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M G Hsieh May 2016
I

It rained at each night's birth, and I wonder how things never go as we
intended. Each howl is a reminder of how dark it gets as we soldier along
the low visibility from the meconium we dump on ourselves. But we
tunnel our way into that night sky, lapping up any spark and shadow --
teetering between what is and was become us.

It shouldn't matter because it never did, not to you,
not as much as it did to me. That's why the day came to you much earlier,
and yet the rain still poured, murky and no matter how you clean it, it stains

between skin and nails, and that spot where it all begins,
between lung and air. I could breathe it in
and drown out of water.

II

Funny as the rain goes farther away, thunder is heard more distinctly.
Still trying to breathe, that was when you cut us off. One by one,
choking through the daylight at night, while the windows shatter
on the white-tile floor. "Water!

I need water!" someone shouted. It was warm
and cold at the same time, what my insides
were telling me my outsides were feeling. Just then, some semblance
of progression, a rhythm that tethered complacency began
to show. Something made me believe
it isn't suppose to be like this, but nothing
showed me otherwise.

The rain has stopped.

III

Blood and glass litter the once pristine and antiseptic. Shards
get missed, but it doesn't matter. No one talks about those.
It's made for an easy clean-up. It all sounds fishy. The smell
was the problem,

stuck to our hair, our skin, even the fresh linen
covering our nakedness did not escape the memory
of the congealed and spent. Our petrichor
binds us all, until we're not anymore.
L Seagull May 2016
You can’t, if you can’t feel it, if it never
Rises from the soul, and sways
The heart of every single hearer,
With deepest power, in simple ways.
You’ll sit forever, gluing things together,
Cooking up a stew from other’s scraps,
Blowing on a miserable fire,
Made from your heap of dying ash.
Let apes and children praise your art,
If their admiration’s to your taste,
But you’ll never speak from heart to heart,
Unless it rises up from your heart’s space.
Paul Butters May 2016
It doesn’t really matter to me
How the universe came to be
Or whether God even exists.
I care nothing about kings and queens
Or anyone “in power”.

For I’m “The One”
Who leads this Life.
No-one else but me.
However impressive you are
You still are not Myself.

All that counts are the people and things I Love,
Even Like.
So if you’ve got nothing to offer me
Get on your bike.

No man is an island, so they say.
Yes, I’m not independent in every way.
But I’m an individual who is true to my soul.
To remain unbrainwashed is always my goal.

They try to make us run with the crowd,
Like sheep or lemmings led into the cloud.
It’s Media Hypnosis
Through that gleaming TV.
Only by being ourselves
Will we ever be Free.

Paul Butters
In THAT mood again!
Freewill426 Apr 2016
You grab me as a shrug to your body
The heat gets intense as the bread in the toaster
You lip smack me as an icing to the cake and i drool as a child who gulps it as her own
And rejoice cause it is just a start and imagining where it can lead to
You and I in this beautiful world
Unite as the sheets to the bed, Chime to the wind
And stay as the shadows to the tree and become two different individuals who compel that love isn't about being one, but understanding who that one is
Campbell Mar 2016
A knee length scream rebounds down the empty hall,
The walls as bear as her legs, which bear her away from the roar.
Not far behind, another set of legs, another set of pleats,
This time the floor reflects polished black and matt twill
And a slippery set of sneaky misogynies disguised as paternal concern.

But a good father does not stare at his daughter's legs.
He worries, as does his running child, about the man who's gaze is perpetually set a foot or two below eye level.
But when it wanders, as it "always must," our daughter rebukes his lust,
And her first and last words muster the might of all daughters and sons.
And she stands on her chair, so that this time his eyes are looking level,
And bellows from the fog of anger that had been slowly settling about her uncovered ankles.

You can imagine how that went down.

So sprinting, whooping, echoing across the school,
Her cries of exhileration tug spirits out of rooms.
The path of the pin-straight Man is blocked by the faces of his children,
He trips on their blue hair, their white shoelaces, and their black denim hems,
And as he falls she rises, out of her skirt and above the regime,
For neither define her as a separate being,
Nor as a string in the weave that catches that pastoral shin
And catapults the shepherd into the stampede of the sheep.
My school is revolting in its obsession with skirt length
Free Bird Mar 2016
We all have different handwriting.
There are people, graphologists, who dedicate their entire lives, to understanding handwriting. A singular letter formed, can let them see into a persons mind. It can bring to light a persons inner thoughts, emotions, views on the world && themselves. Despite the fact that several charts are created, identically, of the proper formation of each letter, no two people write the same way. We all see the same chart, && create something else entirely.

If that alone, does not show you how individual we all are, how each of us distinctively perceive the exact same thing, than I don't know what will.

Stop trying to be like everyone else,
when you were born to be you,
because you,
are something special.
Late night ramblings. Not entirely sure where I was going with this, but it just seems to me that we're living in a society where we're made to feel as if we should be conforming to an unachievable ideal. In reality, no two people are exactly the same, && that's the beauty of life.
"When you are content to be simply yourself, && don't compare or compete, everybody will respect you."
-Lao Tzu
Pia Mar 2016
Life is like ***
When i get down on my knees
It is not to pray
George Krokos Feb 2016
From Being to becoming there is then an individualisation
and from individuality to universality there is a realisation.
From Oneness to manyness there is then a diversification
and from diversity to attunement there is then a unification.
________
From "The Quatrains" ongoing writings since the early '90's.
Kenna Feb 2016
I watched you always
through layers of sea
salted satin and holy oil.

The face of a churning
stomach, the incense of your fingers
and the hailed
embrace of the cathedral. Kneeling on
the floor of the ocean or a prayer bench.

You lead me, always,
through the tunneled,
or the flicker of rounded
sounds and  whispered pews.

Through clouded words  
and anointed promises.
It's cold enough to taste you
in this storm of twenty something verses, hailed
and poured from mouth to mouth.

A shaking hand
and the crumbling of bread:
something outstretched and sinful.
Perversions of a theme.  

You were my
mask and I wore you
out, with time and mercury
poisoning.

In the drenching warmth I see you now:
A song and a purpose.
A verse and a lie.
needs work. needs a title.
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