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In open arms; these galloping seasons—
chasing after summer. A cold heart made of stone.
I'm torn: a ripped page; my appellation out of the
Book of Life.

Deathly wallows swallow my mind, as the
depressed eye looking at the pen as a knife.

An execution of a piece of paper,
bleeding out pain, and yells out in hurt.
Starved are these words—food for thought.
A penny for a thought, worthwhile taking time to
overthink, more often than the count to blink.

Tedious, hideous, a galloping chase—seemingly
alive. But I'm really just beating a dead horse.
Truthfully overthinking--does ****.
Zywa Jul 7
The walnut tree falls

slowly, horribly, it groans --


sadly in my ear.
"De boom N" ("Tree N", 1994, Peter Verhelst)

Collection "After the festivities"
Zywa Jun 18
The oldest sons count
as patriarchs from Adam
Seth and Enos to Methuselah

Cain is a different story
from a time when there were more people
more women to get married

It is the story of the sacrifice
that was rejected
as if God did not exist

so that Cain lost his faith
and mourned for that
and God was sorry

so He forbade to **** him
and other unbelievers
you shall not **** a human being

Moses chiseled in two stones
which he smashed immediately
to teach the people a lesson

with the seething ******
of 3000 men, the blood sticks
to the priests forever

but they had every right
because God wanted
to do it Himself
The name Abel is related to ablu (son), and abal (mourning)

Collection "From Sacred Scriptures [1]"
words are bullets and
i have been shot by you too
many times to count
murdered so effortlessly
the bullets slip from your tongue
A tanka poem. syllable pattern 5-7-5-7-7 though challenging to write at times. Today, I am up for it.
I live on the edge
Of not knowing
uncertain
of the journey
I have trodden
The future of suffering
Tore apart lives
Blood stained tears
Broken homes
Lifeless bodies
Thrown in heaps
Heaps of rubbles
Lie in ruins
Death Oh where is thy victory
He knows
He sees
He weeps
He hurts
Man has defined his destiny
But I have turned the tide
Into victory
I bore the darkness created by man
His desire was to rule
But iam he
That bore your sins
I turned death into life
By offering a my sacrifice
I bled and died I rose again.
So that you could be free.
This Easter reflect
on new life in me
Accept my love
and free gift
I offer freedom of sins
A new life within .
**** me now!
Take it all away
Free me now!
Lead me through that way

Of no return
Of "known it all"
Of no U-turn
Where you don't give up

No one is around
It's all my choice
The subtle sound
Of my voice

Once chose to press on
Only for the pressure
To make an impression
That led to this depression
The wise one says
"The living has no right to think of death as the end nor a beginning, he has not been there"

Appreciate what you have at the moment.
Mark Wanless Feb 3
i am a bear and wall
many things can ****
bear and break wall
At the limit of doubt,
you **** me with time,
we fail again to plan a love
that is almost done.
Indonesia, 20th January 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
Clay Face Nov 2021
The time numbs. I want it raw like it was.
Like ******* and ******.
Something powerful and honest.

I let lies continue.
Fantasies I tease myself with.
I never follow these potential trails.
I’m terrified of not having blissful reverie.
Closure haunts me. I’m scared of definition.

I live in a time that never ends.
I breath the exhaust we know but cannot see.
The world spins upon my shoulders, I pass it on without using my hands.
People die, it’s distant.
Life doesn’t mean much.

I live here in a puddle.
I love all the potential I have to waste.
I don’t know what I would slobber on without it.

I want something raw.
Something abrasive, without some sort of superficial veil.
If I brush back another thin facade just to uncover a clearer image of *******.
I’ll slump the world with my bear hands, and whatever blunt object is abreast.
The ensuing postlude or coattail if you will, is gruesome and redefines the word genocide.

Life passes by because it’s not cut with iron anymore. It’s chiseled away with fantastic stone and underlying hopeful chimes of music. A method to which leaves reality unclear, and insipid. Quite literally dull and un-vitriolic.

The time jingoes tore babies from teats, bounced sore bosoms, and buried John Doe’s in mass graves beside schools. Is long gone.

I live in a butterfly massacre.
Clay Face Oct 2021
I’m triple smoked.
Inundated in a cloud.
Guda, salmon, and a cigarette.
Lay me down. Come be with me.
Something simple. I need warm skin, nothing put in.
It’s slow now. Even with death in my lips, lungs, and mouth. Violation at my fingertips, comfort at your hips.
This cuddle in mist, as sand slips from ancestral vas. Can’t be more tonic. Not even a clean breath from my stacked haze does compare.
Your presence is softer than a compliment, warmer than a gaze fair.
Your hair on my chest or my head on your breast seal a lair.
We swap the feeding hand.
Weakness is a virtue. A face unmasked in rare.
Among a stage smooth, soft skin, slick like ice, warm like loath.
Sticky with sweat, and with a low foggy stench that creeps in your nose. A familiar one, an intimate one.
A vapor that flames when you care.
This addictive fetor to foe.
Of nicotine, sweat, and lewdness.
Is a muse to you and I.
That cigarette set the mood, and you set me in.
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