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TomDoubty Apr 11
It ****** to life in Spring the dry dark Earth
Which points to sun and sends off the Holly King
Like a spark ignites the soot encrusted hearth
The children celebrate and dance in rings
The Earth is in us too and deeply carved
In dark and light we are cleaved and tied in knots
And travelling inwards are we standing fast?
Or do we weep at demons we forgot?

What if you take that shadow to the light?
A kernel lifted from the pricked dark Earth
Who’s beading blood in rising runnels might
Rise up in us, to tell us all we are worth

The Earth is in us; the light the dark the seasons
To hold our shadow to the light is freedom
Collecting information and writing it down in a journal
People cross by in fear or interest
a human as analytical as a robot and emotional as a puppy
Strange one
Writing it down, each move
Every behavior
Then I get up
ignoring complaints and compliments
And I help them all
hmm not my usual category of poems...
Joseph Miller Mar 13
You have found me
i am here
inside these glowing pixels
come with me
beyond the mystery
for just a moment now
move closer to the center
feel the power of life
transcending space and time
an infinite connection
lives forever
deep inside your mind
the essence of our being
does not fade or die
it knows the truth
and does not lie
all this i can tell
for i have seen the light
i want you to know
the spark of truth
is burning bright!
see more
flamingogirl Feb 22
I wasn't sure at what point
my feelings of
inadequacy and failure
would penetrate the boundaries
of my thoughts and
manifest themselves in a physical way
which scare not only the strangers
that pass me on the street
and see my now skeletal body
but also those I love the most.
Today I choose recovery. Today I choose to quiet that voice because it has changed from something I had control of and felt comfortable in, to something which scares everyone around me and myself.
Salvador Kent Feb 18
time was
were you
three i
as grow old

there be
distant memory
be you kind to me
distant memory.
time be conceptual
conceptual be time.
Deconstruction. New. Two.
Katerina P Jan 22
It took a year
For real life to strike

For angst and pain
And loss and blame
To seep into my being

For life to change
Beyond repair
To mock my naïve hopes
That one day not too long from now
We’d all be tossed a rope
an aid for getting back the life
I thought it was a given
Offered, earned or taken
No doubt this should be written

I have been mocked and laughed at
Humiliated fully
Who said the silver lining
Would ever be rewarded?

Who said that thinking bright and light
Would lead to us to be Kings?
Who said that keeping open arms
Would fill them with good things ?

The neighsayers, the doomsdayers
Now they reacted first
“Our lives will never be the same”
“Ridiculous “I cursed
if I can power through this thing
if I can hold my stead
then surely I’ll deserve it
no doubt I’ll be rewarded

But one year on and I’m still here
With nothing but one thought
They won, those ******* called it
life will never be retold

I’ll never see my favourite band
while squashed amongst my peers
I’ll never hold my child’s hand
and lead her in a cheer

I’ll never feel the pulse of crowds
that carry and transport me
to realms beyond myself
of ecstasy and joy

I’ll never share the joys of life
with the village I belong to

I’ll never give away my child
Surrounded by my friends

I’ve lost my veiled city walks
the company of strangers
those vagabonds, those chatterbombs
those rambling raging tourists

I’ve lost the freedom of a roam
in endless ***** markets
Of touching things and smelling them
And shaking hands with sellers

I want to squeeze into the tube
on an August summer’s day
and smell the sweat and body odours
by which I onced dismayed

I want to push across a bar
And plead to get my drink
and tut and huff towards the guy
who pushed to get ahead

I want to curse and shout and stomp
for my favourite football team
and fight with the opposing side
and trample on their dream.

I want my smile to be seen
by the burly shopping clerk
to roll my window down at lights
To greet an immigrant
I want to hand him my donation
to place it in his palm
and not be scared or worried
that I’ll end up coughing phlegm.

I want my children to live free
Of masks and antiseptic
and live a life that’s full and rich
with all relationships

A life complete with crowds and queues
and large scale celebrations
Of smelly loos, of flowing *****
And stinky sweaty ballrooms

The life that I once doubted
Despite my best intentions
And now its gone and I don’t know
if I will get it back.

A wasted year of optimism
Thinking all would be ok
A year of denial and
dare I say
a year of baseless consolation.
Paul Butters Jan 17
We all carry Guilt.
Things we did
Or should have done.
Actions taken when red mist descended,
Hot blackness deep inside,
Or when we ran scared
Like a startled rabbit.

Sometimes we were just plain mean:
Doing things
Too bad to confess.
At times we “did our job”,
Knowing full well
That it was wrong.

We hate ourselves for what we did:
Adrenaline taking over
As we exploded and lashed out.
Cruel acts and gutting dumpings:
Things best unsaid.

But no good beating ourselves up.
No point blaming ourselves
For things we did as callow youths.
We cannot always help
What we do.
To err is human,
As they say.

We all have our flaws and demons:
Personality defects and fears.
Some have  anger issues
And autistic traits.
Fear of commitment,
Emotional dimness
And many other such things.
Stuff of heartbreak
And sorrow.

I, for one, never did relationships –
Just didn’t understand
What they were about.
So I was bound to do wrong

All stuff for lyrics of songs:
Songs of drifting apart
And breaking up.
Material mounting into Everests
Of angst.

But worry not.
We are not alone.
For evil acts,
Trouble and strife,
Division and violent clashes:
They all seem to be the general way
In these trying
Modern times.

Plenty to work on
In our collective quest
For Peace,
Including peace of mind.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\1\2021.
Inspired by hearing so many "breakup" lyrics on "Top of the Pops New Year 2021 Special".
Oculi Dec 2020
The smell of burnt hair.
Pyre, made of autumn leaves.

A sound beyond hearing.
Metal, bending and twisting.

One eye, but not the other.
One ear and two more.

Lines, straight lines.
No curves, no wrinkles.

Do you hear it?
Can you see it?

A fire you can't put out.
Burning ice like a thunderous cloud.
already running in circles,
still care about drawing lines.
Maybe humans found a way out of their humdrum existence through the division of anything and everything.
But that's not even the worst part.
Unfortunately, it seems that humans never learn and the loop goes on.
Hex Dec 2020
The ashen mirror that reflects our world,

The support, the barrier, and the gateway,

A resting mosaic of serenity,

A whirling portrait of distraught,

And the connection of two contrasting worlds.

A slice in the silence, pain shoots from the wound,

No shatter, nor collapse, only scars of a memory,

Accompanying signs of an unknown future.

But as the clock ticks, the mirror warps, and age begins to wear,

A hail rains down, beautiful cries and solemn weeps bleed from a frigid shield,

Miniscule waves and movements rock the support as scars and sounds are birthed,

Then, the pillars fall, and the mirror bends.

But even if all were to crumble, the only feeling would be sweet relief,

A cathartic collapse, the wound releases,

The noise is cut, serenity and silence return, beheld in new forms,

For the only woe an eradication feels is held within itself.
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