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Brett 3d
We are all immortal in our own time. Today I feel the warm caressing touch of life across my beleaguered face. Death does not escape me, but in this moment I am alive. One is immortal, if one has yet to understand what it means to die.
Summer Apr 21
II

Blue base and pink hues, black lining, framing the face saw once in dreams, a face with a name that began with the letter M. The other painting – a hazy black, red lips, no eyes – is a man’s face. Flying across shadowed, spiraling stairs, I encountered exits blocked by chairs – all these impressionist paintings hanging along the classroom corridors, where a painter was explaining to his students the woman he met in his dream… they all called to me as a dream factory, dream logic – where everything was bound and unburdened, and amidst this uncertainty, we were told to identify faces in coffin paintings. All day we tried matching to no avail, mouth uttering half-formed names. Then the old lady I was working with let out a wail. She bolted, I followed, and there we saw two creatures known as men – to the man on the right, she greeted with the M-lettered name, and to the left she pointed at the eyeless, ashen painting, said, stranger, this is you – and they wept together.
Summer Apr 21
I

It is mankind’s nature to make things with his own hands, leave imprints, and craft legends. His fingers itch to dip into colored powder, tracing animals over stone’s face, carving bodies out of empty space – using nothing to build everything. Silvery machine, steel men, crawling, dragging tanks on sand. Future humans don’t need to see these, Commander said, they only need to know the impression of these, and then they will be able to build possessions like these.
A dream i had this morning
Daivik Apr 14
Some nights are strange
You feel so tired
But can't fall asleep
You see a ghost behind your face
Your reflection in nothingness

And walk aimlessly on imagined streets
A state of half-awakened dream
Random thoughts come into your mind
For reasons you cannot find
You see a ghost behind your face
Your reflection in nothingness

A cool breeze flows
Like whispers of ghosts
The moon looks strange
In the sky
A blackness not completely black
You don't want to come back

Silver airs
Very strange
There's no yesterday
No tomorrow
No today
Just this eternal
infinitesimal moment

You want to have great thoughts
But you think nothing at all
Doing nothing in the dead of night
Looking into the mirror of the empty sky
And it's wonderful

The sound of trains
You thought something
You forgot
Never mind
There is no ghost behind your face
Just your reflection in nothingness
I am awake right now now,don't no why
Legs more fragile than glass.
You pluck them off one by one.
This is why the other kids keep their distance.
Tania Feb 28
Computer code is made of what,
Of devils thoughts
And dreams of god.
Payton Feb 24
She sang with a beauty that made the sun shine brighter with every tune that floated up to the sky.
But one day she stopped singing.
A strange little boy told her, that no one gave a single **** about her little ditties.

She didn't cry.

She simply stopped singing, and went on about her life.
She kept to herself and the world began to wonder why everything seemed so quiet.
Then the sun stopped shining.
He couldn't go on, making the world a brighter place, if she couldn't sing her songs to him each day.
One night, the moon visited the girl.

"My child, you know that the Sun longs to hear your voice again. Do not worry what little boys tell you, they cannot make the music that you can. This night will last for many years if you do not raise your voice. Go on, summon the Sun."

Reluctantly, she stepped outside, and with a rusty voice,  she sang as loudly and as honestly as she could.

And as tears rolled down her cheeks, the Sun rose in the east, with tears that evaporated into steam as quickly as they came.

And the strange boy fell in love with the way she looked
to him when she sang to the sky.
This poem was written in 2016. It's inspired by the Legend of Zelda. :)
Billie Pang Feb 19
I pull the curtains over tight so the
sticky light will not let in the morning.
I miss waking up in Europe with the
strange European light coming in pouring
in the narrow windows of Dutch Tower
houses or busy Berlin apartment
streets with kebabs cooking and kids crying
the stillness of frosty Dublin suburbs
in the winters and the bite of the air
on bare cheeks and knuckles and the eerie
sound of invisible birds and clock towers belling on Sundays resonating in the crystal air.

And I start thinking about all the things I never did which is sometimes worse than thinking about all the things I have done
Bardo Feb 8
There was something wrong with the adults I always thought
When I was young... when I was little
The Grown Ups
There was something, well something missing in them
They seemed a bit preoccupied, a bit faraway by times,
Maybe it was the great responsibility they had, looking after us
Or running after us, we used run around a lot back then,
Out on the beach under the big blue sky
On our way out to meet the tide
The wonderful colourful houses of the village seen from afar,
With the big chapel on the hill
And the lovely blue mountains of the headland sloping down to the sea
We'd be lost in the joy and excitement of the moment, thinking
"Isn't this wonderful, isn't it amazing, this thing called Life, Wow!!!"
And Mom she'd be there with us, tagging along
And on her face this kind of... kind of lonesome smile
There seemed to be a great sadness in them somewhere
They didn't seem to have the same joy that we had
Etched on their faces was something else, something haunting
Days of struggle and hardship... and pain.

Their own parents had died when they were very young
They used tell me, tell me gravely
"One day, one day we won't be here son"
And you'd go off to school feeling very tearful inside
Hardly able to do your lessons, mulling over those terrible words,
And at night in bed, you'd listen for their voices downstairs
And if you couldn't hear them, you'd get up and sit on the landing listening intently for their spoken words
So as to be reassured, that they were still there,
That they hadn't gone away and left you.

                      II

The adults they loved  to sit and talk and drink tea
We didn't like talking much, that was boring stuff
(We liked the biscuits though)
We wanted to be outside playing, up and about
Yea! We wanted action and adventure instead
Playing games, kicking football up the garden
Running down the wing, shooting for goal, scoring!
O! the thrill of it all,
Or playing soldiers, cowboys and Indians
Or down the beach among the rocks exploring
Whereas we probably lived a lot still in our bodies
And in the thrill of the moment
(I remember I used talk to parts of my body when I was very little, when there was no one else around)
The adults they seemed to live in their heads most of the time
Locked away up there in their lonely towers
Adults I suppose had decisions to make.

Often Mom would find it hard to keep up with us
We could get away with a lot of things with Mom
But it was different though when Dad would come home
Then the atmosphere in the house would change
There'd be this strange tension
The Dads they were strange ones
They were like that Rodin sculpture "The Thinker" (a man bent over thinking)
You'd watch them warily, and move around them very carefully and quietly
You'd have to have your antenna switched on
You didn't know which mood would be on them
Whether they were going to be gentle or flare up like a firestorm.

The Dads they used to drink beer and black stuff, the Guinness
Sometimes they'd give us a sip
Ugh...the taste of it, it'd give you the creeps
You'd think " How do you drink that stuff and Why!!!
It wasn't sweet like orange or lemonade
It was another mystery, the strange world... the strange world of the adults.

(Once while walking along the beach we came across this well dressed young man fast asleep behind the sea wall
Lying on the cold ground, a few empty beer cans beside him
Of course we didn't know yet about people getting drunk
We were very puzzled at this scene, we looked at one another baffled
Why did he want to sleep there for ?
Did he not have a home to go to and a bed to sleep in ?
What we were looking at was the World... the strange world of the adults).

The Dads they were always watching the News and talking politics
Once when we were on holiday down the country at our Auntie's place
We were outside playing football
While my Dad and Uncle were inside drinking and talking politics
Arguing heatedly about who was right and who was wrong
Suddenly they both appeared in the doorway, all smiles and strangely jolly like
They said they wanted to join in, in our game
Something they'd very rarely do
I remember looking at them and thinking
These people...these people are in pain
I was so afraid they might fall and hurt themselves
I thought them that fragile
I was afraid to tackle them properly for the ball
I thought I should only pretend
Should let them win, let them score a goal
"Maybe then," I thought, "maybe then they'd be happy".

                          III

They seemed to be always trying their best
But being reined in by their limitations
One Christmas I remember, I wanted things, exciting things, toy soldiers, electric cars, a toy gun
They gave me this small model passenger plane, wasn't even a War plane (no machine guns or rockets)
And this cheap little plastic antique globe of the world thing
I looked to see was there any treasure marked on it, but no!
I was so disappointed, these were ****** presents, not what I wanted at all
But when I looked in their faces, at the expectancy there
Them expecting me to be overjoyed and delighted with what I'd got
I felt this huge pity and sorrow for them,
So I smiled back at them and pretended their presents, they were the best presents of all.

                            IV

There was this tragic sadness about them, the adults
Almost like they weren't feeling the joy anymore, that for them the magic had gone out
Like the little child within them had all but died
You realized that what you were feeling was probably something they no longer felt
They were off lost in some other world
Overrun with cares and worries and fears  
Yea, there was something wrong with the adults I always thought
When I was young
When I was small.
The Child is father to the man, someone once wrote. I sometimes do paintings of my past and when I do, I remember things. Although the memories above are often sad, there were a lot of happier memories too. Given the lives they had and the times, they were truly heroic people.....This is a poem of memories/recollections from early youth & how the young child views the strange often dysfunctional world around him. Children instinctively know their good and beautiful when their young because they can feel it inside them, it's the time their closest to their source, where they've come from. There's this natural beauty present inside them which gives them a great strength. Unfortunately this is rarely investigated & explored. Instead the child is packed away to school where their taught they must compete with their fellows & that their worth as a person depends solely on how they perform at school. School often produces strain though and struggle in the child & by the time they reach secondary school, the traces of that early natural beauty have greatly diminished, & sometimes tragically become just a distant memory. -I suppose this is just a homage to that special time and to those early feelings of Joy.
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