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Each step is taken                      
                                for granted.

Confident that the terrain will remain
unchanged, solid and dependable beneath
our feet, beaten down by the ones
who have walked before us,
we forget to think about
our destination, and when the
path inevitably betrays our trust,
our arrogant stride falters
as the world shifts beneath our soles.

It is no wonder that we stumble when
trying to blaze our own trail.
So, remember to be wary about
where you step on your quest
for answers.
Pauper of Prose Jul 2018
So many scream and cry of the worst
Those people inflicting hurts that bubble and burst
Yet I’ve encountered ones who are much crueler
Who invite madness and chaos by unmeasured rulers
They are the many who never really care
Whose emotional cupboard lay blank, bleak and bare
Who raze instead raise their kids, like barbaric hordes of old
And the kids grow to be monsters that don’t even know,
That the many screams and cries that they’ve heard for years
Are derived from the neglect that nested between their ears
And even the righteous can be blind to those things they left behind..
III May 2018
We are all just broken messes, aren't we?

Just weird abstractions of people,
Clinging to the material and unnatural
Thrills and chills of being,
In some odd hope that we will wake up
Rejuvenated and refreshed
And with a mind so clean
And pure
And sure of ourselves,
But we are really just lost
In our own self-constructed mazes of
Complications and complexity.
Poetria Jan 2018
colourblind
to traffic lights
but I know how they're
supposed to look

I walk along
a thinning kerb
frequently falling
stumbling along

nothing stops me
I stay on the edge
this line between safety
and imminent death
what punctuation? ;P
kevin hamilton Jul 2017
ii
i spent the night in a sink
the cold, stale air
the wet tombstone
pallid lights, local drink
Brent Kincaid Oct 2016
We load the road of our success
With boulders of forgetfulness,
Stumbling each time again
As if we were but mindless men.
Shrunken, looking drunken,
Mumbling, some grumbling,
We were people, but barely,
Rarely standing up to stress.
Preferring to dress in the rags
Like hags and hobos, up to elbows
In the trash we bought with cash
Instead of buying our birthrights
Back from those who ****** us
Then ignored us, we were needing,
Some bleeding, and dying
And nobody but us was crying.

We’d carry all those speed bumps
We carefully crafted with our hands
And let them stand before us
To deter us and divert us every day
But not in a diverting way like TV.
It was a travesty, a mummer’s play
In which we each played our part
But, not like art come to life, oh no
It was a horror show for fools
And it was our own tools and effort
That pulled together to create a ride
In a non-amusing park of suicide.
Many of us don’t notice the slide
Until everybody and everything
Is on the upside and we are not.
It’s a kind of mental, moral rot.
Then the travesty became a tragedy
For you and for me, endlessly.
Lucrezia M N Mar 2016
This world I walk in, stumbling,
as ordinary as anybody's can be
I have to struggle getting it that way.
I wait light years for something
like that something awaits for me,
I should wanna be there come what may.
Maybe I'll finally feel like I belong
cause so far I've never really missed home.

I've always said
I wanted to escape
from this little town,
Somehow,
starting it all over again
as if I've learnt from my mistakes

Had I?
Am I able now to write a new life?
When will I be ready to sing a song of mine?

Many faces I pass by, sometimes
I wonder what if they knew me?
I'd be wary and keep my strange.
I see too much into every eye
like a life lived before, through it,
time to turn it all around and change.
No city is too big, so isn't your heart,
when you've got nothing, you can only go far.
So, this is supposed to be a song actually
Brittle Bird Jan 2015
My hands weren’t sweating when I said it.
                    I will never write a love song.
It never seemed like anyone could see
past the pink
                swirly
                       fogging their eyes.

   How pathetic.

But cheerios get soggy
when I look away this long
and I wrote my first melody
because of your swirly eyes.

   They’re so much darker,
                 like rotted leaves.


And second,
                third,
(voice cracking, echoing)
      my fingertips
are splitting over these strings.

Fourth-
palpating vibrations killing the me
I’d thought furthest through.
I swear,
I wont crack as hard this time, but-

I can’t tie my shoelaces
without tearing flower petals,
so I walk around stumbling,

falling
into pretty girls.
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