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Cattatonicat Jul 2020
SA Szumloz Apr 2020
People say that I am spoiled
A young brat who coils
At the sight of poverty
But in reality,
I am being deprived
Of the love to survive
This greedy world.
Diksha Prashar Feb 2020
As time passed
We forget to laugh
Invested in materialistic
Some burdens
******* apart, the joy of heart
As time passed,
Not even mirror can tell
Us apart,
When we came crashing
To ground,
Coercing the internal
As time passed
We forget to love
Our own ‘vitality’
Diksha Prashar Jan 2020
It's hard to find
The one
In this materialistic world
When one only wants skin
Not the heart and soul underneath
A fantasy they proceed
To fulfill
The longingness of another being
A warmth only
A beautiful soul can fill.
Effie Rose Jul 2019
You may believe home to be an address,
You are wrong.
The co-ordinates I list as my place of residence,
Are subject to change.
As do the seasons,
As my health waxes and wanes,
As my job becomes a harrowing echo,

My home will remain,

As the night-sky,
Glistens and reminisces.
Its nostalgic ribbon intertwines with my soul -
My heart,
Recognises its home.

The waves,
That serenely lap against the shore,
Leaving, once elapsed,
A maze of its belongings,
Like a Nomad on his journey.
Demonstrative tides of exposure,
Against our profane human culture,
To jumble together
In definition,
Our home and our belongings.

Does this translate,
That home is sovereign
Of worldly corruption,
And is therefore
Safe from life’s unpredictability?

It is a state of mind.

Home is the essence which coats your soul.
Home is the promise of peace.
Home could never be my place of residence,
For between hospitals and the couches I have surfed,
Void of worldly possessions,
I have never once been homeless.
I possess more than the man who cannot see
That a fixed abode in this world is not the true interpretation,
Of a phrase so bespoke.

As I look into the night-sky,
And reminisce;
As the waves serenely lap
Against the borders of land and sea,
I accept that no matter where in the world I may find myself,
The moon will still shine,

The waves will still sing soft melodies to the sand,
And my home,
I forever hold in my hand.
'Home' explores life's uncertainty through the key issues of homelessness, ill health and our materialistic culture. They always say, 'Home is where the heart is.' - but what does that truly mean applied to our daily lives?
b Feb 2019
what do you want?

the money
the fame
the ***?

the name
the brains
and a heavy pay-check?

do you want the lies
the rage
the meaningless objects?

or can you tell
it is a facade
to shame
your intellect?
Troy Oct 2018
Life is fragile
Don’t turn your head
Cause when you look away
Life has already ended

We look around for things to do
Ignoring the things we already have
For the newer shinier things we see ahead
Burying the old dull looking things we no longer want

When we can no longer feel complete
When all we feel is the hunger of something more
The wanting of something that will only sedate the craving
We have truly lost ourselves

Look inside and ask yourself
Do I REALLY need this?
Or do I just want it to be a part of a trend
Am I really going to use it

Will it be useful in ten years
Twenty years down the road
And we find ourselves digging
Finding old treasures we’ve forgotten

Like finding buried treasure
We hoard it for more years
Until we can no longer remember
When we actually got it

We think and think
But nothing comes to mind
We see the now junk items
And see ourselves staring back

We see that we too are broken
Covered in dust and unwanted
Forgotten by those who once cared
And buried by those we hold dear

But still we marvel at the novelty
The memories in which we can remember
The few moments of happiness or sadness
In which is etched into us like stone

When we are able to look at something new
And say that it won’t satisfy us
Only then will we be able to say
We have lived life to the fullest
blackbiird Sep 2018
A kaleidoscope of fleeting embers appears beneath the fireplace—
Burnt ashes permeating these hollow halls of winter.
Faded cards with Christmas carols mark the existence of another absolution
Where we invent ourselves from glass crystals and a nonsense
Fanatical of perfection.

Shards of rainbow-colored glass on the floor as we run barefoot among the stars.
Sparks of yellow and orange and blue and red and gold illuminate
The dreary existence of this lonely town.
As we search for new illusions to
Fill our drunken hearts.

Chestnut leaves fall onto the ground
As we countdown—

Another year gone—
Another soul taken—
To cashmere sweaters and expensive screens.
What have we become?
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