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My eyes meet the day
at half past noon,
My morning tea is replaced
by a spiked blue lagoon.
By evening I’m drowning
In a glass of Chardonnay,
While reasoning with my heart
to meet my brain halfway.
As the clock strikes quarter past seven,
The mixologist in me whips up a brandy Manhattan.
I welcome the dawn
With a tequila sunrise,
And sleep off the hangover in multiple cries.
But that’s before I met myself,
And witnessed the most potent form of love.
So I let the bottles burn to ash,
And indulged in a whole lot of self love.
Be absorbed by lust, afresh & anew.
lose in passion.
But do no wrong to others, they’ll have
nothing against you. Keep your secrets a secret,
hold no resentment, curse
them. If they do you wrong, confide in a Demon.
nora May 18
art is when
take something empty and give it life.
art is the stroke of a paintbrush
and the scribble of a pen,
the sweetness of a melody,
and the snap of a clapperboard,
but art is also the way the grass sways in the wind
and the patterns the clouds form in the sky
and the rain’s decisiveness as to whether it will be
a delicate murmur or
a passionate roar.

art is when the harshest angles
and softest curves,
the highest of highs
and lowest of lows,
the brightest days
and darkest nights,
come together into something
that didn’t exist in a time before
made it
art is
unique and
bold and
brave and
about the art you create is
you. yourself. you
are your art. no one else could have made that but
art is about how nothing in the known universe could have made what you just did
and how you just did
and why you just did
but you did.
and it’s beautiful.
I did this for a school project and figured I'd put it here since I'm pretty proud of it.
Billie Marie May 1
Will you stand and be counted?
Not for anything but my God.
Try to force me to declare a side?
They never bothered to claim me.
Why do I care to defend their way?
What happens when you muddy the *** too much
with the wrong kind of pepper
and overkill on salt?
Give me curry or himalyan seasoning
for a fuller taste of being human.
I raise my hands for the drenching rains
and blinding skies.
Nothing else stirs in me the roots of eternity
I knew before they called me
a word that rhymes with Italian ice cream.
Will I stand for a lot of their silly mess?
Hell no!
Give me freedom
from their categorical failures
and strategic mishaps.
And give me a dignity in life
plastics and fashion trends
never acknowledge.
No, I will not be counted
among the zombied 1st world elite
as a byte of data.
Give me liberty to be free
of mass media manufacturing.
And give me autonomous anonymity
to die as humanity promised
when I inherited the genes
that doomed me to an identity
as narrow as a sliver of light -
blink -
now you see a steel door.
Inspired by the memory of those labeled less than human because they were born with the wrong mixture of human DNA.
by Michael R. Burch

I am not one of ten billion—I—
sunblackened Icarus, chary fly,
staring at God with a quizzical eye.

I am not one of ten billion, I.

I am not one life has left unsquashed—
scarred as Ulysses, goddess-debauched,
pale glowworm agleam with a tale of panache.

I am not one life has left unsquashed.

I am not one without spots of disease,
laugh lines and tan lines and thick-callused knees
from begging and praying and girls sighing "Please!"

I am not one without spots of disease.

I am not one of ten billion—I—
scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly
staring at God with a sedulous eye.

I am not one of ten billion, I

Keywords/Tags: I, AM, ego, individual, individuality, character, Icarus, Daedalus, Ulysses, fly, gadfly, chary, wary, quizzical, questioning, panache, sedulous, heretical
shogunzoe Nov 2019
Sharpened on both sides,
refining what's undefined,
Living between lines.
Two edged sword serving
two masters. One God's son, the
other a *******.
Susana Oct 2019
Do you feel your breath,
The oxygen that's being exhaled
Everytime you try to stay alive?

Do you recognize your voice,
the one that’s coming from your own mouth
when words are forming on your tongue?

Do you know that person in your body,
Those muscles that move
When you don’t feel like walking?
Tommy Randell Sep 2019
I have never wanted to be
The reflection in someone else's mirror

This mathematician of certainty
This philosopher of doubt
This Poet of things that sing to me
This friend that doesn't bail out

Being who I am, being what I do,
That unique hailstone in the storm

This fixer of stuff that is broken
This hugger of things that need loving
This gentleman who holds doors open
This trier who always does something

I want to puzzle out truths
About myself Good or Bad

This optimist about people
This parent who adores creativity
This believer opposites can be equal
This sceptic who views religion as bigotry

I want to be the Me who has never been
We are born that way after all

This denier of the concept of democracy
This child of 20th century hypocrisy
This practitioner of family geometry
This orphan of two alcoholic's destiny

That someone no one else could ever be
I want to make his footprints
Dante Sep 2019
I’m always grasping. Trying to retain some form. Painfully and desperately, I try to keep it, shape it, define it into permanence.

This longing for certainty, this anxiety and desire to be— like the statues unmoving, named and certain— to be something I know, forever, and ever and ever.

But our splendor is in our changing, in our ever shifting consciousness. The heart floods and becomes empty again. The breeze of autumn. The hot of summer. My blood on the rocks. The wound tender in infection. The scar I touch like a feather.

We are made in God’s knowing of ephemera, ever changing, ever fleeting. Undefined, and ephemeral forever, ever and ever.
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