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Phil B Sep 12
Humanity is restless in its pursuit of
pure, and unbiased comprehension.

But we are as blind as the ants,
Who navigate a pheromone soaked
sensation scape.
Only able to perceive perfume
trails, and the colour they emit.
Like the warm, hazy lights
of a carousel river steam boat,
They pass each other like
perfect strangers in the night.
Amidst the dark and misty waters
Unafraid to surrender trust
to the twinkling of an eye,
the faint smell of musky cigars
on collared shirts, or the
Incandescent shades of a lip.

We have yet to leave our ancestral
cave homes, full of mad desperation to
capture, define, and preserve the
fleeting forms of nature and it’s denizens.
Sand and ochre kicked up and splashed
in deeply passioned abandon,
as fingers raced and traced the earthy canvas,
Etching, marking, tracing and screaming.
Until, in the end, the exertion itself
is impressed into the rock-face wall.

Other, similar endeavours may well include,
The many voyages and explorations of
Early settlers and tribe folk,
in attempts to map the sprawling land masses,
from the tips of snowy doom filled mountain tops
down to the last measly grains of sand on distant coastlines.
And even now in the modern era,
The sky itself and the cosmos in its enormity,
Probed forever deeper, but never reaching
Its absolute depth.

The creating, and dividing, of art into
it’s multiple facets of genre and subject,
Always pushing outwards in the need,
yes, the very drive to express anything,
everything, and nothing at all.
Emotion itself made captive to
Staves of rhythmic and melodic
progression and regression.
to plumb the very essence of a note
would reveal a beyond Planck length
Spectrum of wave and particle,
Eternally ringing out into
The collective consciousness of the universe.

This isn’t a poem, so much as it
is a personal meditation into
The finite infinity we experience
From one moment, to the next.
Much like meaning, we can only
assign so much burden to a word,
only place so much faith in diction.
But that’s perfectly alright,
Because without ambiguity in
the shapes and forms of metaphors and simile,
We lose a sense of the PROFOUND.
The innate desire to find meaning,
in the most personal sense, in anything.

And really,
isn’t that the most beautiful thing
Ever?
Composed overwhelmed and in awe , of  everything, and nothing.
MindMooring Jun 17
Our connections are cloned
so fast on mass scale, that soon it will be difficult
to recognize the original seed where uncounted we leave
unbinding of these beats on millions of devices.
#cloned #connections #device #mass #scale #beats
Jude Quinn Mar 28
10 billion galaxies in the universe,
an average of 100 billion stars in each one of those.
That’s 1 billion trillion (that’s a one and 21 zeroes) of stars in the known universe.
At least  10 percent of those may have at least 1 planet;
that is 100 trillion (that’s a hundred and 18 zeroes) of planets.
There might (“might”) be about 11 billion planets similar to ours,
of those, we concretely know of about 10 (ten. One one, one zero),
that number includes us,
and we only know there’s life in one of those 10,
us;
that is a percentage of 0.000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 001
of 100 trillion.

Well, ****.
Oculi Mar 14
What a spiceless world.
One full of orange, then blue.
One full of purple, then brown.
To get through the waters of the womb, you need steel.
Where blood is flighty. And mud is shallow.
To love, you need to ****.
To hate, you need to birth another.
A pool of men stronger and faster than a colony of ants.
Who are you, when you've lost all your feathers?
When the bridge above you has collapsed?
Who are you, once again, when all you've known has turned to order?
When there is a hierarchy? Where do you fit in?
To make wings, you need a brother and a hammer.
To fight those orderly *******, you need to call upon your own filth.
To waddle through your own ****, your own ****, you need to drink the elixir.
Not some shallow nectar from the gods. Who are they, anyway? Who, who are the gods to question the almighty? You were always better anyway.
Who upon this mound of dirt, ****, ***** and mercury shall question the authenticity of your command, when they're all dead in the ground?
Will there be anyone?
Will it just be you?
You knock on the door of the rich man, but he does not answer. You paint his door red in your own blood and scream.
What has occurred here? A clash of babies dressed in stardust under a sky of light violet?
Maybe a marriage of scales and feathers disguised as ones you could care about?
You know nothing of this world, and that's how you always got by.
You dig through the pool of used needles, you drench yourself in others' diseases, you embrace a death of most painful circumstance and you cut off your limbs one by one.
Only then, at your final moments, tongueless, waddling your chunks of once arms, legs and wings around, drowning in your own *****, can you ask the most important question.
What if the world was the opposite?
A story that I could claim my own. Something that resonates with me. I hope you understand.
Brando Dec 2018
It’s been 48 hours since food last touched my lips
48 hours of pain and starvation
I don’t mean to starve myself
I just can’t help it
I look at myself in the mirror;
With disgust and disapproval
I am not choosing the hunger
But when I look at food, I automatically become sick
I think of the times I’ve cried over my body
The hours I’ve spend ridiculing every stretchmark,
Fat roll,
Wrinkle,
Every inch of myself that is less than subpar in my eyes
Do you think I want to be like this?
I sit and sleep;
instead of eat
My stomach growls
Sounds like thunder on a dry summers day
Speaking to me and telling me to stop being a ******* idiot
I tell you I haven’t eaten and your response is clear
But what does it matter to me what you think
At the end of the day you aren’t the one whose hungry
You aren’t the one who pushes her body to the point of breaking all in the name of beauty
Oh to be beautiful
Seems so easy
Especially when those words roll off your tongue
But I flinch in pain
As my body begins to eat itself
And you sense something is wrong
I tell you I’m fine
But based off the look on my face;
you know it’s not just a stomach ache
stepped on the scale today and I cried.
Pyrrha Oct 2018
Life is full of a thousand varying scales
Love, Hate
Anger, Joy
Happiness, Sadness
There must be balance to keep the peace

For some reason however,
One of your scales seem to be offset
Love is outweighing hate by far too much
It’s taking a toll on your soul
You’ve become tired and insecure
From all your love overflowing from your scale
As it floods onto those who are heavy with hate

It’s okay to be angry and unforgiving
It’s okay to be sad and admit hatred
They come on par with healing
For without being able to know these feelings
You will drown in the in between
You are far too wonderful to sink below the pressure

Spare your scales and be honest with your heart
If you weren’t meant to feel both the heaviness and lightness
You wouldn’t have had a heart
Feel the anger, hatred, and sadness
So that you may receive the love, happiness, and joy
Without the consequence of an unbalanced scale
Anya Sep 2018
Our task in class
was
to draw really
depressed people
for a competition
...
I wanted to draw
a really
really
sad
child
...
Chubby
drooping cheeks
Soft
flawless skin

She said no
...
...
...
Instead,
I get to draw
an old person
...
which is fine
But,
...
the WRINKLES
HOW am I to draw
perfectly
EVERY SINGLE
LITTLE
WRINKLE?!
And especially
a value scale
of shading
as well
while
ACCOUNTING
FOR EVERY WRINKLE?!
...
See,
the issue
isn't that
I am unwilling to draw
BUT
But
...
I, consider myself
at big picture person
NOT as much detail oriented

I, consider myself
someone
who relies
at least half
if not more on
creativity
NOT to say
that I lack
technical skill

BUT,
my strong suit
would be
the idea

Now,
she's challenging me
by giving me a simple idea
And having the key portion
be the
execution
...
According to my mom
it's a good thing
...
...
And I agree too,
but...
...
Ugh,
I suppose I'd better go draw
Iska Jun 2018
Boys or girls,
to the bathroom scale we all look the same.
Muscle or fat
the numbers won’t change.
Pair shaped, square shaped
the mirror will show it all, and the broken soul will count the flaws...
danny May 2018
Snow capped, secrets in the drifts,
Low light somehow made you stand out, blazing.
Cold chills meant to nestle harder.
You are the teacher, but we are not students.
Some needed to get away, others tortured by your depths.
A gentle bump can slay the unworthy,
No throne can match your majesty.
If we are good then you are good
You were here first.
We can never say we 'stood tall' again
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