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Estelline Sep 4
Staring out
from my bedroom window
I can see a world below
It’s a seemingly pale place

Sketched onto walls and alley’s
Are the hopeless ideas
Dreamt up in the mind of ghosts

You’d be lucky to ever catch a glimpse of them
They always manage to go unnoticed
Dare I start to get envious

And sometimes it’s the names of two in love
Having fun
Looking onward with hope
At life's new path

But has their loved died I wonder
divided, crashing into the mess below
Were they lucky enough
To hold each other in the depths
Of which this world can pull you in
And make it out?

Ah, but why think and pout
About a thing you can’t change
I must arise from this poor excuse of good posture
Grab an umbrella
To shield from the pouring rain of life
And head out

Later, can I stop by your place?
We can talk about life
So what if we get into a little strife
In the end I know it’ll be alright
With your arms around me
There’s no place I’d rather be.
Graff1980 Oct 2020
I’ve seen
life **** the
marrow and steam,
from the hearts
that screams
waking to nightmares
from other bad dreams.

I’ve seen sorrow
spin and spill
the bottle
that makes
them feel ill.

I’ve seen chunks
come up
as fools pay the
the steep price
for late night
gotta get a life
fun time
gone wrong.

I’ve seen the road
that consumes
a broken body,
a choking
spending his last chip
just to spit nasty bits
and end it.

I’ve seen horror,
but being blessed,
I got to wake up
less depressed then when
I fell asleep crying.
I lived while
others were dying.
I got knack for surviving.
despite all the crap I have seen.
Greatness isn't for those,
Who gets satisfied merely by seeing their old work
And think 'This is it!'
But instead for those who observe their own work,
And think 'I wonder how I can top this'.
Being a born genius would have been great, life would have been somewhat simpler - maybe, who knows?

But since it is not, we might as well learn and improve ourselves on this journey - the payoff would be much better. Maybe, who knows?
Gunnika Mehra Aug 2020
In an aesthetic coffee shop,
Scribbling away with glee.
Drinking to my imagination,
Is it only me?

In this aesthetic coffee shop,
Where lovers often meet.
I hear fragments
of what their life has been.

Talking over coffee,
They think they are strangers to me.
I observe,I know,
I share their happiness, a witness to their vows.

Sadness and pain,
Sometimes the outcome may be.
But they still come to this coffee shop,
Unknowingly drinking with me.

I am not the only one,
Voila,it's not just me!
There are other artists in this coffee shop,
Observing and scribbling like me.
Kyle Duran Feb 2020
We bonded over
being broken

Watching other missing
puzzle pieces drink
their weekend away

We belonged perfectly,
sitting at the bar

Words became pictures,
the commotion our score

Glasses drained


We were out
the door
Dedicated to Thomas H.
Kyle Duran Feb 2020
I watched a person
fall and roll down
a snowbank

I could not stay
home any longer

The paint is peeling
The roof is leaking

I drove myself
to the beach

Parked the car
and sat

Slowly realizing,
that the person
who fell was
What do you think?
Kyle Duran Feb 2020
He walked in
frozen on the battle
field of addiction
and escapism

All he wanted
was the nostalgia
of his youth

“Have lemonade?”

Kyle Duran Feb 2020
She walked alone

Wearing a winter
jacket in fall

Poorly dyed red hair
and old makeup

All she wanted
was to be loved
Saw this girl as I was walking to work and this poem is for her.
Jessica Jan 2019
This cosmic canister carries the world’s disarray-
Our destinations different, our feelings the same.
Though we have regular meetings we remain strangers;
Heads down, uncomfortable.
A pattern forms in our lives which none exits, our sacred routine which if changed is wrong.
Empathetic eyes glazed with weariness.
At each departure, a new inhalation of caffeine and smoke,
A new wave of bodies,
A new mass.
We all contribute to the mass, but the mass never goes,
Only waxes and wanes with the seasons.
We travel as one, carried by destinations, riddled with enigmas.
The hour reaches 6:00 and the mass bulges; the kettle is at its boiling point.
We move as agitated atoms riling against one another.
The world’s day draws to a close, as our microenvironment wakes.

A man exhales stale disappointment- no promotion due.
The coarse skin of his fingers caresses
The constant happiness in his life;
Helping him live, hastening his death.
Unable to inhale satisfaction, his suit clad leg
Writhes underneath the table,
Distracting him, but alerting others of the craving.
Although his tie is straight and his briefcase orderly,
A lose thread and weary eyes give him away-
He’s tired; tired of life, tired of the necessary endless routine
Which holds him and his livelihood captive.
It weakens and sustains him simultaneously.
His secrets define him.

A girl sighs, her cheeks wet,
Tears heavy with hurt.
A bruise has settled itself on her forearm;
A warning for the next time she comes home late.
Her skin has become a canvas and everyday more paint is added.
Her permanent ink hides the painful marks
Yet the latter seems to leave the most lasting impression.
Her face is scarcely discernible;
Metal studs line the place where her smile should be-
They are so many that her humanity becomes robotic.
Her secrets define her.

The tube we sit in holds heavy hearts, new smiles,
Old friends.
The mass becomes one as each day our routine returns,
We get to know our fellow travellers
Without really getting to know them at all.
Their influence on our existence seems insignificant,
Yet they contribute to the steadfast mass that so grips our little lives,
Whilst we hold on to sanity by a single thread.
Our secrets define us.
Cat Lynn System Jan 2019

•☆•Gently •☆•

•☆• Observing •☆•



Having a hard time finding that right now...
Pathetic right?
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