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Poetry is in the eye of the beholder.
So what if the site alone is poetry,
sharing any thought
in this ever-so corrupt world,
where opinions are
no longer free.

** what we think,
its what we do.
A mild case of impostor syndrome,
a severe symptom in the form of
confabulations without instigations,

are the base of our disease.
Who we are, is glued to our
actions, due to devour
what our soup tasted like before it all went sour.

This is nonsense, this is weak,
this is no writing of which people speak.
Is it even right in use to say the things, written.
Stop longing for the time of long before,

when we were all still rid
of conscious thought and feeling,

back when we were reeling in and out, casually,
of our devout inadequacy.
When do we deserve a title and when are we what we’re called?
Matthew Feb 7
It's funny how how the wind with words so eloquently spoken
Speaks only of how you are malevolently broken...
This is a description.
Homunculus Feb 2
We know with intimacy, our own minds,
But to the minds of others, all but blind,
Are we, for though, we may approximate,
Their thoughts, we can but merely speculate,

And offer our conjectures as to how,
Our counterparts perceive the here and now
I know just what a color means to me,
But when my friend looks on, what does he see?

And, could it be, the kindly, kindred fellow
Sees my own 'red' as slightly tinted yellow?
Could it be the case, my sight defies,
The scenery presented to his eyes?

Perhaps we simply aren't meant to know
The worlds that our companions' senses show
And that it's this ineffable mystique
Which makes us, each and every one, unique
Jack P Jan 30
it seems sometimes like this slow-motion cascade of twitches and deformities forms ecosystems on my bedroom floor. i can shift between them, not physically, but tangentially, as if by a switch sitting quietly at the back of my skull. quick cold feel around and i'm in a woodland, leaning against bark that holds enough ridges and depressions to tell an odyssey. ants weave through the bark like they're tunnels. i weave through the trees like they'll never end.

then, from dead leaf to a sand so vast it leaks into the horizon, i am desert, deserted. when you stare long enough at the same sad thing it melts into another plane and you have to learn to affix your gaze to something else. but here, where whats left again sinks into scarcity, you may as well stare into the sun.

someone saw me sitting at the edge of the swamp. i spend most of my time there i think. i name the clusters of moss rubbing up against my ankles, most of them after people i know. or knew - long since has it been decided that if i name a moss-person after you, you are an erstwhile figure, a shadow dragging its imagined weight around the corners of someone else's life.

but no one sees me back sitting at the edge of the bed with my fine coterie of nothings, limbs dangling, body shaped like an accident: where i go to die, over and over and over and...

...people have said before that i have a way with words,
but it's times like these i'd rather do away with them.
i'll never clean my room
i'll just move when i get sick of it
Rowan S Jan 27
It's been long enough now
And enough has been said
Apologies and forgiveness passed back and forth
Like folded middle school notes
Yet here I am

"Ouch, I just bit my cheek."

As I let my rods and cones
Intercept the
Lies and smoke
The electrons radiating from my
Squared, glowing palm

I sigh
And attempt to release stagnant regret
As my mouth fills with the taste
"Whoops, I just hurt my own feelings."
Seanathon Dec 2018
Who are you to say the white curtain stains
On a hilltop growing green?

Who are you to paint with such graphite cold
On a white provincial scene?

Who am I to wish for such a thing
Amongst all these eyes unseen?

Who are we to hope for such a sight
For such parted parchment things...
Pete King Dec 2018
I've always feared the little things,
Because they're what stole my heart.
At first they'd sprout it's tender wings;
Then tear them and off, and me; apart.

So, I learned to hide my fragile self,
Behind walls that no-one could breach.
My broken parts on the top of a shelf,
In a box, that no soul could reach.

But then, you reached a lone hand out;
Butterflies broke through my ribs.
Ten-thousand words that I longed to shout,
Rooted themselves on my lips.

The little things will always scare me,
That much may always stay true.
But you,
You crazy,
You utterly absurd
You punch-something beautiful ******.
There's no better feeling than being terrified by you.
One I'm hoping to develop. Part of my #PoemADayToKeepTheDoctorAwayButOnlyUntilJanuaryExcessivelyLongHashtagChallenge
Annika J Dec 2018

A blank slate
Is an opportunity
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