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preston Sep 2020

Aw ****,  another apology
for what it is she hasn't done
there's a coat,  wore
a done, done--

one,  never to be undone

And she'll wear it, yet can't share-it
but with something like this
it can't be helped
but, to share it

It is every where.

They say they care
so why in the ****  are you  pulling
out all your hair.
Maybe they just don't care
about anything
but what it is  you'll wear

so they don't have to.


#familylife


She scratches a letter
into a wall made of stone
Maybe someday
another child
won't have to  feel  as alone
as she does
It's been two years
and counting
since they put her in this place
She's been diagnosed

by some stupid ****
And mommy agrees.
Why go home?
Why go home?
Why go home?

She seems to be stronger
but what they want her to be,  is weak
She could play pretend
She could join the game, boy

She could be another clone

Why go home, why go home,
why go home, why go home
What you taught me
put me here
don't come visit,  mother..

sting me.
why go home?
https://youtu.be/DvijZuvEiQo
xoxo
Nalinee Aug 2020
Grill
Burn a little
Superficial surfaces
Reveal the real
Flavour
A person's superficial nature must be removed to find the real one.
She
She rattles her cage
deep inside
where I hid her
so you could not touch her

This outer part,
this shell, this facade
is all you have
but not the real me

She is mine
and I am hers
the door is shut but I forgot
to turn the lock

Only a matter of time
before she busts out
to tear your world apart
and burn it down
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
We don’t need Music
And how
It embodies, captivates,
To know that each other and
Ourselves have
And are a
Majesty in reverberating
As we
Drop,
Echo,
Beat,
On a country lane.
Even when no one
Is listening to
Us, Melody, or better;
a sensation of & in it,
Our silence contains
In one thought
More chords and stories
To be played than
The world’s bonding
To the audibility
Could ever do
And draw the greatness
From.

Like violin, I’m
Such honey-laced strings
In swiftness
Thinking and by lips
Browsing.

As. Like.
furious heartbeat
tremendously stands
On a thrilling stave
So do us at the sunset
As a dance.
As a thrilling epiphany
Behold
.

/
I always imagine becoming Revolution soon to come
As departure through a heather field,
Hands raised in elegant victory
Decreasing I into horizon
as lilac, blue and copper scarlet
Infused with that painting
As I sound Violin.
/

Then,
‘Am
the
greatest
art
in
every.
single.
step
.
Of the flaming presence we (or at least I)
Set in tremendous song beats
Of no words or yes.
We don’t need to hear Music
To know this upholding
Takes place in us in every minute
Glory
That we stand (of, on)
Steph Wams Jul 2020
I have something to say.
It's stuck on my lips.
The.
Lingering.
Pause.
In each wordless
Breath.
The movement in each averted gaze.

It's the shoddy cork
holding back
Each waterfall of
Tears.
The longing sign I ask God for
then ignore.
For the thing I fear most is not
Whether I say.
It's the thought  that you have
nothing to say,
back to me.
Met with silence.
Ylzm Apr 2020
Nicolaitans, enigmatic, but
     Balaam we think we’re certain.
Truly they’re both mysteries,
     wisely and deliberately hidden.
Flesh and blood cannot reveal
     but only the Father in heaven.
Jesus, the only teacher, explains,
     as always, privately to his chosen.
Aditya Roy Apr 2020
Now I know I have a case of you
On this cruise I live in this box of things
Memory is the real beauty that holds them together
The guitar strums a chord with me
Part 13
Adam Schmitt Apr 2020
To compose the fractured consciousness like a million-piece mirror with something greater than glue, The Galaxy of thoughts and their accompanying peopledness swirls fresh and new this morning, propping me up instead of weighing me down.

I have the footprints of some road signs that I ran over one day, the car ploughed through them all going off the shoulder of the highway and up the muddied neck of creation.

If the world has fallen, where does one lie down at night other than under the rubble or under the stars?

There hollers a man, soul searing, guts thoroughly wrenched, but he Blocks the doorway of parties with hidden interests, all of them equally Drunk, though sober, Boredom is a clever disguise.

The man who moulds his breath into that violent Release also works on the artistry of his face. For a man with nothing to hide your face can never have too many lines, and he's carving out a clay masterpiece though his life is a kiln of grief, the Cold Furnace carries on around him, Robbing itself of the simple beauty it produced long ago.
freeform writing that I made in an old school notebook. I thought it was an interesting series of words so I published it here.
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