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Seanathon Sep 16
Doors close like conversations
Cold as attics below basements
So we are an abandoned home
Until I light a candle and rekindle
Always me
This is about some of my friends in real life. Perhaps it's my distance, or I truly am either intimidating or odd. But I always feel like they wait for my signal. To talk. To reconnect. To ask how I truly am. Not how is work and such... But how I am.
aaron Jul 9
I fantasize
about marching with my friends
down wellington
forcing the government
to look below,
and think
"maybe they're right."
but instead, they think
"shut it down."


i fantasize
about taking care of the wounded
doing my part
and truly feeling
that there is power in unity
forcing the government
to look below,
and think
"maybe we're wrong."
but instead, they think
"send more troops."


i fantasize
about singing "l'internationale"
with thousands of my comrades
as we fight for justice
arm in arm,
hand in hand
forcing the government
to look below,
and think
"maybe it's us."
but instead, they think
"casualties don't matter unless the goal is reached."
Laokos Jul 2
another page

with words

on it.


     another extraction

     from , spilling

     free.  ashes from


                ritual to the

                dexter , projections

                of intimacy to

                the sinister.


                           this space does

                           not allow

                           anything and yet

                           is open to everything.





a lightning strike



s  l  o  w  e  d



to  the



length



of  a



l  i  f  e  t  i  m  e  ,







happening

behind your eyes.


     the circuit is

     already complete.


but not fate , not

          determined , not

                         catenary.



don't you remember ?




you already let go.
read horizontally on smart phone is correct spacing
नेपाल बन्द हुँदा, खुल्ला हुँदा
माहुरीलाइ के फरक र ?
उ फुलमै बस्छ, रङ्गको बैचित्रय
शैली : अवलोकन
Akira Mar 27
My kind of addiction is playing Mobile Games,
you said "quit that and play me",
so I quit.
One day as I enter your house,
you're playing fire with someone else.
That hits me so hard and
the first thing that I do is play games
and **** the villains who strike me.

Your now sorry for what you've done.
Your begging now for me to stay.
Few days later,
You did the same mistake again.

Now, I just realized something worth it
I'm going to quit my addiction,
which is
YOU.
Osiria Melody Feb 23
Amazing how a text message conveying
affection
Regarded as a few lines of dejection
Amazing how a photo of joviality,
Regarded as a—fallacy
Amazing how a video of life's best moments,
Ignites a fire of jealousy, a ring of volcanic
comments surging with scorching words

Amazing how my likes and comments strikes
another's conscience,
Belittling their importance since being popular
means everything
Having the most followers means being a valid
member of society
Amazing how the fame of being a social media
phenomenon is the best thing in the world,
Nothing could replace the missed connection that you and I share

Among the shared posts and counterfeit feelings of emojis,
We lose what it means to connect to one another
personally
Rather than living in life's moments selflessly,
Everything is about me, me, me
Not you, 'cause my posts matter more for my
self-esteem

A missed connection of what reality means,
Above the ubiquitous screens emitting blue light,
Fill in all of these captured memories
Not through a glowing device, but through eyes of authenticity
Experiencing what it means to cross the bridge between an idealized world to mundane

A missed connection of what reality means
For once, put down that screen and live in reality with me



Melody
2/23/19
It's not very fun conversing with someone in-person when they're on their phone.
Matt Sol Jan 31
Demurring dreams
In solitude,
A feeling came.
It came too soon,
Concomitant
With feeling due.

Annex the black
To white to blue,
Diaphanous,
And dormant truths.
Convivial
To ones "forsooth".
WwWwWwWHWwWwWwW
                           Y
                          {^
                             ^}  
                           {^          
                              ^}
She came home
Still in her school outfits
She hugged me tight
With tears rolling down her eyes
She was filled with fright
'it happened so fast,
' This is all i have'
She mumbled as she cried
Apparently there had been a strike
Students burnt down the dormitories
And refused to attend class
The teachers to afraid
Were out of sight
The police had to intervene
Causing a clash
With rubber bullets, mallets
And tear gas
The police squashed and beat
The students hard
With stones, sticks and any tangible object that could be held
The students retaliated
Just to ******* the armed blue men
Thumping of boots
Shouting and screams
Bullets fling
There was circus in school
The students were sent home
Suppressed without giving
Them a chance to talk
A conflict resolved
With no interest in the
Root cause
Two nights are long
Another school catches
Fire
The dormitories are down
Then you'll here them ask
Where have we gone wrong?

Akwana Wa Odera
@therealakwana
© 2018
School fires in Kenya were so rampant last year
Johnny walker Dec 2018
Can It possible for
love to strike twice
In a lifetime, could
It be possible to love
again when you've
won and
lost
Can It possible
to win again and
win the heart of
another, would never replace that of your
first love
but to help
with the loss and the
pain Is It Possible
to love
again
Is It possible to love again after losing that of your first love can one be a winner again
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2018
strike my eyes lovely


for S. B.

by way of introduction,
when you have gone to confession,
freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest,
no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable,
there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs,
one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem,
a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction

so months later you snicker for you have been seriously
self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies,
trite and yellowed overused, and you read
really good poetry and are
slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of
your own no-winsome word-smithy,
no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note,
and it’s the only lasting quality is the
genuine nature of its intent
but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality,
a victim of your dissatisfaction

let me explain better

she messages you while the time difference works in her favor,
she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted,
she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation,
as she cherishes this forgotten one,
with words that cannot be ignored

the poem

                 strikes her eyes lovely

daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged  

for this a compliment that any poet would
weep for, be inspired by, stung into action,
provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better,
what writer could want for anything more!

who can own this ability  
accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification

to strike down lovely
the readers eyes, almost all once,
almost excuses me forever
for trying and failing so many times

you smile
but not in the chest where
lovely
needs to strike you

for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then...
let the moment gleam, and then disappear,
again and again, stored but not restorative

11/21/18
Miami
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