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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,
Incorrupt,
Unblemished.

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?

Home,
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—
Five…
Four…
Three…
Two…
One…

Another year gone—
Another soul taken—
To cashmere sweaters and expensive screens.
What have we become?
Afia Aug 2018
Little famished people left after they were born
A tiny old place can no longer be their home
Little acquisitive people travel to the cities
Soon their greed seize their courtesy
Little naive people disguise so well.
“Let us add a white shade to our scarlet blood.”
Little grey people complain about the world
A tear or two should ‘justify' their ‘love'
Little learned people fight for human rights
Dazzling crystal goblets clink on every ‘I'
Little erudite people cherish old tombs
But they forget the life spent in the womb
Little fading people live no life
Hence they regret as they retire
Little us. Little world. Little life.
Elicia Hurst Apr 2018
Love
You use it like a currency
One coin — after another —
when slipping through the mouth
of a vending machine
is no longer enough
You shove and pound on!
Until I gag:

moneysecurityopportunitysuccesspridepowerstatusdreamshappin­essthingsthingsthingsdeadthings

When I ask You:
“Do You regret gambling away
in me the Life that was promised
to You  
as a wasteful investment
when my open hand holds only
Disappointment?”

You answer with conviction
suffices to convict me
“Blood is thicker than water
so I will try harder”
as I swallow — each —
and — every —
— well — meaning — copper —
flood my throat
in the ****** beautiful taste of Love
Love
Love
Love
Nothing
but Love.

I shall never starve for Love
if only I had the stomach for such Food.
Feb 2018
ABHAY SONINGRA Mar 2018
When I look at you
and your hundred photographs
with some smiles saying cheese
while you are busy making some material memories.

You tend a click a shooting star
or perhaps a new born flower.
You capture the reindeer
and get a video of a someone drinking beer.
Those likes that please
and the validations that they give.
Is it really what matters ?

Would you still click the riviera
instead of lying on the grass ?
or would you take a moment to breath
or post just another smiley ?
Its a never ending cycle.

Communication through light
and distantly distant on the inside
You still don't bother
and still request more friendships.

Do you still long for those hugs and
that little chemistry.
Do you still wish to hold hands
or the ups in your heartbeats.

I still wait for a whisper,
telling me that you love me.
I wish to wake up besides you
and not for a beep.
But there’s you
and your Fake Dopamine.
What is happiness? What are we running for? What are we running away from?
XPY Mar 2018
I find it funny
How we live our lives
Showing our love
And gratitude
And everything else
In the value of
little
metal
pieces
And slips of
paper
Whose value
Is more than it should be,
When all we do is
waste away
Until the world is naught
But dust and starlight.
Currency is a made-up concept yet its insignificance doesn't matter because in this world, it's the only thing that matters.
© KMH 2018
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