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towel made
avowal as
its chow
with Mao
where once
an owl
he'd cowl
his fowl
but his
jowl has
afoul but
this president
amid that
henchman made
law prowl
this accrual
Marla Jan 20
The land of opportunity has hung me out to dry
because my eyes are just too wide
for someone to pay any mind.
Three languages, two degrees, and a lifetime later,
I am no closer to finding success than I was
when I began upon this path.
But though I've worked every type of job
on every side of the counter
and gotten myself into every kind of debt,
I just can't shake the feeling that I'll do something
most would come to regret.
The world nowadays is one filled with loans and credit,
high interest rates without a chance in hell to ever fully pay.
Mortgage your life just to get by
and become a slave without chains,
ain't that just the grand old American way?
Anyone else feeling a little bit askew and without their fair share of dues?
Corey Boiko Dec 2019
In my eyes i see evil,
A window depicting
A devil beside me.

I couldn't see though him,
As i hurried through the rain.
His reflection stained dry
Just inside the glass.

A man slowly writhing,
tossing, and turning,
Tattered soaked clothing,
On a dampened cardboard bed,
On the wrong side of the glass.

There he suffers,
Feet from salvation,
My train station.

A shiver passes through me
As i enter this cathedral of a station,
Population: one bulletproof guard,
Ensuring that i am not bothered
By the sickening feeble,
****** and outside.
But that does bother me.

Is there no church
In this place of momentum,
On the greener side of the glass,
Where we do not stop moving?
Thanks To Eunoia for reading this before it was ready, and helping me choose a title!
Sai Kurup Apr 2019
Head spinning
Heart aching
Torn between worlds
Like cloth being ripped apart

One of tradition
Speaking my native tongue
Wearing my culture
A dress adorned
With the tales of nameless ancestors
Lost to history

One of modernity
Pursuing the passions
That burn like a blazing sun in me
Eyes sharp, voice echoing

Trying to find day and night
In search of me
Debbie Lydon Feb 2019
I'm told that feeling and love are innate,
So why can't I communicate?
I'm despairing and longing for human connection,
But I'm met with indifference or even rejection.

Internally I harbour thoughts of kindness,
But they wither in the wake of external blindness,
I'm obsessed with truth and authenticity,
And this comes at the detriment of anyone knowing me.

An extreme fear of misunderstanding remains,
Despite me knowing that this is my ball and chain,
A depleting hope lingers on in my dreams,
So fragile and weak, a mere ember it seems.
A poem concerning the difference between the way you are perceived and the way you perceive yourself. A fear of misunderstanding is ever present in a society that is fueled by facades and a cold approach to eachother. It causes pain and this is becoming more and more overt in our day to day lives.
Taliesin Dec 2018
There are those who’d curse the paintings
That held the highest beauty
For being formed from something
Impermanent as oil and paint
Intangible as light.

There are those who’d curse a romeo
Cast in stone relief
For such vanity, and hubris
For how could such a man
Begin to know such beauty and
The truth of open feeling?

There are those who would cut this holy wire
That tethers us across the world
For fear of some lurking evil
Some banging in the dark
That’s bound to take our souls away
Some lack of love or depth

There are those who’d see the flesh on flesh
And cries like angelsong
And **** it for it’s fleetingness
For their father’s love was purer.
For their father’s love was strong
Their poor and lonely fathers
Cursed to loveless love

Oh brave new world that I have seen
That has such people in it!
Who cry for long-forgotten men
Yet **** the ones before them!
wrote this in anger after the 50th poem I saw pass by which complained about the evils of modern technology and society
Rohan P Nov 2018
amass, the flesh.

we're just spinning brains
without a central axis.

and i thought that you would
steady me, i thought

you would expect more.
towards the centre, like an earth.
Ellie Wolf Aug 2018
I could hear a pin drop.

No, a ball of cotton lightly float and touch down.
Upon a silk sheet.

A speck of dust land on another speck of dust thousands of light years away,
where the colours are inverted negative,
and creatures communicate in a way that doesn’t require poorly worded drunken blurbs
converted into electrons
travelling from one annoyingly loud metal chip to another.

I can hear the electrons converting
and I can hear them laughing at me.

I am a speck of dust upon a speck of dust.
Ungracefully, heavily falling onto my creased sheets.

Alone.
Larry Kotch Jun 2018
Our minds, our dreams they built a noise;
The men that played with little toys;
The houses, castles of muddy boys;
Towering now they could empower all;

We scream and **** and hunt through malls;
We stamp the weeds through cracks, in awe;
Driving fast to make the trains;
It's those before that take us home;

Past the blocks of all the mighty;
Past the seas and trees that bow;
We end up back to wood and stone;
When they kick us off our thrones;

We let go of a force that needs us;
A swelling pride that really sits beneath;
We sheath our swords our pens our teachings;
Their silence cuts our crowns to pieces;
A meditation on the propensity of the contemporary human being, specifically men to march progressive values over tradition. The principle metaphor being nature, representing the timeless and much more ancient source of value and responsibilities humans should intuitively feel but seem reluctant to confront.

Thus the swelling pride actually comes from the immense pride we subconsciously have for the human project thus far, 130 000 years of basi9c human existing with its traditional family units. and its humble but established origin, not the fast paced castles and toys and malls that we think we derive values and empwerement from.

Men march through life stamping in the weeds of that ethic that goes just noticed underfoot, one human lifetime is not enough to fully appreciate the swords and books and values our ancestors developed over thousands of years so much so that we evade thinking about them completely. That silence, when we truly recognise it, when it looks us in the face when naked cuts our ambitions and glory down to peices.

Or something like that
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