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In empty the eyes of not udivlenie,
Not cowardice, not vice,
Not to new feats aspiration
And not humility vow.

In the empty eyes of the living plasma,
That state of matter,
Where there is no irony, sarcasm,
But the words are jumbled.

In a separate heap the days of the week
Vibrate one tourniquet.
Behind them are book sections
And rhymes rolled into a coma.

Familiar street names,
Smacking names,
Go policy, slouch.
Behind them is a gray wall.

Of course, there are memories,
Such bright lights,
Where pleasures and sufferings
Go to the station these days.
Gods1son Jan 29
Several routes lie ahead
Find your path
Disregarding the crowd
10 words piece
nightdew Dec 2018
you make your twists and turns,
indecisive which route to take.

i pound the windshields,
hands in fists, thumming.

you hiss a profane,
steering a sharp turn.

i choke down a gag,
eye bulging,
tears a stream.

you peer my way,
hot breath hitting my skin,
droplets of spit splashing onto me.

i turn away reaching for the door,
the poison violating my skin,
acidity burning me alive.

you don't let me go,
digging your nails into my epidermis,
it goes deeper, popping a vein.

i scream with all my might,
blood begins to pour.

you yank me back in place,
prohibiting my escape.

i stay silent,
adrenaline pumping,
heart thumping,
brain throbbing.

you release me,
scowl neatly placed on your face,
dark brows furrowed, narrowly.

i take the chance,
slamming my feet on the dirt,
breath heaving,
i run, run, run.

you shout yet another insult,
dare i not say,
for freedom, i come.
take the chance when you get it, plan your escape.
Bus Poet Stop Sep 2018
“eye now know
the how, when, where and the-why,
my Eyes compose this elegy
memories of past and present...
blending into memories of future happenstance”

what is chosen is believed
though the choices are presented -
I choose among the sacrificial burnt offerings  

this, my will is free
though the path is circumscribed, ordained

the bus has a route it follows,
but the speed and timing  governed by
chances made by me
and you
me and random things spliced.and sundered

get on me
get off me
get
Isaac Jul 2018
There is a person
outside of time

who created a world
that was sublime.

It was us who chose
to eat the fruit

that turned mankind
down a different route.

If we would listen,
he'll show us the way

and we will discover
it's best to obey.
Written 27 July 2018
han Dec 2017
Traveling is like a drug
I’m high when I reach my hand out
the window and feel the wind
When I stand on a mountain
or with my feet in the sand
For a moment this is reality
and I never wanna go home
The world is home
December 6th~ han
May I ask for oranges to take and ****
May I have a beautiful evening with you
You are my fortune and you are my luck
This is what I felt through and through

May I wish a shower of life in love rain
May I taste all forbidden sweet fruits
Let my love be in a love string and chain
Let us go back to the wonderful roots

Love wants to take chance after chance
It wants to be victorious in its pursuit
My eyes do know what is price of glance
This is the reason they adopted love route

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Doubt, suspicion have taken you to dark
In disgust you are passing through park
From blind alleys to look to pursue shark
On every wink of reality say I do like lark

Truth be seen with knowledge of certitude
When is understood with sight to include
Understanding needs cleanliness of attitude
Truth unveils with sheer love and gratitude

Beauty can be revealed with love pursuit
Every honest effort definitely bears a fruit
Water of love when in trance goes to root
This positive attribute straightens the route

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Ryan Hoysan Nov 2016
We're all headed to the same destination.
Why not take the scenic route?
Short, simple, but still meaningful. I like this little thought a lot.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Sixty-six chapters and sixty-six books
(please, Catholic brothers – no ***** looks)
were needed for God to make known His plan:
the gift of salvation and future of Man.

Yet sometimes it seems rather cryptically stated;
poor Israel must wait and will wait (as they’ve waited).

Isaiah took sixty-six chapters to tell it;
for two-thousand years has the Church tried to sell it –
must Christ and his teaching thus languish in mystery,
waiting offstage in the wings of His history?
(Wings of the cherubim, angels, and vultures
now beat down upon us, uniting our cultures
while tech surges up in a dizzy parabola
micro in management, global in formula…)

Sixty-six chapters to say it in Greek
(Aramaic – or Latin;  whatever they speak)
while the somnolent audience scrolls on their screens
in apocalypse trance over zombie machines.
The scrolls are unopened, the parchment still sealed
the slot-machine handle refuses to yield;
as the sixes line up towards the threshold of seven
the virgins sleep late in the Kingdom of Heaven.
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