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self discovery,
is a strange path
a winded one

its hard to grasp
and will escape your fingers
at any possible chance it has

why is it that
the true version of yourself
tries so hard to get away

skewed by society
warped by our own reality

perhaps our real selves,
aren't real at all

how do i tell
who is the real me
with questions from me, to me x
Rachel Armstrong Jul 2020
i often want to write something,
but every time i try i feel as though someone already has
but when i tell someone i love them,
i've said it a thousand times and still mean it
so it doesn't really matter how original you are,
as long as you still mean what you're repeating
Nietzsche said: "Many a man fails as an original thinker simply because his memory is too good.”
Kairosclere Jun 2020
What can you do that hasn't been done before?
There are but the same words
To churn and repeat
Taking on a new form
With each different pen.
ORBIAM SIMON Jan 2020
Roast me on the charcoal bottom of your heart
Roll me in your pie and chew
As your meals yummies
Draw me and paste on the pages of your mind

Like poster and image
Paint me in the color of your blood
Leave me stained on the ground like a liquid black gold
Mine me with your steel heart of unforgiving
Peel out my skin for your white magic
Use my flesh for experiment

It's mysterious and strange
Yet I can breathe melanin as oxygen
Because it's runs in my veins

I beneath my brain with the dark spot of my soil
I stretche out my hands to receive
But still match my feet on my rock.
This poem is all about the  black people and their mentality ofter the colonization.
Chandra S Nov 2019
The only seminal content that ever arises:
is from existence itself.

All else is borrowed thought.

Trust me,
the sky will not be the same tomorrow.

Originality is one-off.
Yue Wang Yitkbel Oct 2019
I am a soul of fragments,
Of the minuscule,
Of the details.
I want to be a great sea of ceaseless poetry,
But always focus on the small, the unnecessary.

I am touched by every soul,
And they live on through me,
Sometimes it's not just me, but
We are all afraid of seeing other's words
Other's mark on us,
But we must embrace freely
The past and the contemporary,
Just as we can't all reinvent LANGUAGES independently,  
We can't have souls that rather be silent
Than to create.

I am merely the temporary vessel
Taking whatever is exterior to me
In the river of all the creations
Letting them combine
And
Flow together freely
And pour them back out again
Back into Creation.
Back into the great water of poetry,
Waiting to be fearlessly
Borne
Into another wave.
Thanks to Lawrence Hall for inspiring this!





I think I can safely say all of my poetry are written completely impulsively; I write them all completed in one sitting, from less than a minute, if it is the one-liner that I used to write more, and think might be quite clever, to a few hours if they are those long stream of consciousness that I enjoy more nowadays.

When the inspiration flows, and while I write, I am immediately transferred to a void of pure focus, and I write down whatever comes to mind, though not completely without deliberate structuring. In fact, I think, I am obsessed with making sure my literary technique follows as logical of a sequence of events as my unkempt and constantly confused mind allows.

My mind is quite filled with metaphors, motifs, and symbolisms formed from everything I experience, see, read, touch, or just appears in my mind spontaneous; when I am aware of their origin, I tried to link to them in the poems itself, as with the bees and flies from War and Peace from the last poem I posted, or I tried to explain my exact thought process in the notes.  

Most times, as soon as I have written about something, I do not want to think or read them again, strange, as they are my own words, but I had always felt like vessel, with ideas always coming from beyond me, independent of me, and then passing through my hands into the world, and then I would feel completely strange to them, and utterly empty. Sometimes I do get outside inspirations, but then again, as soon as I begin writing, I seem to forget everything, even myself.

When it comes to writing, I mostly only feel fulfillment and pride at two close moments,  when I am totally immersed in the poetry and unaware of anything else, and right after writing.

Then, when around a day passes, I am already dillusioned and begin to itch to write something better.

I wrote down whatever feelings, and motifs, and metaphors that came to mind without much thought to why them specifically, whether or not they make logical sense, are they contradicting, are they original or cliched, or perhaps even overused.

What you see/read is exactly what went through my mind without much or even any editing.

In fact, I think all of my writing on here is exactly how it is in my mind, straight from the soul;  the poetry forms itself in my head and heart, and I just let them flow out exactly they are, formed by whatever is beyond me.
coulorfulSmoke Sep 2019
Remember Red,                                            
originality is not Remembered or Respected in Regards to art.

i’ll Reward you,
when you stick yourself in the photocopier.
Dominique Jun 2019
The silhouettes are all the same
When formed by falling nuclear rain;
And that's the real catastrophe:
No difference between you and me.
Without individuality we have nothing :)
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