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Samara Nov 2020
at the neon glow
of the kitchen clock
as though its a laser
in my eyes.
it stares right into
my eyes
but i dare not blink
for what i may miss
- - -
look at me
looking at you
as you change
minute by minute
hour by hour
until the orange glow
reappears on
the easterly horizon
and disappears in the
west.

yet still nothing new
with each setting moon.
i've seen the
shapes you hold
come and go
yet still i watch
the afterglow
time and
time again
until i wait no more
- - -
for what?
I'm not sure
Markie Waters Nov 2020
Whirling, airy, smoky-immanence.
A sad, sad song is tuned for me.
Grey char, blending orange shine, eminence.
Now that this Old World is ending
Remembering all the good moments that you cherish so, only to have time push it away.
John McCafferty May 2020
If you focus on the pain
Mild sore aches or strain
Does it fade away
Enough for long as
sun does with shade

Measurements of mixed context

The more we sit inside
Idle minded led astray
Nature's chemistry in flux
Diametrically perplexed
Medication stimulating parts of the brain
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
Dave Robertson Apr 2020
Man,
a glut of time
a surfeit, abundance,
embarrassment

for some,
the shackle breaking freedom
gives a new vigour
that’ll be forgotten
when the treadmill restarts

for others,
it’s the edifice,
the granite cliff to scale
to reach
the same old stuff
as always
Many were born,
accepting the image;
my love is torn,
as she blends in assemblage.

Out with the old,
and in with the new;
the poets, while bold,
will dwindle to few.

I'm one of the brave,
who dared SAVE the beauty,
and still managed to behave,
as her gaze passed over me.

What is it here,
that my heart hasn't got?
maybe I'd sell myself, dear,
to give people what they're not.

Chase, chase the love,
of what may fill the empty,
glamour, and shine might move,
but your memory'd never leave me.

All in a daze work,
they'll measure the rhythm,
it'll make me a ****,
but I could stand in line with them.

Vying for the affection,
yet selling the dream,
no objection to injection,
of their soul snatching scheme.
A perfectionist.. but on what level? And which one counts?
Ken Pepiton Feb 2020
What if wisdom, the thing, the being imaged
in the word
Sophia,
philo sophia, in a meme re maining, to this very day,
as true a depictical actual form, as lovable
as any, though
the thousand ******* of Artemis, that image...

Ask how many Dr. Spock Pablum fed boys,

would that image have cured from
mammary ******* sensory deprivation syn
drome, trap for lost boys,
never wishing fully formed in Michael Jackson, eh?
The Peter principle,
rise to the level of one's
incompetence and **** ****
and consume enough food for all Artemisis
famishished little lies, calling
more, more, more
Narrow AI, lust response,
so artfully inspired by Eddy Bernays,
and the silver screen's seductive radio voices,
Eddy,
you know, the Madison Avenue behabiourilist,
Freud's nephew... he cited Watson, the
one before the one
with Crick. Jimenee, we have been Disnified... if

I'd known
sooner, I'd have left your cake out in the rain...

so it melts, like the wicked witch of the west, or
east, I lost my bearings

who is asking what of whom,
am I involved in evolving your synaptic gaps?

We did entangle, in a sense. You are dear reader,
in the book of life with my name in it. Not on, in.
A beautiful hawk announced herself, swooped into my per-if-ery, as if to say,
watch this. She glided with the merest twitch of the tips of her wings,
down in to the valley where a mouse had moved, unaware.
Dominique Feb 2020
I hate pottering around inside my mind
With no reason or rhyme, like I'm retired-
Poking through cobwebbed corners,
Pulling at age-old tablecloths, considering
A garden party for me and my little lost smile
There in the half-wild,
With the sun like messy oil I'll have to wash
Out of my hair and clothing when I'm done.

I hate playing docile card games alone,
Laying out plans like pictures I'll never colour in-
My doughy brain pokes stimulus off the shelf  
And traps itself in kindergarten daydreams;
I fingerpaint endlessly,
Defining the world through crayon senses,
Crushing, mushing cookies and shaking
Clumsy maraca beats.

If only I could lie down in soft rustic flesh
Snatching handfuls of it to conceal my skin
Finally, finally filling myself in
Buried alive for good
And be expelled, again, into blazing harshness
Choking on the earth that forms my body
Crying, crying for hope and fresh presence
Coming to life for good.
This is an old poem I've just found and I don't know how I feel about it, but unlike most of them it's actually finished so here it is.
Royce Aug 2019
I lived as an enemy in my own house,

With ideas standing guard of this prisoner.

I existed in a fabrication and nostalgic nightmare,

Sapped of energy with no purpose-

I decay on this mattress.

Set me free into this overpopulated planet,

Full of the lonely and depraved,

Moving, moving, in every direction,

Bound and gagged by nature,

The heartache of yesterday's cup of tea.

I'll indulge in the desires of my senses

And face painful withdrawals alone,

I'll lose myself in the harlot's charm

And suffer her betrayal in silence.

     I only want to know I exist...
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