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Pinkmoon Apr 13
Thoughts and Prayers
They burn
Ashtray of humanity
Incense offering
There is no god
Thoughts and Prayers
Seth Milliman Feb 13
I am but a few words,
Mindful of manners and mayhem.
My dreams come in waves of plenty,
Yet I spare only a few.
I mumble and tumble over them,
They beg no quarter.
Yet wish to be heard,
I silence what wishes to speak.
Yet lives on only in single memory,
I dance around in cryptic self-wonder.
But must answer in plainish ways,
Is it the punishment of living onward?
Am I to be the self translator of self?
Cursing but not ending,
Living but not yet dead.
What possible way of misery is this?
What cantankerous absolute point of view is worth seeing first?
Am I the wild one?
Set forth to wander a desert made by others.
Perish the thought I survive someone else’s dream,
That I live the uncontrolled controlled.
What manner of mindset does the fool endure?
What crept, slithered, painstaking idea became my own?
My dream, is it?
My life, is it?
My sadness, my madness, the ups and downs, is it?
Who lives of me?
Who lives for me?
Who desires to see me and not demand compensation?
Does the wind blow in my favor?
This tossing and turning of mayhem and manner is outwardly atrocious,
It begs, it pleads, it demands as like a child.
Am I still?
By others do I mature or am I already?
Questions and personal answers,
But who’s right?
What desire of manner is of self or of others?
I ask and yet self reply,
I see yet seen only others self.
This is the madness of this world,
Am I of you or am I of me?
Just wandering in my head
Amongst confusing emptiness
Complete isolation a
Kind loneliness that
Sings derisive laughter
Onto a burdened soul in
Need of placidity

Pieces of broken heart
Out of my control
Lost in my mind
Lacking gravity
Outside in
Consciously imploding silently
Knowing nothing certain
Kashish Aug 2020
The waves are calling me
I think it’s time I go now
The thoughts are crashing inside my head
Like the waves crash on the shore
 
Maybe if I listen to their calling
And get immersed into the depth of the ocean
They will decimate me once and for all
And finally, I will be in peace. With no hurt, no emotion
 
I certainly don’t mean anything to anyone
I think it’s time I go and untie the knot
I got caught in the mayhem. My mind is drained
From asking thyself, whether to quit or not?
Kashish Aug 2020
A distant village, far from here
Where people reside with love and care
Untouched by the worldly mayhem
Nothing there is illusory or sham
A corner of heaven it is. My heart lies in peace
It's the only place where loads of endorphins release
Bhill Jun 2020
The Vow

my brain will not be silent
my heart won’t skip a beat
the world is way to violent
the sun has lost its heat
what is going to take place
after it all is said and done
we need to succeed and embrace
and know that humans have won
we all retain the power
to stop this mayhem now
it will take a worldly shower
it will take mankind's vow....

Brian Hill - 2020 # 172
Make that Vow...
Diksha Prashar Dec 2019
Use to fear
The sunshine,
Today craving its shine,
When darkness surrounds,
Only hope to feel,
Mollifying warmth,
Like a vine,
Need to clutch it
Before it slip again,
From my fingers
I relish mayhem,
It stirred within
Whispering sweet nothings
You will live again.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2019
<>
“rootless in shallows of momentary mayhem
and no matter the change in horizon,
there is always some thing to be found
that could remind me
of the worst ways I have ever been.”


from “Harlequin Days of Fecund Fervor” by Victoria

<>

rereading these your words, upset forces me to break a recent vow,
my own writing banished, now faceless in the ranks
of just another poet, busted in rank, chose my own
decommissioning but then your momentary mayhem
plea, fecund you, your third harlequin, states construct!

stay the constriction, the recalling of our worst worsts,
for there is always something to be found, recalled,
that the horizon’s only constant is constant change,
especially the worst worsts

I am colored by your treats, your word plums ripe even
out of season, and the mayhem is mine only mine,
robbed you for it is I, rootless, given up my planting, then
the cobblestones of old new york, trip me up, saying
even old things such as you, have a prime yet to come,
stones fecund seeding, predicting I am not done, just undone,
and fetuses within this dying body, may yet be carried to term,
may yet, maybe, may be, but may be caesarean stillborn

rambling this, mostly musty unclear, so summarizations a
sensible thing, a pardon requested for clarity is a sometime thing.

rare are the days that the terracotta colored soil
darkens my fingernails,
it is dried blood from my scratching deep beneath the skin’s topsoil,
but nothing grows that’s whole, warped are the word fruits.
my soup is hot water with salt, a tasty dish apropos for one
whose growths are rootless in the shallow, infertile dirt of stones
that reside in the shallows of a garden of mine own
fecund may-hem of the grey fall sky autopsy turvy
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