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Lance Remir May 20
You didn't just break my heart
You broke the future I was working for
You broke the dreams that I always had
You took away the hopes and smiles I had
You took away the sweat and tears I shed
You robbed me from knowing love
You robbed me from knowing closure
You destroyed my sense of self
You destroyed my motivations
You didn't just break my heart
You broke everything that was me
Unholy Love
Enchanting sin
Built on limerence and a lie
Fatally flawed from the first step
Self sacrifice and selfishness
Devotion and disrespect
Honeyed words
A captivating gaze
Intensity in every feeling felt
False promises and ones broken
Can’t put it to words
Nothing can describe
The grasp on mind body and soul

Don’t know the moment I broke free
Or if I ever did at all
Exchanged sin for sin
And you for him
Till I couldn’t anymore
It ate at my soul
Stripped me of my identity
Who I am, what I stand for
My beliefs and my morals
Changed me inherently
In all ways thinkable
Can’t fathom how I can go back
To the person I was before
If life was fair would we all not be perfect
Dressed in tight clothes and most of them too revealing, with
chains that hang low and tattoos with deeper meanings
If we were perfect than I promise, life would be fair

The eyes of your foes can see through the walls
You're not alone in your skin, you're not as free as before
So you shape your identity to meet their desires
Would we all not be perfect if life was fair?

You change your walk and the way that you talk
You smile alone, you change your appearance, your
hair, your clothes, the way you stand. I promise you
that their love for you is a figment of your imagination

You could climb a mountain or **** it's lions
Sail the sea or swim in it's oceans
You can walk a mile or even a thousand
Whoever you're trying to impress doesn't bare any ***** for you

If life was fair, we'd all be perfect, however,
if you seek perfection then I know
your identity is shaped by how others view you

Do not our imperfections make us perfect

If life was fair
then what would be the use of living.
The title speaks about how we think that everyone sees and cares about our every movement. So we feel a bit of insecurity or unsure about ourselves, and that leads us to become people that we're really not in order to meet everyone's desires.

Line 1: Rhetorical Question.

Line 2 & 3: Speaks about what we result to, convincing ourselves that it's the right thing to do because people say so. How we show off too much in order to get reassured by total strangers because we were never given compliments as we grew up. That tattoos are a great way to show love for someone or something you've lost, while really, a way of showing love is to heal and move on.

Line 4: Rhetorical Question.

Line 5 & 6: Speaks about how we convince ourselves that people can see our every move, whether we're at home or somewhere private. So we start to resent doing the things that make us happy, you hate reading or watching movies, or even liste to your favorite music, all because you think people see and judge you, every moment. Even when you try to revert back to the things you love, you don't feel as comfortable anymore.

Line 7: Speaks about how you change to please others.

Line 8: Rhetorical Question.

Line 9, 10 & 11: Speaks about all the sudden changes you make to your body, and the extra things you do to yourself, to please other.  All of that just because you want to impress people who will never be impressed. About how you seek the attention of people who never noticed just because you thought they notice you.

Line 12: No one saw you, no one cares. All the people who you're trying to get the attention of don't really care

Line 13 - 16: Tells you that you can attempt to do the inevitable for someone or a certain minority of individuals but you will still be disregarded because at the end of it all, no one asked you to do those things.

Line 17 - 19: The honest truth about you people who seek fir reassurance from other people.

Line 20 - 22: Rhetorical Question.
The poem is a free verse poem, it has no specific rhyme pattern, or specific number of lines per stanza. The poem runs through with lines that have enjambement, symbolizing how this trend of self conflictment continues to become a rising pandemic. Makes you realize that people don't care about your appearance, and that if someone wants you to change, they will never think you're enough.
Jesus' baby May 17
Roses be roses—
no thorns,
no pain,
only pleasure
leaving sweet sensation
on soul and skin.

Fire be fire—
no burn,
no scars,
just remolded,
not to ashes,
but to worth.

Awakening—
realizing
that once I breathe,
and once it ceases,
I embalm to forever.

Not in toil
of envy
or blind admiration
as the world spins on.

In your space,
in your place,
you will shine
and outshine—
like the dawning
of a summer day.

In your voice,
in your sound,
you will rise
and outrise—
like a satellite
in orbit.
You don't need to be someone else to be YOU. You need to find who you are truly in Christ Jesus. Let Him shine through YOU.
Cadmus May 16
Are you man enough
To walk the path carved in your marrow?
To let instinct speak?
Can you listen to the wild in your chest
not tame it, but understand it?

Are you man enough
to protect without owning,
to fight without hatred,
to cry without retreat,
to bleed and still rise
not as a martyr,
but as a force of nature returning to form?

You are not a flaw in evolution.
You are its edge,
its hammer,
its echo through time.

Stand tall,
not in defiance of the world,
but in allegiance to what made you.
Nature never doubted you.
Why should you?
This poem is a call to return to the essence of manhood , not the caricature shaped by culture, but the primal design etched by nature: protector, builder, thinker, and storm-bearer. It glorifies masculinity not as *******, but as deeply rooted presence and purpose.
Adrift in between—the breath and the break.
Muffled by silence. The real feels fake.
Visible ghosts pay invisible costs—
In search of myself, I found myself lost.

A stranger arrives. Identity wanes.
We share the same pulses that surge through my veins.
Observe my duality—tell me, who's true?
The body you saw, or the energy you knew?

Without the observer, I'm held out of phase.
I fill empty space—with more empty space.
You glanced in my direction, collapsed me to light.
I fell into being, from quantum-bound heights.

Euphoria sleeps. I dread my own wake.
Time ticks while I shake and my thoughts dissipate.
Here I am again—my lowest of highs.
Collapsed, but still standing, still living these lies.

I flicker between a phantom and soul.
Wholeheartedly hollow. I burn without glow.
The past still hums beneath thinning skin—
A whispering echo that calls out my sin.

Step in too close, or just take a look—
I quietly fold, closed up like a book.
The script rewrites its endings to shift,
As I drift, unwilling, through reality’s slit.

One path offers clean, another brings filth.
I exist just as is—your perception brings guilt.
Not welcome to be—medicate me to align.
Would you believe it’s your doubt fracturing my mind?

These moments go slow—I cope to feel new.
But each time I stitch, my seams just undo.
I’m a fracture. A wreck. Pathetically alive.
Until the next time I hide—from the gaze of your eye.
I’ve drunk enough—
don’t fill my glass again.
All you’ve ever offered,
I’ve gulped down to the grain.
Pleasure’s senses never sate;
for me, they’re just a stain.

I have this body like all others,
a hungry dog
that waits beneath the table
and eats all that falls from it.

Did no one warn you?
Never feed the dog at dinner.
Do it, and he’ll haunt your chair—
whimpering and begging for another taste.

Can’t you see the feast is laid?
Silver platters, crystal bright!
You’re the guest who’s free to taste,
to drink the banquet’s blinding white.

Is it the dog who gets the scraps,
does not care and all devours?
—Exactly!— and once he's finished,
he'll come begging, craving more.

Don’t blame the dog when he invades
your sacred feast.
You shout, you punish his demands,
yet you fed this beast.

Now discern. Divide. Rearrange.
Let each thing keep its name.
The dog in the dog’s domain.
The master at his plate.
All my poems are related with the music I compose and perform. Piano solo, modern classical/jazz style. I will provide more information when I make a good recording. My work try to explain my life philosophy. Philosophy that first are acts, and then I try to explain with music and words.
Don’t blame me if I am not,  
for in the end, I am by not being  
in order to be.  
Every kiss,  
every flower,  
every stranger’s smile—that’s me.  
Do you see the sun’s shimmer on water?  
That, too, is me.  

And that boy sleeping on the street?  
That mother weeping?  
Those who eat what others threw as trash?  
I am these people as well, I confess.  
Don’t be surprised if my sorrow does not fade,  
for I can be nothing but all these things I am.  

In the things that are alive,  
there is where I live,  
and it is not in death where I die.  
From thing to thing, my clothes change,  
From so much longing, my heart pulses.  

And if one day i ceased to be all this,  
what would remain of me then  
would be merely what i alone am.  
A small thing,  
or nothing.  
For blinded by indifference,  
not even my mirror  
would know who I am.
All my poems are related with the music I compose and perform. Piano solo, modern classical/jazz style. I will provide more information when I make a good recording. My work try to explain my life philosophy. Philosophy that first are acts, and then I try to explain with music and words.
Alien Orange May 14
Consciousness is the ideal—the lens through which I experience life.
I see a cup, a beautiful one. I hear songs as I eat pineapple.
Each part of me coexists in total sense, yet meaningless.
And I cry—because I am living.
And living makes me happy?
That’s why I cry: because I am conscious.

Each step is complex, yet simple.
Smelling the air, filling with breeze—
it makes me feel squished, but in a good way.
Every thought has a factory behind it.
But what if there is no grand scheme?
What if things are just thinging—
a path we all made, walking forward because we can?

I will die. I know.
It makes me sad.
But that sadness—
that sadness is the happiness
I feel because I am alive.
So is consciousness an apple?
Or am I the apple?

Are we one?
Are we all?
When I die, is it the darkness?
Or the light?
Is it Buddha? YHWH? Hades?
Or just a mimicry of my imagination?

If consciousness is the apple,
am I truly consciousness?
But if I am the apple,
and I die today,
is there meaning in everything?

If there isn’t—
then the sun is a dancing snake
with seventeen eyes,
and no one can change my mind.

But if there is meaning,
then all truths are real,
and there will be no perfect.

Perfect is like beauty—
it is its own dictionary.
I see beauty in green grass and a world of blue.
Someone else sees it in a girl with long eyelashes.
So someone can be perfect.
But no one can.
It sounds like a paradox, but it isn’t.

You can be someone’s perfect—
but are you mine?
And what of the other eight billion people?
Do the ant, the lion,
and the baby giraffe have opinions, too?

Is consciousness a camera?
Or is it the apple again?

And how can God create in His image,
but not make perfection,
if God is perfect?

“I” is a character.
“We” is a symbol.
And I—I mean I—
I would rather live a meaningless life
than be a story with meaning.

Because in a story,
I am conscious,
but not living—
just controlled
by the puppet man with a beard
or the blue man who holds the world.

No, no, no.
Maybe it’s just a quote.
Or maybe it’s nothing at all.

So is the apple—
the one we know as consciousness—
sweet?
Or sour?

I think...
we just eat the apple.
I mean just one.

If it’s sweet—smile.
If it’s sour—
smile when the next one comes.
Please give your honest feedback just to make an alien learn from mistakes.
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