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Changing variegated cloaks
Birth after birth
Wearing cloak of a man
In this birth
On this earth
Son I am
Husband I am
Father I am
Brother I am
I undergo daily grind
Life mystery
Difficult to unfold
Mind, matter
I combine
Observation, reason
Practice, production
Make me survive
I am content
To be born
Sleep on bed
Of roses with thorns
Born and die
Again and again
Changing variegated cloaks
For I am not God
I would've been God
If I weren't born
But I am born
Sleep on bed
Of roses with thorns
Sometimes bleeding
Sometimes healing
Mixed feelings
For I am born
Cattatonicat Jul 2020
Why are you teaching them
We hate each other
Why are you teaching them
Their country doesn’t care about their health or education
Why are you teaching them
Their worth is judged by how much they produce

Teach children to feel
Teach children to love
Teach children to forgive
Teach children to learn

Teach children that they can tell
How truly alive they are
By the state of their heart
Em MacKenzie Oct 2018
The sun will never again shine bright,
I’ll live my life without that light.
Now I won’t speak another word,
It’s not like they were ever heard.
There’s nothing worth saving left,
You’ve sentenced us both to death.

We’ll continue acting in our show
I’ll enter right and left you’ll go,
the production wasn’t well rehearsed;
it was just another script that was cursed.
There will be no standing ovation,
you’ve opted us both for cremation.

Only silent applause and locked jaws,
on opening night and you take centre light.
There was a solid script you carelessly ripped,
there’s no going back, this is the final act.

I left the only roses on the stage,
it called for it on a lost page.
A whole production with no lines,
‘cause words are just like land mines.
You play your part and play it well,
you’ve sentenced us both to hell.

Only silent applause and locked jaws,
on opening night, the subtext is trite.
There was a solid plot that all the critics bought.
There’s no going back, this is the final act.
The method could not crack, this is the final act.
Closed curtain and fade to black, this is the final act.
Grace Aug 2017
You’ve got your disks ready, your tracks loaded
Your club full, your drugs in
Laptop in front of your fingers
Fiddle with the house rig, call the sound guy back
One more time
Check the setup, recheck the setup,
Check your charge
Battle record on deck, you’re set
How’s your cues?
Run through the tracks and the channels
You’re sprinting
It’s all set, all set, all set, all set, all set
Drink your water, throw it back
Thumbs up the light guy
Toss the bottle under
Your gear under your fingers, worn
And won
Breathe. For a second.

Feel the crowd quiver, feel the house shiver
There’s magic in the air.



Clindballe Dec 2016
I am daydreaming about making a difference in this corrupt, broken world but all I can do is to solve tasks that have already been answered. Second after second, year after year, I sit behind bricks in a ramshackle school where everyone are as prisoners in an alternative prison, where the years disappear in meaninglessness. Let me knock down walls and build them again, help the world instead of sitting as a product on a conveyor belt in the middle of a mass production of individuals that have solved the same tasks with the same answers, behind the same wall, at the same table, just to be able to put a way too expensive student cap on ones head and to call oneself a student. But what does it actually mean to be a student? Are you not just another number in the row, yet a grade point average, another helpless individual who can only solve problems where the answer already exists in a rule book. Let me knock down the world and build a new one, where mass production of students does not take place, but where anyone can build a future of new ideas and not only find errors on the old. But before I'm done daydreaming, tens of thousands of old assignments end op on the table, and I must sit on the chair a little longer as the conveyor belt keeps on going.
Written 30. October - 2016

Dansk version:

Jeg sidder og dagdrømmer om at gøre en forskel i denne korrupte, ødelagte verden men alt jeg kan gøre at løse opgaver som allerede er besvaret. Sekund efter sekund, år efter år sidder jeg bag mursten i en faldefærdig skole hvor alle er som fanger i et alternativt fængsel, hvor årene forsvinder i meningsløsheden. Lad mig vælte væggene og bygge dem om, hjælpe verden i stedet for at sidde som et produkt på et rullebånd midt i en masseproduktion af individer som har løst de samme opgaver med de samme svar bag den samme væg ved det samme bord på den samme stol, blot for at kunne sætte en alt for dyr hue på hovedet og kalde sig student. Men hvad betyder det egentligt at være student? Er man ikke bare endnu et tal rækken, endnu et karaktergennemsnit, endnu et hjælpeløst individ som kun kan løse opgaver hvor svaret allerede findes i en facitliste. Lad mig vælte verden og bygge en ny, hvor masseproduktion af stundenter ikke finder sted, men hvor alle kan bygge en fremtid af nye ideer, og ikke blot finde fejl på de gamle. Men inden jeg er færdig med at dagdrømme ender der titusinde gamle opgaver på bordet, og jeg må blive siddende i stolen lidt længere mens rullebåndet kører videre.
Arjun Raj Nov 2016
What happens when an open space, once a canvas to your thoughts,
turn into a dingy cabin, where you are chained to a chair with no lumbar support
and a program is chipped into your brain to decode client briefs, one after the other,
however idiotic they might be,
only to churn out results that will please a super boss,
who has done the same, for n number of years more than you,
so that the numbers that are not on your side, look irrelevant, coz
the money that you are making for the company is very relevant, to them, their family
and the rest of mankind, but you?
You quit.
No, wait
You’ve got EMI’s to pay.
E Townsend Nov 2015
I do not get paid to be an extra
in someone's story. The director
does not offer me notes or cues
on when to interact with the other characters.
I am only there, standing alone
eyes darting around for a subject to speak with.
Even the antagonist drops their sight. The other extras
barely glances at me. Their role is just the same as mine,
but they're hoping they'll outshine me. They brush shoulders,
fingers, as they bump against the crowd.
I remain invisible, lingering in the background,
waiting for my scene to arrive. Ready for a line
in the script. Anxious to be a first choice for once.
No matter how loud I scream that I have yet to tell my story, they will not notice me.
And I know the other dying extras are told the same thing-
write your own script. Make your own production.
Pitch ideas until one sparks, and that becomes your entity.
But it is hard to see that the girl in red
is pushed all the way in the back of the white sea unwillingly.
Amy Nov 2014
I'm sitting here thinking about all of the productive things I could be doing at this time of night, instead of sitting here watching Netflix and writing poetry that you won't ever read. But then I remember that there's nothing productive that I'd want to do without you here.
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