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I'll write this in blue
Because it's how I feel
And I can't help it

I'll write this in green
But I don't know what it means
I don't go outside

I'll write this in red
For everything I hadn't said
They've never really left my head

I'll write this in black
To forget all that I lack
And who I could of been
Jon Thenes Sep 13
in our very own room
all have fever.. privately
we feed it soft egg

we closet and build
create fabric, like insect
mouthwork, repurpose

outside of the home
dictated by company
we have shared madness

we tread the weather
we institutionalize
miss out on the world

societies pal
traitors to our piracy
mistrust our own mind

blinds drawn, in fierce study
apply to the retooling
head clay made better

the automaton
must bare some animation
unallied approach

wetter still and fit
your neutrons fend now and thrive
carry the tune outdoors ?
Bhill Sep 12
How do you know
Was it ever enough
What thundered feeling into your life
Did the accepted circumstances ****** you
You were always outside of the limited space
Limited by the imprisoning power of mindless perceptions

How did you know?

Brian Hill - # 228
Do you know if you know or how you know?
Annie Sep 9
Wild children have been here
to throw glitter in the green,
in the sun it does shimmer
and glimmer and gleam.

While the dew does sparkle,
the birds babble on,
flitting and swooping
on rays of the sun.

Butterflies dance
between evergreen trees,
carried by birdsong
and the early spring breeze.

They flit and they float,
in the colour of honey,
the kind that is golden,
delicious and runny.
Watching the archetypal parable filler sealing his fate with a seed,
and see the walls of the story blossoming off to the sky.

It seems to offer impossibility bottled and wreathed,
a leaf in season to whittle through to the blossom in time.

The time he took to fear it, board windows, ignoring the means,
and flailing crops are not to halt the work ,and question the why.

He finds a seed to bury deep within the walls of his dreams,
a kind of thief to be policing the light.

The hubris in a few ferocious branches,
accruing the subtle stances required, refusing visitor glances at the shrine
The thorns swallow a rich canopy buried beneath
and keep a perilous gift hanging for traveler thigh

Time echoes in hope of lending vestige's light, crying out
to see the breadth of the line.
To see the tangential nature of the leaf,
and know the grief elucidated and reaped
for a return on what we sow in the vine

Another garden enclosed.
A partial view of the sky.
A further longing for truth.
Assume a gruesome divide.
Aloof and hardened to bone.
A carving suited for pine.
A starving forest in use.
Abuse is moving inside.

Confusing and dried.

He's choosing his pride.

Refusing a guide.

Losing his mind.
staring once more
into myself
dregs staring back
me, "nothing more
than a character"
then close, it follows
staring inside
from the outside
what do you see?

can't escape the
sum of my parts
smoke signals sent,
nothing returned
need to ask those burned
"should i burn myself"
hurting inside, toiling
the trivialities.

what's the good word?
i'm making sense
time wasn't lost,
the time was spent

every once in a while
i can act out certain scenes
in ways my words
could never say

my worst qualities crack the best of my plans
my worst qualities crack the best of my plans

there was a point,
the recent past,
this act had meant
feeling concrete
the cast has since
disappeared
let the pour pool
up here, set
around my feet.

my worst qualities crack the best of my plans
my worst qualities crack the best of all my plans

i'm split, i'm split, i'm split
Poetic T Aug 26
We are beggars asking for scraps,
                  but our words are unheard because we don't
                   collect forged notes that never mean much

But hollow forgery's.


I will only give those worth the reading my cents
                                                                ­           of truth.


Never false notes that seem worth on the outside.
                          But then you truly try to spend ,
knowing there merely worth less than the paper
                                                                ­        there wrote upon


Cant we read a wet piece of in for its worth.

                                          not for the forgery that

collects on the venom of who liked it before because they
                                       viewed you without even a constructive


comment...

                    What I misspelled that, hats off thanks for the

constructive comment, not the book of consequences,
                that flowed from a there, to a their?
                         yes my English is my first language,


but what I made a mistake but you want to witch hunt
                    my ****, burn me on the mistake of grammar.

what I misspelled that, ooow,
            I had a few beers but my muse kicked off,


and this is what I wrote, chill we ink. W elove what
          we do, a release, a channel of anger.

           For me its just my hobby, I like to ink what ever

falls from my finger sometimes I'm like  of the limit,

    but I still drive my words, even thought some swerve,



you understand where I'm coming from.
Cyan Aug 24
Your skin is only so deep
and can’t be cleaned beyond a centimeter
or so.

But arteries and veins run deep through thousands of miles.

And dialysis
of your bitter, liquid bits
will clean you nearly
beyond recognition.
LC Aug 20
the glass dome felt safe
the outside world
couldn't get in.
she could see
that outside world.
she never wanted it
until she noticed
the first crack in the dome.
she sat and watched.
after seeing more cracks,
she touched the dome.
the touches increased in force
until everyone heard
her sharp elbows
pounding on the glass.
she grew stronger
until, finally,
she broke the dome.
she's free now.
this is what I'm trying to do now - become my own person without other people's opinions forming a seemingly impenetrable glass dome around me.
Azure Aug 14
Mirrors

Mirrors  show my reflection,
but they never tell how I feel.
Smiles could send a warm signal,
but they hide the cold within.
Silence could seem peaceful,
but not when it's noisy inside.
It can be bright and shiny on the outside,
Although it's really dark within.
Never believe a reflection,
because it doesn't show what truly is.

https://scribblesindarkness.blogspot.com/
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