We are slaves Nothing but slaves Dominated by our convinctions Buried by our ego
We don't believe in anything. We only care about ourselves. We are all trapped in a hole digged by our closed mind. The world will never be a better place to live in if we only trust in our convinctions and do not listen other ideas.
To open one's mind Would be to seek out what closed It in the first place
My assumption is that we weren't all born with the intolerance we may have for those we don't understand. But if we could understand what closes us off to others and deconstruct it, we allow ourselves the opportunity to take time to think for ourselves. When we make time to do this, we may just realise what or who we closed ourselves off to had never been a threat to our being at all.
The hardest things about Everything about religion Is everything is either your enmy Nothing is ever good for you Trying to Not shame yourself Not trying to shame all your FAMILIES Bad things are harsher Good things are Never enough Everything has a flaw They say you don’t have to be perfect But every step to womanly hood is judged Belief is there but not very strong If your on my ***** business all the time Not all religious people are very religious If anything they are the worst of the worsts As woman you learn so much about Who really true to GOD Or all those fakes pretending But they are the real perverts!!
These words, they conglomerate on the page loosely tied together by the date the sharpest needle and the finest thread could not stitch them together I have tried many times I have stabbed myself many times but scraps of sting unused words lay loosely distorting an unforeseen design but if you squint posses an open mind then the words will seem to tighten
Could someone tell me how poetry slams work? How long are the poems supposed to be? What type of poetry is read at those types of events?
Vastly and taken, among us We walk alone As have we always And shall we continue Our minds aren't always As silenced as we should be We listen and evaluate, As if its our job, to gain the knowledge of you To figure you out. To know our jobs of further corruption. Against anyone and everyone And we watch, as to gain power To know what to do to make you ***** inhabitants of our mother earth live in fear and restlessness. We are the control You, our puppets We decide if and when to free you from your strings Only attached to crosses as To represent religion Falling far from it in your falling out with a god, after being cut Only to figure out you knew nothing of what religion really stood for Because after all? Who really knows? But us. We are complete control. Learn to obey and get into our rythm of speaking, so you lip it, they think its opinions. We.the collectors. Gathering stars In an infinity of black charred sky. We must add color to our canvas. We, gathering your glass tears in our paper jars Throwing them to the sky. So you'll forever remember mourned loved ones until you become that as well. And you think stars are some beautiful representation of life, we all burn out. Some might be. Tears of joy. Proposal on a sunny day. A new family. Warm and fuzzy memories for you to store. But to collectors, stars are to remind you That even in a black nothing land There is still suffering. The sun isn't getting closer But only bigger and still enlarging rapidly As there will always be pain And suffering Tragedy in great masses. Broken hearts. Stars are to show remembrance in bad times. What else is there out in the cold of space? You don't know. Exactly. You know nothing of what is to come. Of what you are to become.