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A Simillacrum Sep 15
I drank mine.
I smoked it.

Ill conceived &
My mind bent &
         snapped in half.

I can see your eye in every star.
Watching while I enter chrysalis.

         What's it like
         hoping I rot?
         (will do)
         What's it like
         at the past?

Sober, I have to force myself to laugh.

I can see your winking eye in every light.
I can see your winking eye in every star light.

We sit at a bar staring at our mobile devices only to be afraid to dose off into the night sky or what is presently in front of us. If solitude is something in which we want then our universal soul becomes the target and then is scrutinize with clear critic with the intention that one can’t sit in pure isolation anymore. We have become completely and utterly disconnected from our own selfs that the “self” we particularly sit with is only and will be a stranger to us. One might say that man gets attached to another human being for the soul purpose of feeling a certain way. If that is the case, why is there many lonely drinkers at a place in which enhances the ability of forgetful thoughts, regrettable actions, and many more hatred topics that tackle the precious and delicate heart?
someone else?
someone same?
a person, still?
a person, sane?

dry me out
critique is that
which denies
tangential arcs

do you
see me

if a meat
will be a meat
i will be
wet as i can
watch it become itself
watch it destroy itself
s Nov 2018
the empty
contour of yesterday
turns on itself

i reach in ...
toward oblivion

blind bliss

in search of
a blank simulacrum

any way to sin

anyone to satisfy
my evil soul within
who do you call to make the shootin' stop?
NC Burchett Aug 2018
Verdant hills where shoots and stalks
stand shoulder to shoulder
towering like emerald cities

Life flies, hops, crawls, slithers, and swims
knowing no bounds but the inherent
laying no claims beyond shelter

Neighbors at peace until hunger stirs
flesh for flesh, blood for blood
first struggle, then silence

A lone vice in an otherwise Eden
Diána Bósa Aug 2017
Imprison the blaze
for unlearning
the ghost of our light
to bow down before
an interim simulacrum
of the sham.

You said,
that the colours are so hurting;
that this soundless shapelessness
comforts you.

I cannot extricate you.
Cannot unleash
from the unbreachable
for I learned that
this stasis is your only home.

— The End —