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Alaina Moore May 20
What if I allow myself,
to be myself,
while still being happy?

What if I stop
being the bully,
and become cheerleader full time?

What happens when I just trust myself
as a default?

Well then I guess,
I'd be free.
Roadblocks? Move em.

Also title is a quote from Taking Back Control by Sparta.
Music doesn’t belong to me
It never has
I thought I’d discovered it

Well, actually I did
It’s just that others
Had gotten there before me

I wanted it to be mine
It made me feel
Alone but
Less so

So many dead musicians
So many unborn
So many much better than I

It’s ok

Because I
Discovered music
melli7 Feb 16
Who owns grief?
The one who cries the loudest?
The one who acts the most disturbed?
     Or *******-ish?
     Or eerily withdrawn and quiet?
The one who had The Best Relationship with the dead?
     The most unresolved?
The one who feels the most guilt?
     Who feels out of place at the funeral?
     Who resents the world?
     Who is named in the will?

How many people can have a share?
Who is allowed a say on the Board of Grief?
     Are children underage?

How powerful are the grieving?
Enough to command a neighbor’s chicken soup?
     Family heirloom?
     Family entire?
     Telephone call?
Hey there,
my darling Debt,
how is it
what's yours
is not necessarily mine,
yet what's mine
is already yours?
Did I
Provide the cause
With all my flaws
To take ownership
For these faults
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
Delia Grace Jan 8
This vessel is not yours,
But the wheel will still turn
Under your hand.
She creaks at your step
As though you may break through
Her soft Swiss boards.
She is stronger than you.
And she is still yours in part.
Do not forget that this
Is the only reason you do not
Crash below her decks.
She may turn for you,
But you are not welcome
Under the floor you let rot.
Isaac Nov 2019
you think that flowers are pretty and the forest
smells fresh and they are all made for you
just for you. you think that the green grass is soft
and the seas and skies and sand are all for you.
you think that nature is generous and kind
and good and pure just like you

i also wonder about humanity’s ever-increasing
records of stupidity, their eyes blind with anger
entitlement suspicion frustration the heat of rage
miniature suns burning and blistering and
destroying everything they see touch anything
in reach, thinking that all is theirs and theirs is all

they don’t see the blood on the floor and the
bodies lying all around. they step on them like
pillows on a road, rolling over them like the stones
they are, don’t see the teeth and eyes and edges
lying all around, all the traps biding their time,
waiting to crush a few pebbles

the true monster has yet to show, eyes shut
but not asleep, dormant but not oblivious
waiting in the shadows of the air and the black
days that the humans pass by like the stones they
are, blood pooling bodies rotting, and the humans
can’t care won’t care couldn’t care less as they
continue to fall

time is ticking and so is their patience, a silent
bomb waiting to be free of the grasps of dirt
and soil soiling its body, when finally nature strikes
back, strikes hard, as the humans fall ten by ten,
grass blades flying and petals dying, when nature
reclaims what has been stolen

nature will come back, and erase humanity like
moss on a stone, eating and destroying and
poisoning their already heavy hearts and souls,
dragging them over down into the earth, till
their blood has replaced theirs and their bones
have melted back where they came from,
and humans finally realise the moment just before
they fall from the earth, that it was all in their minds

they never owned nature, they were the ones that
needed her

nature never needed humans

they’re just mouldy stones at the bottom of a
fish tank long forgotten
This is the fifth poem of the set of eight.

We won’t expect the grass blade through our hearts.
Megan Jones Sep 2019
"A child may not be
considered a piece of property-
only the child possesses genuine rights
the Right to be respected as a person
from the moment of his conception"
He was born in the year 1964
A world on the brink of splitting open,
On the edge of revolution, progress, protest

The stained glass windows speckled from the rain
Incense and old wood covered in fingernail imprints
Matching those on the sides of his arms
A small choir singing hymns of Salvation and Praise
His mother nudges him "stand up straight, eyes forward"
A mind wandering from the homily on Sacrifice
To the images of bombings in Hamburg

Adorned with black and white collars
Gripping an unlabeled wine bottle
The children sprinted through the wooded trails
Mud spattering across their legs and dress shoes
The others spun in circles, as if trapped in jewelry boxes
Their ankles dressed in pink ribbons
This was no place for innocence and imagination
But one of penance and prayer

He kept his toy cars and trains in a green metal box under his bed
It wasn't much, but they were his
Through them locking him in the closet for hours
And being told to not speak unless spoken to
The times of self expression, of emotion, feeling
Shamed and forced suppression - turned to repression
These cars and trains, they were his

Mental illness is a myth
Suicide is a mortal sin
We decide who you are
You cannot feel
Kneel down
Be quiet
Say your prayers
I'm writing a series about control. The ways in which people manipulate time, memories, feelings etc. as a means of determining and predicting what free-thinking individuals do/feel/say... All, supposedly, in the name of love or as a means to preemptively protect themselves from being subjected to the uncontrollable.
Darryl M May 2019
In opulence.
Beauty be the sophistication of a lady,
The intimidation of her very being.
Beauty is about the innocence in a lady’s texture.
The string of temptation and nobility,
Something that hits the heart.

I can see the dark along the lustre coins of the sky.
I wanna find my favourite spots on your body.
Are there any?
Can’t really tell without ******* you on my own.

No man can ever sail to the oceans of desire.
The very oceans, we’ll sink in.
Don’t judge me, face to face,
Self-control is not what I aim for,
When I’m close to you.

****** colours of ribbons,
Ribbons of lust and passion.
The untidy strings of Desire.

Allow me to pull you closer to the signal of moans,
Allow me to hear the echoes of your warm breath escaping in passion.
Bounded by the prisons of ****** desire.

I love how your body moves when I’m in it.
The chorus of pleasure sounded by your moan.
Oops, suspension in hallucination.
Completed: 19th August 2018 [13:58 PM]
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