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rebellious dark clouds,
took the full moon their captive;
rains freed her quick!
You smell of moonlight,
Gentle words
And the type of rebellion I have yet to taste.
Michael King Apr 2018
Be vigilant. The dark is coming.
'Stay silent' he said. They almost listened.

'Wrap yourself in the coldness
of our words' and in his voice was
a touch of danger.

They almost fell. Almost gave in.
The world became like a glacier
of shapes. Always seeking to fit
within the assorted mess of notions
and opinions.

'Forget grace' they told us.
'Praise hate' they commanded us.
'Love death' they spoke in unison.

But... we are not a wall to be broken
down on your insistence.

We are not a voice to be calmed
just because you think you are a storm.

Should we be silent against the false
preachers of lies and guile? Or
are we going to stand firm, each
life a block against the tides of
stoic insistence?

We will not shame ourselves any longer.
Our voice will be like God's own voice.
Our rhythm will fall into truth.
Our form will fly into the sky,
abandoning your need to satisfy the
greedy and lazy digits of material
plains of death and destruction.

Ah... tell us to shut up one more time.
See then how loud our words can go.
sara Mar 2018
It looks so cavalier
but it smells just like rebellion.
Alcohol cannot conceal
insincere intention.

I like it, though.
It suits you well.
But before you begin to boast;
remember that liquid confidence lasts for a night at most.
the effects of alcohol are varied yet somehow all the same ??
ellie anaïs Feb 2018
She downed wine bottles to the last drop,
Smoked cigarettes like her life depended on it,
And took her good night’s sleep in the day
Until streetlights become her sunrise.

She never thought about tomorrow;
For her, there was only today.

She didn’t believe in yesterdays either,
Because every time she woke up
Last night’s memories become blurs
That she could not make sense of.

Sometimes she smelled like a million dollars,
Sometimes like morning breath and alcohol.

She was like a thought passing by–
Within arm’s reach but still intangible.

Strangers line up to unwrap and taste;
She is savored for a moment,
And forgotten the next–
Another flavor confused with many others.
She gave pieces of herself away like candy,
And sometimes I wonder
If she still has enough of herself left.

Maybe she does.

Maybe she doesn’t.

Maybe she looks for pieces she could use
To fill her hollow gaps
Every night she goes into town.

She was the blooming child of “Maybe” and “Why,”
Wilting, but still alive,
Still taking in the air
Even when it reeks of tobacco,
Still taking in the water
Even when it’s mixed with alcohol,
Still living in the now while she can.

Maybe “now” is all that she has left,
And maybe she doesn’t know what to do with it.
all I've got is now and I don't know what to do with it
sophia sacal Oct 2017
You were the delicious taste of sin,
Resting softly upon my tongue,
My ***** lips savoring the profanity of you.

I swallowed you in one drink, finally
Erasing all that once pervaded my mind,
Blissfully clearing my conscience of all your evil.

I made myself be the proud sinner,
Conscious and rebellious
Against the god that made us.

Not you, honey.
Mikayla Smith Apr 2017
I think you’ve got an imaginary gun against your head
Because you want to paint the walls in brains and red.
A gun is not a paintbrush that you use when your heart is in distress,
There are a few things that will numb the pain
Like a few pills or a toxic shot to the brain.
Just remember that after you ***** on the ground
And your screams no longer make a sound,
A packet of spearmint gum will be passed around.
rinnette Apr 2017
They said*
To let nature take its course
But she
Did not want to sit still

They said
That what will be, will be
But she
Did not let it be

They said
Not to hurt yourself
But she
Love jumping into bottomless pits

They said
To let your heart decide
But she
Still kept choosing to do what's right

Even when all she wants to do
Is to be brave
And put up a rebellious fight
tumelo mogomotsi Feb 2017
my heart is a bohemian
its authenticity drips like a wet paintbrush
clothing the worlds pale canvas with colours
each colour is hated for its self reflection
its outlook on this planet
has brought the ones who roam it
to look within for their inner quintessence.

- t.m
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