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rig f laurel Jul 19
nobody sees me,
nobody calls me,
and nobody cares.
only memories,
these sheep, keep me here.
Nabiila Azzahra Feb 2019
‪It’s hard to conjure up a forest fire‬
My flames are quiet and I tremble
I flinch
I buckle at the knees
My fight or flight senses were birds in their past lives
I am sorry I was not born Achilles, marching into every war with certainty, never knowing a sliver of doubt
Prophecies of greatness do not cling to me like summer air
I open my mouth and words betray me, for I am no Odysseus with his honey tongue
But heed this promise: I will create something one day
A great many somethings, born not from innate divinity but perseverance
Like Daedalus with his artist’s mind, craftsman’s hand, quiet thinking, deliberate talking
I am becoming
Like golden witch Circe in Aeaea, feeling her way through strange new grounds
Someday, someday, somewhere else
You will see me bloom
PoserPersona Jul 2018
O sea! O tide! What wonderful life! Awaits us in the ocean.
Adore! Implore! What wonderful mores! Awaits us in the open.
We roar! We soar! What wonderful lore! Awaits lost trepidation.
Forsake those blinds which you thought chains, to see through the illusion.
Forsake those lies which you thought truths, so you can have perception
of that which does not hide from us, but we’ve betrayed it still.
Though of both life and death, mortals shall ne’er bend to their wills,
but of sole life, though not thou death, thou just might;
before going into the ever unknown day-night.
Pauper of Prose Jun 2018
How I’ve trekked with muddy boots
Through superficial swamps to arrive here
Where Apollo’s apprentices laze about
Though slicked with sweat the air here is sweet
Where muses pull on poets like reigns
And all dreams and delusions are bared
And all hope and hell shines without glares
And all our secrets slither from our stoic stares
And all are cradled in a community that cares
Oh how I’ve trekked with muddy boots
Nick Stiltner Mar 2018
Smoke filled dens of drifting ***** scent,
Imagined worlds dancing behind the eyes
of the laying men.
Heads fall back and pupils roll to face brow,
revealing a cloudy unseeing white.

What lies behind the eyes of laid men
that makes them respond to the sweet song of
lotus flower time and again?
Are they taken to that Mediterranean isle visited by
Odysseus in his journey, the idle isle where time lazily flows
and sunrise and sunset have no meaning at all?

If I was bunk mate to Odysseus on his mission home
and our boat met sand on this secluded cove,
would I see it for what it was?
After tasting my first sweet lotus petal, offered
to me by beauty divine, could I resist a second kiss?

Would I have bravely boarded the ship away,
eyes hard and mind set on my destination,
or would I have planted feet firmly to sand
and wave as the brave ones sailed away to face
the ever abundant misery of reality?
jace Jan 2018
Odysseus, we greatly praise you
From your strength and wisdom
The greeks are lucky to have you
And so is your kingdom

Such great adventures, king Odysseus
Its a shock you could survive
The journey was very dangerous
But at least you're still alive
I was actually pressured into making this as I was tested by my english teacher to write a poem about Odysseus in 15 minutes. I just made it comedy so that I could at least get her attention
Jennifer Tone Jan 2018
One eye in, one eye out
Penetrated by your energy deep into my soul, my unconscious.
I am listening, I have opened

O great Odysseus; brave explorer, my love
You have been at war too long
I invite you, sweet dreamer
Dive into the nectar of my lotus
Come feast upon my euphoria,
I blossom before you.

My king, you are your element
Your love, like water, nourishes my exaltation, my highest power;
My feminine divine

Inner goddess released,
We dance to the rhythm of wavelengths
I let you in, or so it seems
I now understand,
It is all a lucid dream
Kitt Nov 2017
When Penelope bid αντίο her dearest Odysseus
Did she shed a tear for her heart left alone
Or sit alone in the room where she would await his return
And knit quietly
The bemused bride of a nation grieving,
Groaning from the pains of war?
Alex Fontaine Jul 2017
I am the son of Thor.
The blood of Odysseus runs in my veins.
I breathe thunder.
My heart is the ocean.

Do you think I am the son of Cain
To trade my inheritance for your bowl of soup,
For your shiny things that vibrate and spin,
For your **** and violence,
For your ***** pills and swimsuit models?
I will close my eyes to your neon lights.
I will hold my breath against your sweet poison.
I will close my ears to your siren call.

I will dive below the cluttered surface of my consciousness.
I will seek in the darkness and find the spark of the sacred feminine
where she slumbers in the cold stone stillness,
Lightning will surge through my nerves
and I will explode into flame.

Your filth will rise from me like smoke,
Your carnal lies will fall away like ash,
I will smash your idols like twisted mirrors,
And you will remember god.
At what point does it become your job as a man to question the stereotypes that our actions support? Where do they come from? Who are they really serving?
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