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Zywa Apr 3
Corpses in the street

look like humans, but fake ones --

more like broken dolls.
Novel "Fury" (2001, Salman Rushdie), chapter 6

Collection "Low gear"
Man Jun 2023
I say
You don't respect my feelings,
And am met with silence.
I tell you,
Ours will die its death
Without an ounce of violence.
Is it so, if it is lifeless?
Andrew Rueter Mar 2022
We are surrounded by the lifeless
whether it's the corpses in red
or the horde of feeding undead
we don't see any niceness
in all the ways we have bled
so an idea pops in our head
to leech the likeness
of the zombies instead
of what's righteous.

A possum parades
around in the trash
it's called young and brash
by those it evades
through darkened paths
that harken back
to wild ways
we should've passed.

The possum pals with predators
to avoid the hunters
then those gun toting meddlers
have the gall to wonder
why they got themselves a runner
when everything is a red alert
then The Battle of Fort Sumter.

We track the terrified critter and stone it
a warning from a Kentucky poet:
when society is at its lowest
we'll pray for atonement
not for original sin
but being given a life to give
instead we fight with shivs
this how the lifeless live.
Raven Feels Nov 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, all yellow & blue:)

what are you?
who are you?
is it even a you?
my moons are swelling in hells
my shatters are flaunting in the same cell
my nails are aching for the touch of shells
I swim neat
water cold as ice feet
things I despise under those ***** sheets
sat embraced
by the greens the autumn's shades
falling too well and hugging blades
her eyes a funeral's peal
all I ask is a little feel
something of that past to steal
can't sense a speck
my violins are scratching their necks
orchestral ravens flew the garden of wrecks
optimism a false clue
the flee to the streets I never knew
and she licks the tips of the salty stew
oh my spoiled nerves changing each noon
can't have can't reach can't leave that moon
forks on my table nonexistent all spoons
irises are in need of light
to bleed the warmth of a single night
let the winds ******* like a kite
death of me now
don't mind hurts of trembling how
meet me and sort my bones for me to bow
drown me with caffeine
erase that stupid fake gleam
bring me to the real
make me forget and burn me to heal
fire my name on that tongue you keep
and what a great sleepless night to sleep!
                                                                ­                   -------ravenfeels
Anna Oct 2021
So many thoughts.
So many ideas.
Yet my mind is blank.
Like a painting that hasn’t been started.
I want to be beautiful.
I want to see colours.
I want to bring light to this dark world.
But my mind is blank.
And yet it is racing.
I feel so numb.
But I feel everything.
I see what could be, but I am stuck.
I am happy.
I am sad.
I am angry.
But I am also nothing.
I am blank.

I miss the colours.
I miss the light.
I want it all back.
I want to feel again.
I want to fight.
But I am tired.
So tired.

When will I be painted?
When will I be finished?
will I be filled with light and colours again?
Or will I stay blank, and dull.
Kiritodragneel Apr 2021
When your stories are against you
You feel like the sideline character
Ppl tell you, your Soo farr behind
A look at yourself, you would shatter the mirror
You hated what you were
Even after doing your bestt
You felt like a mess
You had forgotten where you came from
You had forgotten your dreams and ambition
Once again when you saw the colors of the world
You realized that you weren't the problem
Ppl wanted to distroy a talent
And you made their challenge simpler.
A poem I wrote after realizing that many people sacrifice themselves to please others, we should always remember that we are the only permanent person in our lives Soo our first priority is to love yourself.
The rose of love withered on the vine
In lifeless disposition she'd remain
Her syrupy nectar slowly did decline
A bewailing sorrow in ending twain
No recapture of a past happiness
The petals perished browning to dark
Disappearing elation's gleefulness
A flower's heart minus her loving spark
Without the touch of fondness on the bloom
Her brilliant brightness faded well away
Those wondrous days were replaced by gloom
Sombre melancholy of saddest pall's shay
As dusk's hour turns to the dying closeness
Reflect on the rose's mood of dimness
She’s afraid of
reopening old wounds.

Scared of feeling
the burns
beneath her skin.

She’d rather feel
consciously numb
than ever have to
confess her self-reflections,
because she’s afraid rejection
will leave her lifelessly
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