V Exeter Aug 6
How old am I?
I am Simic.
& aren't you?

That means:
I am ageless.
I am forever --
until this Sun presents
its
finale
sunset,
& since
the roots
of the world tree took
to the soil.

I toil with eyes
ignited by
my ancestry,
toward a
bitter end:
the dividend,
at least in concept,
is near enough
to make Atropos
bind the rope
of fate
into a noose
to hang her
own heavy heart.

I am organic, but
I tend to try and
merge my own
electricity into
expandable,
transferable,
sequences of controllable
currents.

How old am I?
How old are you?
Beneath a Steel Sky?
Neuromancer, filtered through
Cronenberg's body horror?
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
Beauty is pure.
The idea is to be pure, too,
to see it through.

Life is short, is on the move,
never does the truth grow old.
Destination du jour is one not two.
Either end up with a thorn or a rose.

Read a heart, find the truth beforehand,
when two folks both tend to hide.
It’s worth looking closely, maybe
one is hiding one’s true self,
one is a pearl keeping inside the shell!
Lisa Jul 23
It had befallen; Summer at the foot of his brow.
Sweat coagulating underneath the arch of his wrinkles as he stood wiping it away with his arm. He was washing dishes in the heat of his kitchen. Had been for the past thirty minutes even though he had a state-of-the-art dishwasher which his children had gotten for him for his birthday. He pretened that he didn't need technology or smart gadgets that simplified his life. And besides, it didn't properly clean his dishes anyway. How else would a machine mimick the every intricate movement of his hand, the sway of the wash rag dancing across silverware and delicate porcelain. These were the little things that no one understood. He felt he had fallen out of touch with those around him and he didn't know how to turn it around.
Did he even want to? It was difficult to say.
He had been a man of radical ideas in his youth, never spent time indoors and smoked only tobacco that he rolled himself. He had diciplines as well as inscrutable morals. Only got drunk on sundays. Wore a wedding ring to the bars he attended and made the ladies swoon with the idea of falling for a married man. Although he stood for nothing, most things intruiged him if you worded it correctly. However, now at the tender age of 73 he wondered if the fire in him had changed to something else. Something quieter that didn't harbor as much attention. He liked the way his hands felt calloused and dry after washing them. He liked the smell of wood burning and the way the trees at sunset made his eyes hurt.
These were little pleasures that he couldn't have enjoyed as a grown boy.
The excitement of being a young man eventually gave way to going to pawn shops and tuning every guitar. Most days he didn't speak to anyone and sometimes he would forget what language was and the words would tumble and clash teeth inside his mouth.
Putting the last cup in the drying rack he began to walk the same steps to his room where his wicker chair awaited him. He wondered when gravity had begun to feel so heavy on his shoulders. This thought was suddenly interrupted by a strange growl coming from underneath his sink. He stopped and turned around puzzled and curious. He had had his fair share of encounters with feral animals that would mysteriously find a way inside his house in an attempt to escape the heat outside. He lived in the countryside and by now he was used to this sort of thing. He could almost distinguish each type of animal by the way they breathed. But this was new.
He slowly approached with catious trepidation and slight fear. He had nothing to defend himself with and he was afraid that he didn't mind enough to get injured. How else could he explain this sudden nihilism? As he reached for the cabinet door under the sink his hand trembled and his sigh fell.
Life
force me to
go back and
build a
hive

Bees
will have a
place to go
to all
she's

Full
of a thought
once there was
and now
dull

Die
let the idea
dry out and
be one
lie

Nothing
where it meant
to grow but
one day
something
Daisy P Jun 21
i often humor myself
with the idea of us

the idea that
someone as stubborn as you
could love
someone as carefree as me

i know that it is silly
you aren’t the type
to shut off your brain
and follow your heart

but here i sit,
wondering
wondering
wondering

is the idea of us actually silly at all?

how tragic that i’ll never get to know
about the boy who listened to his brain and the girl who tried to hand him her heart
David Bojay Jun 16
after all we've seen
the things experiences we've lived
the poems i've written
to soften your existence
to make everything a little more romantic
with words to describe what i can't describe
after all my kisses
the hugs
the meals we've shared
the moments we'll look back on, the moments we've looked back on
the cringey moments
the broken smiles
after all the music we've listened to, it'd be hard for me to listen to again
the lingering vibe in my car
every fight feels like a break up
every argument makes me want to sew my mouth together
shut up david
but we are both wrong
and sometimes your words hurt me
(they're not supposed to, yet i'm crying while typing and my throat feels choppy)
the things you've done for me don't reflect what you said to me in absolutely certainty
"fucking idiot"
i feel dumb
because of you, for this moment, i do.... feel like a fucking idiot
i look around with watery eyes
i look down with hope i've built for us, and it disintegrates
i look in the mirror and my reflection is blurry
i read "fucking idiot" when i look myself in the eyes
for the moment
my ego is hurt, and something bad happens when it is


i have to let myself go


"self"
Poetic T Jun 13
My view of the world
           through rose tinted glasses.

I hope that we can pick up roses
      hand them to each other
rather than point weapons upon
                       brothers & sisters.
But a rose is a sour beauty
for even thorns can bleed
              deeper than a dull sword.

We must speak to each other find
             solace in others humanity.
For words can heal rifts that started
                 long before we were born.
But syllables latching on to the misgivings
                      of insecurities can wound.
Like papercuts on the mind,
        speaking to the shallow cradles swinging
        in a hateful wind of whispers flawed.

I wear glasses that I take of every now
          and then, I have a idealistically flawed
view seeing the potential of us.
But knowing we can fall harder
                                      than when can get up.
vanessa ann Jun 9
i suppose i'm quite selfish
for having imposed to you
this idea of you
i've created in my mind

i suppose i'm quite guilty too
for having put this burden
of perfection
on your imperfect shoulders

but really,
i do not wish to love you
the way gatsby loved daisy
((as if you were anything more
than what you truly are))

so please,
come to me,
and allow me to love you,
as what you are
((and nothing more than that))
to yjh.

there's this part of me who sees you as something grander than what you really are, and another part of me who recognizes that and protests against it. but the truth is that i want to know you in a much deeper sense, so that i could remove this guilt of the probability of me loving not you, but rather, the idea of you.
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