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Elm Feb 2019
Crystal clear; Cleaned crystal
Window Washer; Watching World

This skyscraper's stories are his to tell.
He climbs the corporate ladder daily.

CEO's overlord office view
At lunch shared with Washer's chews.

His peers are his feathery foes
Yet birds make better friends than those,
That look right though him...
rhionna Feb 2020
lately
I feel like I'm floating
an outsider looking within
even with friends
this feeling never came up before
why do I feel it now?
stuck outside
set aside from conversations
left boxed off from friends
reduced to nothing but
an outsider looking within
trying to describe this weird way I feel as of late
ardnaxela Feb 2020
the Rose that grew from concrete...
the delicate face
of a fragile beauty...
guarded by some tough exterior -
dutifully unacknowledged.
indeed, achieved a great a feat
but still
buried underneath their feet.

everyday trodden;
not once a chance to thrive -
effects of a circadian stampede.
A Rose
that grew for a simple life,
but the beauty within had died.

Her leaves she let wilt,
took every blow she was dealt -
dull thorns now to speak for.
color drained with a droopy stem,
wishing away dark clouds
so then maybe
she would
See more.

Rose.
could she have had it all?
her existence left her nothing.
party of one and the place is full of Rocks.
a stand-alone soldier in a grave situation;
the hurt wouldn't stop coming;
should we pray for such mercies?
she figures...

no singular mercy could unseal her fate
the blade of society is sharp and
against her soft petals it continuously scrape

...when you've felt one pain you've felt them all.
senseless emotions
trigger moisture in the stigma
finally a drop of color -
to the concrete it would fall
rich red
like the Flower
that once cracked those gray walls.
I was inspired to take poetry seriously by Tupac. The Rose That Grew from Concrete - the first poem of his I read. This poem was inspired by that one, and emotions I was feeling about myself, my relationship and others around me at the time. This was originally written in 2015. Thanks for reading.
Growly Wolfus Dec 2019
When you see someone you love slowly fade away,
a little part of you dies.
Watching their laughing eyes turn red
filled with tears and hatred towards themself.

You know you're an outsider to their pain
and feel you can't do anything to help.
Every time you try
they respond with "I'm fine"
and shut you out with a face hot with shame.

Hopeless and helpless
they lie to your face
whilst crying in your arms
before saying they're "ok"

depressed...

                                                     ...tired...
They think they're worthless
and cut themselves to release some of the anxiety
Their blood staining your clothes
as you watch from the sidelines

It doesn't hit you until...

                                            ...it's too late...

                                                                                   ...they're
                                                                                              gone...

So lend them a hand,
embrace them in your arms,
comfort their tears,
tell them you understand,
and tell them they're not "fine",
that it's ok to be sad,
                           and you'll always be there
                                             to keep up their smile.
You may be an outsider to their pain,
                    so break down the wall and let yourself in.
We all get sad sometimes.  But seeing others depressed makes me feel even worse, especially when I know I can do something.
Max Neumann Dec 2019
antwone the gang leader always
be like: imma make a call; two
minutes and they here

regardless what the issue about:  
antwone always about dat
(and they always come for sure)

me? i ain't made for that
me just tizzop
ain't belong to antwone's
brotherhood

even if i wanted to:
they wouldn't let me

dem dudes roll heavy
while i note down outsider dreams with white ink on
black pages
you feel me?

antwone's dudes addicted to
drive-by-shootings
i'm deep inside; yet no part of that;
my handz not made for glockz

my hands are made for pens;
i'm from the ghetto; who cares?
my hands are made for pens
and if i'm broke i will
write with sparkling fingers

that is for certain therefore my death will be silver
my eyes be shiny like gold then
god is always by my side

you feel me god? good cause i feel you god (HEART)

last breath: tizzop's dead body will be floating on air
because a good man does the right thing (i want to be good)
dead brotherhoodlums be munched by icy blacktop
you feel me?
eternally doomed down there without air
i won't be there  

i am from the ghetto
who cares?  
my hands are made for pens

* WRITE TO SURVIVE
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3446210/a-good-man-does-the-right-thing-ii/

Mind dem families in the projects who sleep on the floor cause they don't wanna catch dem bullets.
J J Nov 2019
Luminescent skin, spiralling layers pressed
From inside the curling dagger pollen;
Violin strings draw forth the butterflies
Towards their fate, cerberus lips clasp
Wings of dafodil— spotty mossy green
Outcrosses the budded red drooping dead;
Akashic run, like that of a waterfall
Whence rippling pendulums row,caught infinitely.

Glowing stem— seperating to laughing claws
and mandalas paused along fully harmonious crease;
All falls back to fungal soil underground
For which all life is magnetically supported:
Prestine exoskeleton, flaming bones
that weavith skyward with ancestral ghost
softly chasing, having foundated their creator.

Blonde hair binding split petals via waves
  Of furious vibrations, snapped calm and quiet.

Mature flesh and bone, whom let the pencil
Move over pale canvas—
'I picture a clock that's arms spin fire
Outward. '
Poor woman, legless two years
Prior to her deathday— wonderous harbinger
Who once, overwhelmed by the menial day to day,
let pencil fall,skim and form
   and reform

Beautifying the world -- lonely, bold and brave
Her mind image caught, fished through the haze

And etched for the rest of time to forget.
Tribute to an amazing Czech artist
Sometimes, I'm walking with Jinns in my head;
I hear clear things that haven't even been said,
I see ideas that yet nobody has had.


Sometimes, I'm walking with Jinns in my head;
I bear the colour before people see it as red,
I feel by what people have been led.


Sometimes, I'm walking with Jinns in my head;
I steer my steps as the thoughts have me led,
I peer the ways that they said.


Sometimes, I'm walking with Jinns in my head;
Sometimes, I feel they have made me grad,
Sometimes, I fear they make me bad.


Sometimes, I'm walking with Jinns in my head;
For understanding, sometimes, I'm so glad,
But sometimes, I'm just sad and mad.
27.02.2019
Irina BBota Sep 2019
Next to your footsteps
I feel like an outsider
An unwanted guest
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