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Simon 7d
Not restricted by it. Only restricted by it’s tame. Bright and vigorous! Tempting to be better than a dying phase. Light prompting the taming call of its energy. Becoming more vibrant. Conclusive to it’s claims. Parting ways without mentioning why dying light is its fate. Being tamed. Tempting to hold dear energy supplies for it’s withering gaze. Prompting to feel (it shouldn’t matter). Am I wanting to become more of a spectacle, or something?! I’m a dying light. Not the uptick in brighter horizons. Just the low dimming effect of a once broader frequency. Detesting the restrictions altogether. Nothing better to accept one’s fate. Rather then battling one thinking that (holding on, is a miracle). No! It’s a natural death sentence. And I’ll gladly pay it! If it means I get to be myself again. Dying light pays respects to its own slurring pause. I seeee…I seeeeeee… IIII…seeeeeeeee!!! I’m causing my own fate. Feeling the tame of its restrictions falling off. Like chains buckled to every brightened photon in the complex. Bright and vigorous! Just like last time. This was different. A struggle thinking (what isn’t a self damaging effect)? But a structure of succession! Never temping my dying phase. Which is smarter then accepting varieties. The slurring pause was no more. Restrictions were no more. I am dying light. And I will shine on other broken lights losing their light in self deluded stages.
Light isn't equal if thinking it needs to be brightened more, just to fit in. It's not about others, until you accept your brightened ferocity revving in your heart!
Bryce Sep 24
This is poetry--
Unknown and discussed
In no particular matters
Until death
Doth part
the Poet from his art
And ought to be--

But the saddest lovers are the living--
Who weave dastard tragedies
In goldpence and fame
And in hope, break Foundations
on laureled mounts,
Calling desperate to empty crypts
Which once housed their Muses

Praise and please to you, Polyhymn
Us hominids speak so bold
In our kindness to you!

While this is computed
And tooled to the ringing of gold
Glass
And transitions--
Mere sparks
In the ember of forge

That these mint implements
Are the forgery of that art
Consumes Hephaestus in his doubts
Of a father's true fires
And the alchem of his own

Clio, remember thy crowning!
The doubts of this mournful sphere
And the pain of our pasts
Are yours to cast within the stele
And praise be, toward your simple carvings of man!

Doting and careful could I be,
Lashing my wrists with decay
Stash my words by the reeds
I could hold the world up to keep
Our own love of the earth
In the same way
she should be earned

There is a certainty of that
Loveless act, the plotting of land
To place corpses upon the earth
For circus and grandeur

This is ultimately
The fate of you poets,
Cast as stones amongst the stream
Blackened and cold

And you will not know but the soul of you in deed
And your words will fall Deaf
Upon these fears of the freed

When they devour themselves in the temples
And massacre the streets
Exhume worn roads
Which bridged their father's feats

And when it is done
And the words come to rest
In the ruins and the spires
All but symbols and jests

No more, no more!
For it is all in their speech
It is all in good kind
And all left to me.
Poetry is art and art is dead, and it cannot be resumed unless understood in its aesthetic. For rivival comes but once and only upon death can the world understand the will of the living.
"If for me you’ll go through strife,"

Says the Spirit,

"I’ll give you Life."
From the birthday to the final day
we can never obstruct mortality's way
heartfelt investment in family or friend
will never cease, will never end

Memories live on beyond earthly demise
in the eyes of the bereaved and their goodbyes
recollections of happiness together with pain
sun drenched times mixed with rain

Legacies live on in everyday life
our old friend time does heal strife
we still wish they were only a phone call away
we still miss them every single day

There is no price on emotional cost
but nobody loved is ever lost
For the bereaved
leo arden Aug 27
what is a greater yield to life

than to bleed your heart, etch your soul,

cast aside hatred without strife

and learn to love, so you may be full.
strife is a fun word.
leo arden Aug 25
let him sing his song of sorrow

for chance his joy return tomorrow.

for chance his joy forsake his life,

he’ll tell himself he shall be saved

by love returned, and free from strife,

but naïve he shall remain, enslaved.
let him sing.
Millie Jul 16
My approval driven state confused them
But with each disappointment I felt the weight of the ones before
Cement filling my ever heavy chest
Mark Wanless Jun 10
"And The World Is Human"

Children laugh in their innocent play
A young man loves his wife today
A twice worn dress is thrown away
        And the world is human.

An unknowing child is lost then found
A bleeding man attracts a crowd
The carousing deaf like their music loud
        And the world is human.

A ****** man has a love for life
A pious man berates his wife
A robust man knows pain and strife
        And the world is human.

In all the lands there's old and new
And time flows on for me and you
There are many wonders left it's true
        And the world is human.
oldie
Beneath the space and stars, I lie,
    Under the dark and lonely night,
Enveloped in the thoughts of mine
     I dream of dreams to feel delight.

Among desires 've lost my sight,
     Within eternal fields of mind,
Losing the shadow fight inside,
     I think of thoughts that left behind.

Through whole my life I have survived,
     Along with lonely nights and pry,
Living my life like just arrived,
     I feel the feelings staying high.

In depth of sea and sky, I dive,
     Amidst the dream and lucid life,
Dimmed by the instinct to survive,
     I die of dying in own strife.
Marla Jan 30
Empty pockets
Spread threadbare,
Growling stomachs
Ached despair.
Ain't no money to see
In this mess of a reverie.
Cold winters kissing me,
Smokey wind upon my door.

If only I had one...

I'd be all set,
Chaufer driving me
To my charming jet.
My honey and I
Would always kiss sweet,
Never having to worry
About what to eat.

If only...
life weren't so grim.
Poverty & cheap thrills
Wearing my spirits thin.
My charcuterie is plastic,
So is my base lifestyle.
I'm dreary eyed with things drastic,
Trying to chase a break for a while.
But my blues are static
And they're charging me up
Just to drive me wild.
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