The sun is eclipsed by the moon
The sun’s on the rise
It learns to shine through like a sea green sunny noon

The whispers of the mermaids in the sea
Seek ears of humans deep down in the water
Never hoping or wanting to pass on the lonesome egotistic plea

The swan drives away the ugliness away from the duckling
By exposing it to its cygnets who swim close to it to investigate
But the swan parents remain far and friendly afterwards hurriedly engage in beauteous bucolic buckling

The supernova explodes but leaves no more than gas
We humans lurch in overt fucked up obesity
And splutter plastic bags and corpulence and we think we still have space for inebriating grass

We are social animals but among us we have introverts
Tells us we aren’t just animals
But laughingly we believe what we are told by scientific and psychological adverts

We learn to believe in weather forecasts
But never learn to get wet in the predicted rain
Because we will carry umbrellas and raincoats in the face of the challenge of having to face our embarrassing pasts

Imagine the embarrassment of being prone to embarrassment
Nothing to live for but we live to protect ourselves
How vain since never learn to open our hearts to anyone and we disobey the volatile tenements

Volatile since we have never learned to love people above our future
We always feel god but the joy of seeing him in his fake flesh is incomparable
We on the contrary are giving more credence to something intangible rather than something close to our own soul and nature

The deaf man isn’t heard after all he can’t hear
When will you learn to listen to the person representing him
When the earth shakes and you realize that your ears are nothing compared to THE ear

Because both of you will be equally aware
You may not help him but you will receive his help
Because of the hate and ostracization that he faced and in that time of sadness there was no façade that his sensitive self decided to wear

The blind man definitely hears on the radio when the revolution is through
And the last protest was wrapped up too
In that dystopia the blind man will still see what people do
When they apoplectically turn against the lot they will understand the psychological fallacy of survival of the fittest which forms a strange brew
Because the theory brings a superiority complex in those who believe they are the fittest whereas being neutral is closest you can get to God and inner peace too
Which is achieved naturally by a very few
The feeling of megalomania is quite widespread in antagonists and if you find one in a movie you in the face of your complex are mostly likely to sue

It's all in the title. It's surreal and satirical.
someone 5d

Maybe it's the way we act
Or the way we all want things to be in tact
And not one single thought escaping
The realms of our own being.

So what if one time,
We act very differently than before
Are we not considered normal?
Like anyone from this fort?

Let's say one thought broke through
The chain of memories you've tried to stay but didn't pull through
And that thought was seen by all of your friends
What would you feel then?

Let's say it's about our talking
The way we express every meaning
Now, is it really hard to tell
If I'm telling the truth or lying that you've all fell?

Elysia Sep 7

Industrialised glam, digitalised intimacy
Rich aroma, dancing lights;
implicit wonders are unexplored
as they hide beneath the headstock
obeying society's stream of thought.

Rigour movements, sundried streets
hustling and bustling with only time to beat;
withering moments drape the paved sidewalk
just like the bland orange tainted tree in
your grave backyard (which many have described to be hollow and large)

Lingering spirits have strewn themselves over your covered sheets,
cementing their curtains as the bright white light
of haven glistens above their unblinking eyes
constricted by the deafening silence,
untoned to the faint hymns of children's laughter.

"Stop to smell the roses", the wise men speak:
confidence is their ruse; do not let it deceive you.
They hide amongst the similar thousands of men,
yet never raising a head to any of them.
These are the children of our future.

Senseless to surroundings, spray them fresh air,
Move their cognitive gears to move their oil-rigged limbs;
Let their creative minds sway to the rhythm of rustling trees,
Revive the diverse culture of our people for these brainwashed folks;
Deny the irony of being consumed, when you are the consumer.

I actually wrote this for a school competition and it won and I was really happy so take a read!
Lucy Wooding Sep 1

Heartless are the ones in a position of power
Pumping money into unholy wars of bloodshed.

Wicked are those orchestrating inhuman acts of violence and cruelty,
All in the name of God.

Heart wrenching it is, knowing as we reside in our secure abodes,
Shielded from harm,
Trembling human beings are at the mercy of detrimental bombs and evil weapons!

Terror floods their complexion,
Destroying any luminosity,
Replacing their skin with a sallow, sunken image of dehumanization.

A child's bedtime lullaby is a cacophony of headache inducing shrieks from ammunitions,
and howls from thunderous explosives.

Vacant eyes have witnessed nightmarish scenes of bloodied bodies,
Mutilated like abattoir sheep.

An overwhelming stench of burning flesh congests the senses.

Swollen feet trek through alien territory,
Desperately seeking refuge.

Oh how we overlook the joys in life,
Such as the gentle cooing from a new born baby,
The invigorating smell of balmy spring air, free from toxins that sting the lungs,
And our freedom to laugh and dance with no prohibitions.

We take for granted our shelter and our jobs,
The fact we live in a safe haven compared to the horrific conditions many poor souls face worldwide.

How can we be so ungrateful and irrational, when our worries and troubles
Will NEVER mirror the disastrous situations many individuals will have to face with no choice?

If men were at peace
There would be no more noise
There would be no more war
The fresh golden silence
Would grow from the trees
And the skin we call home
Would surrender all pain

If men were at peace
What beautiful music it would be
To a child
And to me
Mothers and fathers would no longer
Cry for their children's lost souls
Their tears would be
The blood of the universe
And the children would come home
From their war-torn lives
To cry away their pain

If men were at peace
The people would release themselves
The women would let free their hearts
And the box that I have opened
Would reveal only beauty
The sweet smells of human touch
And the musical sounds of Earth
Would wrap their arms
Around the ears of all living things
No longer deaf
Able to see through new eyes
To feel with new fingers

If men were at peace
No longer clinging to themselves
They might forget they ever feared
An intangible god
Who caused them so much pain
They would realize their mistakes
That what they fought for
Was no bigger than a grain
On the face of it all
And that all along
They had something
Worth more
Than all the wars
Waged by man

I wrote this poem while listening to the song, "If Men Were At Peace" by Peter Kater & R. Carlos Nakai. Give it a listen to get an idea of how it felt to write this.
Miss Weirdo Aug 16

In the end
We're all humans
With a mouth full of lies
And a heart full of tears....

Mims Aug 15

I'm in a love hate relationship with humans

Mostly hate
Rowan Deysel Aug 14

Their strange screens sounding loudly.
With electric magic imbued.
There's a mirroring all around me.
In bordered boxes and ceilinged cubes.
We're absurd, and all advanced.
An emergence carefully compiled.
Bend in a delightful, blurred dance.
Blend into the social wild.
Life is pretty, plain and plenty.
On this nonredundant sphere.  
Even so, it's essentially empty.
An assortment of souvenirs.

Through veined paths, my blood abides.
And a beating heart repeats.
A life that comes from inside.  
A bloodful sack of meat.
The ghost in the flesh machine.
Proves a life in my pale past.
In the strange nostalgic obscene.
When I was a lesser, younger cast
There is life still to come.
Between now and the coffin.
I should sprinkle it with fun.
I should carpe this diem often.

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