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'thoughtOutLoud Nov 2015
Spending time alone, gives an opportunity to discover who you are. *To be Alone *doesn't mean you're Lonely.
Vamika Sinha Aug 2015
Insipid darkness
is no better womb for
thoughts.
Decent thoughts, maybe good
GREAT thoughts.
Thoughts that will flow
like the lava of imported electricity
not-but-should-be circulating in Gaborone's veiny grid.

But who cares?
Well, okay, your mother, now swearing
at the singed-black TV screen
(she's missed her daily soap).

Mother Darkness breeds thinkers.
Tell me, in the scramble for your cellphone flashlight,
did you find your inner Plato?
Ah, no, you surely became
a lightbulb,
humming with the shocks of unwritten words.

It is these minutes of lightless inertia when
it's best to tap your swollen top instead
of lighting a candle.
See, sun rays and tube lights dull the finish of ideas;
corporation-induced darkness provides more suitable conditions.
So you must tap the glass globe on your shoulders
and feel, yes,
feel the grey filament
within, buzzzzzzzz

Electricity.

Edison's 'Eureka!' finally
happening, as all 'Eurekas!' do, in
(literally) colourless mundane.

(Note to self: Write a thank-you email to that pathetic power corporation for your rebirth as a glow)

Thoughts.
Thoughts and thoughts, thoughts,
thoughts.
                 thoughts,
   thoughts,
thoughts and  
                            thoughts,
coming in viscous gallops,
extra voltage baby, thoughts!
Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts,

IDEA.

You are no longer living!
You exist as shards of yes, one GREAT whole,
one...brace-taste the word now...
idea.

You are glimmers of something greater.
You are hot charges of energy your country failed to harness.

Sparked at the flick
of a lazy corporation's switch:
they

cut the power which
cut the flow in the varicose veins of Gaborone which
cut your bedroom's plastic brightness which
cut the bored-contented moment you were wallowing in which
cut your breath (still-half-scared of the dark, you) which
cut the blood flow to your grey matter which
cut the oxygen supply, replaced the fuel with electricity

and then you could think.

Thoughts
and  
thoughts
and

what will you do with them? If
you dare the sun's brilliance,
you might land up as some poor Icarus;
if you wait a half-volt longer,
I'm afraid the fuse will blow, madam and
your mother cannot comprehend these blue-light shocks,
please find a paper and a pen
immediately.

Ah.
So the electricity must, after all,
power something.
And in the crackling dash
to eke out your blow-blaze-brim-burn words
onto something that will last longer
than today's ration of blackness,

the power comes back.

Mind chars into itself.
Snuffed too soon, you pathetic power corporation,
why did you put me out like that?

Your mother turns to you and mutters
'Thank God.'
This poem has a second meaning too, if you bother to think about it. Maybe sit in the darkness to figure it out?
TYRAN Jul 2015
It's a cold, cold world.
Better be careful, little girl.
The earth will swallow you in whole.
Even in the comfort of your home.
Only the strong survive.
So where do people like me reside?
Starving for greatness in my purpose.
Cold night breaks me down to consider if it's worth it.
There's a demon inside to tell me otherwise.
Want to feel special. Want to feel alive.
Is there really a light?
Or have I been tricked by the illusion of life?
The fights in my mind of good and evil.
What to believe is not that simple.
Eyes sewn shut by the devil.
Suddenly my dreams are in trouble.
Is there really a light?
In the deep of night, out of sight.
A late night can drive you crazy. A poem dedicated to when all falls down.
Sombro Jan 2015
I went out less
Than most other kids
I left school less
Than most others did.
One day I left,
In the middle of the day
I came back with dead eyes
And got lost on the way.

My mother said nothing,
Just sent me to bed
But surely she suspected
Astray I was led.
So one day she followed
Found me 'neath a tree
Though surrounded by colour
Nature was just me.
She saw me bent over
And rock and bemoan
A long tube in my right hand
I lay back alone.

She saw me inject
Some liquid within
She shouted my name,
But ran from my sin.
She let it go on
For days until then
A policeman brought me
Home only when

My eyes were no longer
Windows in my head
No my eyes had died slowly
My brain turned to lead.
My mother cried out some
The policeman looked grave
He pointed me to her
Unable to save.

'I'm sorry dear madam,
but your boy has gone wrong.
We caught him in nature
Alone and in song.
His body was bent
Down over his wrist
We found this boy went
To nature with this.'

He pushed out his arm
And she cried out when
This policemen in earnest
Showed her my pen.
'This boy has done wrong,
His love of being lonely
Has given him eyes
That come only from poetry.

We recommend rehab
Or an offenders' institution.'
With a tip of the cap
He left her confusion.
She looked down at me,
Dead eyed, on the brink
Of turning to one
Who's blood turns to ink.

'Young son of mine,'
She said in despair,
'What led you to nature?
What led you out there?'
I looked up and showed her
My rhyme in my wrist
My eyes watched her tear drops
Though they'd ceased to exist.

*'I thought mama, I thought,
I dreamed mama, I dreamed,
I wished mama, I wished,
I knew mama, I knew.
I cried mama, I cried,
I searched mama, I searched,
I found mama, I found,
I tore out my eyes mama, I tore out my eyes.'
A thinker is always dangerous, especially to themselves.
William Wiley Dec 2014
What a price to pay to say "well said"
For all great phrasing comes from great tumult
And gladness, sadness, joy are all but fuel
As the "sayers" translate thought to word

They are as hunters, patiently in wait
For a great stirring deep within their being
Emotion wildlife rustling the trees
The game that does not recognize the game

Strategic are these hunters, clever souls
Whose precision cannot be repeated
Miners for the gold within their hearts
Exploring, exploiting their perceptions

And yet, it is but great coincidence.
They do not mean to feel, but still accept
The ludic, accidental inquiries
Subpoenas to their creativity

How much does it cost, a wondrous phrase?
The charge is pain, or love in great amounts
For words upon the page can but reflect
The bittersweetness of their author's id
jerely Jul 2014
Hold on to the memories you remembered not the saddest part.


2. Watch your fav movies! The humor one not the melodrama that typically makes you cry


3. Listen to music. Maybe its the best part to refresh your mind


4. Take down notes that you wanted to say.


5. Have a good rest like going to a coffee shop and make a cup of tea


6. Go to a beach. It makes your heart calm for a little bit might as well your entire body.


7. Fight for your own self. You are the one who can win for your weaknesses.


8. Ignore the sh*ts around you. It will just bug your entire day if you keep thinking of it.


9. Switch your mood to become happy.


10. " Laughter is the best medicine."


11. Play games often


12. Had some fun and enjoy


13. Put aside the things that keep reminding you from the past.


14. Do more in the present


15. Be at your best in the future


16. Be positive all the time!


17. Have some faith!


18. Encourage yourself that you are strong!


19. Widen your perspective in life


20. Tell yourself that 'you can do it'
Im gonna send this message to my mom who is currently feeling this pace. I hope she feels better and not to be sick again. I love you mom and sorry for all the wrong things that i've done and im so sorry for being so hard headed. Peace and lots of love to you!!! <333 huggggggsss

July 1, 2014
Copyright
Jerelii
Deneka Raquel Jun 2014
I am not a writer.
I am not good with words,
I cannot speak up for myself,
It is my pen that bleed words.
No amount of convincing can give me conviction.
No amount of clarification can make that distinction.
Please refrain from using titles.

I am not a writer.
I am just a dreamer,
Dreaming dreams of inverted galaxies
Where complexities are reduced to simplicity,
And maybe love wouldn't be so complicated.
I dream of a world where I'll be unchained and liberated,
Because currently freedom is hard to go by.

I am not a writer.
I am just another over thinker,
I stay up all night disassembling the world,
So I can put it back together.
Adding new features that I think will make it better
I get lost in thoughts, and day-mares, fantasies and others,
I obsess and I always suffer.

I am not a writer.
Though sometimes I am photographer,
Snapping,
Close ups and selfies of my terrible mind.
Giving glints of places you won't usually find,
All because I write sometimes.
I just express my emotions is what I'm trying to say. This poems sounds like I'm rambling..
Ariana Sweeney Apr 2014
People will try to brain wash you
  They pelt their ideas,
    Throw their beliefs in every direction
      Hoping that one of their bullets will stick.
    People want you on their team.
  Any idea or belief opposing theirs?
Well that’s downright disgusting.

  Convert to this side,
    Sway to that
      Sometimes it’s fiction
    People forget about the fact.
  What happened to individuality?
The choice of right or wrong?
  It’s beginning to be so hard to see
    Where one fits amoung the throng.
      You begin to shift your own ideals
    You begin to change your side
  Simply to blend in with the crowd
It’s just another way to hide.
  You hide behind that thick façade
    Always worn for show
      You’re melting inside little by little.
    You’ll be nothing before you know.

— The End —