other in need.
Instead a seed planted
hand crafted
placed within host
to disassemble ones self love
and feed for self, thereof.

It is indulgent.
Narcissistic, but worth it.
For the once dull glimmers,
the fire dies down,
smoke cloud; heat simmers.
Colours more varied.
Clicked in, pieces; in sync.
Cured of sickness,
no longer at the brink.

Can't you see it!
The sparrows, they sing!
On the fleeting branches of a dying spring.

The church bells, they ring!
Reverberating a solemn deference
our forgotten reference
my remembered past.


Don't look at me like that.
I ain't crazy.
I'm okay taking to feel this way.
I'm okay!
It don't bother me none.

You are free?
  
I am Free.
Harley Hucof Apr 2017
The same scene repeats itself
Once again i run away from my lover's debt

As i breath in your love, i exhale my lies
Am i wrongful to you with my duplicated life?

I will soon disappear and leave you with a letter.
I have to find my freedom, isn't that what really matters?

When will i conquer my cursed ability?
My talent to transform lies into a creative reality.

Is this true? i don't really know
In the end however, i shall die alone.


Words Of Harfouchism
Breeze-Mist Feb 2017
We tend to separate monsters and men
Simplifying and beliving that such things can't happen again
But if we could only resurrect the dead
The sole answer would be "that's what we said"

We call abhorent acts of criminals "inhuman"
Thinking cruelty only comes from ******* men
But animals never threaten holocaust or world war
And even big brother was a child before
Charlie Williams Jan 2017
If engrossed in oneself
Life is one dimensional
Without emotion, catalysed by relations
And connections fortifying ones place
Life is meaningless.
storm siren Aug 2016
I've never been
One to allow myself
To get invested
And attached.

But hey, look.
You're something
I'd definitely have trouble
Getting over,
If I got over you
At all.

It was written
In my book of life,
Using my blood as ink,
Not that I mind.

I have scars to bare,
That show my own story,
That I wrote
However poorly.

And I remember vividly,
I believe it was seventh grade,
Other students stirring a panic,
Because I drew a rainstorm
In red ink.

And I remember
Confessing my ailment,
And it being used against me.

I remember
The destruction of my name
Upon things I'd never dare to do.

For mortal men
Will not find pride in your smile,
Rather shame in your scowl.

But such is the nature of cowards,
And I have found
That I am needless
Of cowards,
And cowards are hopeless.

I have found
In search through the mortal kind,
A being of the same like
As myself.

While our differences are
Many,
What makes us the same
Is powerful
And compatible
Enough.

Now, darling dear,
I have made a choice.
If they would halt their attacks,
I will finally
Erase myself
From his narrative,

For you are the
Only choice for me.

It is human nature
To feel torn down
But it is the nature
Of hope
To build you back up.
Things!

Edit: Erasing myself from "his" narrative simply means dropping the topic of my past and all those who decided to jump ship when things got hard.
J Aigboje Ohiro Aug 2016
Dream is good
sleep is cool
rest isnt a should
but i dont just sleep

i stay awake and embrace imagination
you could say i defile human nature
i will when my brain shuts down and my mind mature

Dream is Good but i dont sleep..
Human Nature, Defile Boundaries
Eunice May 2016
As ambiguous as the title may seem, it dives into the vastness of human nature, it explores a sensitivity that most neglect, and it leaves you breathless with each and every single word.

  At first glance, this book caught my eye due to it's boring cover and unfascinating title. But then I read it's synopsis and I was simply blown away by the stream of consciousness - how she took me from one place to another, how she gave me air and then drowned me underwater, how she sat on the edge of the moon with me and how the moon cut us with each swing between dreams and reality, how she showed me women of the Victorian era wearing ****** little skirts and how the whole street smelled like a smithy - like raw metals and earth, how she took me to the Hastings's backyard and made me an accessory to Alison Dilaurentis's ****** - I was buried alive!... and how she brought me back to the modern bookstore with dusty bookshelves and people walking past me like I did't even exist, like I didn't even belong here, and this wasn't even me...

  Ah! How she made me want more...!
This is such a transcendental experience. It is amazing how the words of a stranger can ignite your mind and give you butterflies. It is simply amazing.

Below is the synopsis:

"  M Train begins in the tiny Greenwich Village Cafe where Patti Smith goes every morning for coffee, ruminates on the world as it is and the world as it was, and writes in her notebook. Through prose that shifts fluidly between dreams and reality, past and present, and across a landscape of creative aspirations and inspirations, we travel to Frida Kahlo's Casa Azul in Mexico; to a meeting of an Arctic explorer's society in Berlin; to a seaside bungalow in New York's Far Rockaway; and to the graves of Genet, Plath, Rimbaud, and Mishima.

  Woven throughout are reflections on the writer's craft and on artistic creation. Here, too, are singular memories of Smith's life in Michigan and the irremediable loss of her husband, the musician Fred Sonic Smith.

  Braiding despair with hope and consolation, illustrated with her signature Polaroids, M Train is a meditation on travel, detective shows, literature, and coffee. It is a powerful, deeply moving book by one of the most remarkable multiplatform artists at work today."
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