Dasha 5d

I wonder why I think of nothing when I am travelling...
I hear voices of people, but no sounds of my own.
No whisper, breath or heartbeat sounds,
I only dream..A dream made out of icy clouds.
And there is, I hear voice of a little girl

Nun! Nun!
Knock knock!
Who's there?
Banana who?
Banana peel
Knock knock!
Who's there?
Doctor who?
You said it...

She kept making these silly jokes and even I smiled as I heard them...
She kept asking her parents and nun to answer her 'knock in the door'.
She reminded me of someone,
As she kept annoying them more.
I blocked out for quite a while staring somewhere far,
She reminded me of someone...
I guess once I was just like her...
I was just like that girl you heard,
I was this, little, silly kid
Making jokes, laughing all day long.
Blurry face with no care at all.

What about now? Would you like to know?
I am buried now, buried in routine...
Every day's the same, passing by so fast
Yesterday was spring,
And today is gone...

What about now? You don't want to know...
You are growing old, missing out youth
Yesterday was warm, but today is snow
Every year's the same,
It fades out slow....

Katie Read Apr 12

We are like a jar of fireflies,
Unable to be set free.
We look up at the stars and wonder,
Why can't that be me?

We bounce off the walls of our glass confinement.
We hope one day we'll squeeze through,
Through the cracks in our agendas
So our imagination can soar high too.

Round and round in circles we go,
Tracing every inch of our little world.
Not caring for what's down below,
It's the skies where secrets are unfurled.

Each day we rest and nurse our dreams,
Encouraging them to light.
We continue through mundane routine
Until our wings take flight.

CeilingStar Apr 7

Always the same
This cyclic life

Fuller than the sun, reaching further and yet its rays touch me merely for a second
Hidden by clouds
The dullest drizzle
For miles my sadness sounds

A different outfit everyday to cover the same dreary routine
The same feelings poisoning my being, brimming over till it spills
Spills over and never recedes
Like gloom grows, the day slows

Always the same
A race of worker bees we've become,
Ourselves to blame
We work to live but never live

Living for the future is to not live at all

Should I pass through the clouds this dawn I would never know you or this life

I'd never know consuming heartbreak
I'd never feel the unrelenting wrath of grief
The feeling of depthless love or shallow lust

I'm covered in clothes to hide my skin
My skin to hide my manifesting malaise
Sick of the same and the everlasting train with no seeming destination

If I jump will I see my dream
Or will I be lost, lost to this life
And it's damning merry-go round of everything acutely grey

I wonder as I try to find air
Are you the surface I can't reach,
Drowning so fast
It's as if I'm sinking
The shackles of society have tied my ankles to rocks
Drag down
Never to breathe
Never to see
Only to drown

Saccharine seconds relieve me temporarily but I can't ever feel free

There is no thirst and I have no reason to give you as to why I get up each morning
Get up just to see how far I am from feeling the sun still
It grinds me into the dirt and cripples my will

I want it to stop
Never again
But I haven't the strength for mine to end

And so continues the heaves I breathe
And the darkness I see

Over and beginning again


Tell me why can't I just leave

baby steps
tiresome journey
seems unending
then death.

Some get a smaller flash - fewer even than 10 words!

The mouse in the maze is very weary.
It’s way too much concerted effort
Just to earn a grain of corn.
The route is always changing
And someone turns off and on the lights.
The music plays the same song, over
The humming of the ventilators
And the shutter bangs incessantly.

The mouse is tired of stupid games.
No one cares which way it runs,
Or how much corn drops into the bowl.
The smell of pee in the far back corner
Makes the air unpleasant to inhale.
The will to win another piece of corn
Battles with the need to find
The exit that is at the other end.

Notes have to be written down
Measurements and timings
Fill the logbooks of the staff,
As bored and weary as the mouse.
Protocols must still be followed
Finally the time clock in the hall
Clicks over to the magic hour
And mouse and men can all go home.

My work ia very interesting - until it isn't.
Ili Z Norizan Feb 23

I love how the buildings bathe in the morning sun,
The gold and glimmer of hope,
The shimmer and ray of what could,
And in the mirrored reflection,
Caught on windows and thresholds,
I saw myself smiling,
Like the bright-eyed child,
Full of promise and trust,
Not quite naïve but innocent,
Curious like a kitten,
Looking for a distraction,
In the forms of many kinds of fun,
Even if to others it was a bore of a chore,
For I was that girl who loved routine,
Knowing everything and that sense of the familiar,
Where nothing could surprise me,
And I would not be easily offended,
Taken aback was something I only started doing,
At the age of twenty-one,
Or was it really when I was so done,
With the fact that leaving high school,
Meant leaving the physical place in which I learned,
For the jocks and snobs and nerds and pretty girls,
They grew up too like me going on into reality,
Of the concrete jungle in the big city,
The capital of money and sobriety,
Where it's glitz and glam in grids on the Gram,
But the twittering said otherwise,
Oh how were we so blinded by the rise,
Of growing pains and pangs,
Falling in and out of love with ourselves,
As much as we crush upon potential lovers,
None of whom were suitors,
Just mere flings to keep us company,
While we ourselves figured out an escape,
For there's nothing more that we despise,
Than that of the lies, we keep telling ourselves,
That this life is the best,
That I'm happy where I'm at,
In this career or otherwise,
But still, we cry ourselves to sleep at night,
Sometimes sobbing during the day,
In bathroom stalls like ghouls,
Thinking what could've possibly gone wrong,
What'd I do to deserve such a test,
And how could I a top scoring geek fail miserably at best,
Yet we see it again this endless cycle,
As the sun paints a masterpiece in the sky,
Melting away all the tension of the day,
As it slowly dims then darken your way,
Telling you to go back to sleep,
To keep the dream alive,
For I do love how the sun paints the town gold,
Early in the morning,
When all is quiet and lonely,
A kind of peace that feels like it's not all bad,
This life could really be a sanctuary, maybe.


Viktoria Jan 28

Oh routine you are gorgeous
Let me feel nor old nor young
Oh routine, all my emotions
They are simply dead and gone
Cause routine, you are here
And you're making me flow
From the minute to day
To the week and Monday
All the way to the night
You're my day-satellite
Nothing new on my way
And as long as you stay
There won't be a single creation.

All I have is the routing vane
And the color of hay
Lighting everyday
Even blood of my veins
And the pulse of my brain
Have the same and old color
Of routine-blinded pain.

Breeze-Mist Jan 2

Some just begin to rise
Others begin to fall
People's sleeping changes with dusk
Heeding the night's call

The early bird tucks in for sleep
The night owl wires up for fun
As people continue their daily cycles
With the disappearance of the sun

Phoebe Hynes Dec 2016

It appears that every middle aged woman,
feels the need to drink decaf coffee religiously,
all day,
without a jolt.
Is it a habit they couldn’t break,
from the time when they were a caffeine fiend?  
Is it simply because Americanos,
frick them up?

Every woman who requests such an order,
has the same short perm-curl-like hairstyle,
and a similar quiet,
passive aggressive attitude.
“I’m not a soccer mom”
slithering through,
the cracks of their teeth,
from the discomfort in their
elementary-school-picture-day smile.

Maybe I’m unobservant
and it’s actually just the same woman,
who comes in often tending to her routine,
chain-downing decaf Americanos.

I might just be too vigilant lately,
and the idea,
of similar people,
indulging in such café party fouls,
is a threat,
and a punch in my,
perfectly pressed,
espresso shot.

N H Nabass Dec 2016

it's crushing me
a weight on my chest pushing harder and harder until I am gasping for air, my
thoughts are swarming and

i can't breathe
my anxiety is suffocating

it's suffocating


Early morning routine.
Next page