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annh Feb 2019
pledges to purchase
intent on acquisition
baby-grow wishful thinking
5-7-7
Tara Jan 2019
The ocean,
oh it looked so blue,
shades of colour swimming around like clouds around the moon,

The water,
oh it looked so clean,
but it was just the sun's reflection making it clear,

Underneath the waves lay a graveyard,
a promise of death,
a promise of extinction,

Tombs made of plastic,
slathered in oil,
steaming with toxic waste,
and all the people know,

The damage is unfolding faster than we are evolving,

The turtles are ingesting plastic as if it were their only meal,
begging for their fins to just be free,
so they can dive through the sea,

The seals are tangled in nets, lines and lures,
plastic bags and packing bands,
till they're tied to their grave as if life were just a brief phase,

The seabirds skim the ocean waves for fish and squid,
yet plastic is their only catch of the day,
leaving them broken inside and out,
and dead on the beaches we claim are our own,

The whales are submerged beneath the sea,
eating most things that they see,
plastic, plastic everywhere beneath,
not giving them much time before they can no longer breathe,

The dolphins are gliding through the sea,
taking what they can to eat,
plastic as their only meal,
tearing them apart from within,
leaving them starving for weeks,
till the grave is the only thing they see,

Us humans are so weak,
we can’t see how deep the pain seeps,
but when nothing is left for us to eat,
and the rich have nothing left to steal,
we’ll end in the same graves as all the lives we could have healed.
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
A plastic bottle
Sits discarded at
The foot of a
Recycling bin.

A city bird,
Mistaking it for
Some kind of
Strange fruit, or

Perhaps a meal
Fit for a king
Descends, grasps it
With pincer'd claws,

Then carries it to
Her nest, and sits
For five minutes,
Watching, confused,

As her hatchlings
Gnaw at the label.
In bright red letters:
'Taste The Feeling.'
A poem about responsibility.
#23 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Anne Scintilla Oct 2018
Our efforts remain,
In landfills – incinerate,
Try reaching the sun.
this is for the half-baked work and sad attempts, we continue to give. i don't know how we can save humanity from the lament of our planet.

a.s.
Arcassin B Oct 2018
by Arcassin Burnham

My head hurts,
The beds shaking,
I'm breathing heavy,
Hot in this room,
the birds are singing,
I'm keeping it steady,
looking at attention to detail..
the peace is gone,
everyone's yelling,
fights breaking out,
still hot as hell,
nothing to do,
but get away from this,
as long as there is nothing to retell..

and I can't stress this enough,
why is my life just so tough,
all I want is beauty in a plastic red cup,
I might as well just give everything up,
if you could take away the stress,
that'll be great,
but if you make it worse through life as a cheapskate,
Don't talk to me,
Don't talk to me,

My head hurts,
The beds shaking,
I'm breathing heavy,
Hot in this room,
the birds are singing,
I'm keeping it steady,
looking at attention to detail..
the peace is gone,
everyone's yelling,
fights breaking out,
still hot as hell,
nothing to do,
but get away from this,
as long as there is nothing to retell.
©abpoetry2018

https://arcassin.blogspot.com/2018/10/plastic.html
Inday Sep 2018
Fur coats, Malboro smokes and fancy labels,
Fabricated faces closed off, segregated, false.
Pretending to be these people, these cloned plastic dolls.

Dark lips, skeletal figures and decadent glances,
Small waists, tall bodies and negative spaces
With hearts going nowhere, only lipstick traces.

You like to talk about people, about insignificant things
Not birds, or mountains or the potential life brings.
But just remember this: you will never tower over a mountain or grow any wings
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