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Sophie Oct 2024
Our of nowhere, invisible hands grab me.
Fingers sharpened to tiny needles stabbing me all over.
Internal bleeding I beg could finish me off.
My lungs burn for life,
but I burn for limited air supply.
My legs itch to run,
but I know better than to try again.
****** footsteps leave traces
for the invisible hands to find me again.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2024
Stop all efforting to know, and think
knowing is going on well known, without me.

No childhood duty to cultured honor, do I feel.

No grain of sand among all the stars beyond us,
in the middle of any given night in the desert, we
see, am I nor any other, listening, waiting, thinking
as the we involved in using time to think with, once,

then again, aware more now than ever before, we
are not the first to formulate means for making peace

in time of constant readiness to agressively defend,
the story of us, our nation and vocabulary of knowing,

all the words in all the books, at a touch, see this
means that, gnative tongue tying truths to us,
cognative clear translation is ours, in other words,
we who comprehend the shibboleth as ours to say
right, ya'll say ain't we say do not attempt am not I
in a kind sibalence hush
of meaning seeking mode, hiding
wills to wonder curiously curia classified
rules allowing religious proof of science lying,

while earnest diligence duly done, indeed
instantly acknowledging holy truth is plausible,
as awfully awesome instances of answered aha
per haps, haps may tie it all to me through you,
ready steady friend in times
of deepest lonely me
self deluding independent thought
dominion, in old age, seven decades and above, we
become the prayers of saints, as we choose
to define refined sophia recipes,
in unsophisticated self taught grammars,
using only matter we have at hand, in truth, mere
words, liberally offered and left to show, the way
we made up this mind, this formal structural me
hold, metaphorical jug of ra' towb experience, I
- while sorting idle words from active verbs
imagine, any willing to read a line, ready
to make another think it through, to this end

that we may be in one mind, or of one mind,
preposed to say we agree with exceptionalists,

as by virtue of becoming a breathing word user,
each becomes a knower of how peace is made,

when none has been, in the mind of a long generation,
Prince of Peace, perceive the irony, toes rusting
stuck in the mud we expected… as we see on TV,

the murderous wille zur erste, none recall who won…
now that the long sought, even desperately prayed for,
Northwest Passage by Sea is open, year-round,

and now no fish contain no plastic, tic, tic, tic
and now the shallow seas once teeming with creation,

cover Florida, up to Lake Okefanchokee with detritus.
Titles are tricky to keep totally reasonably tied to why I write.
https://discourse.biologos.org/t/good-and-evil-towb-and-ra/51238... essential background noise... to know what I meant to mean considerable as new known.
William A Poppen Oct 2024
Solitude
Can be spent
Enjoying what is in your midst

Solitude
Can be refreshing
Refilling the cup you carry

Solitude
Can become hard
As thoughts swirl in one’s mind
Taunting us with unpleasant
Or daunting views
Laced with brooding anxiety

When ruminating becomes  
Mulling over fears
Our negative thoughts
Become erroneous ideas
That feed even more
Agony and fretting

Name the feeling
Of desponding anxiety

Pull yourself away
From within yourself
Back to the beauty of the solitude
And experience the rejuvenation
of each new moment
Thought, attention
Tudo que temos e pensamos, de onde viemos e para onde vamos,
vem e veio da imaginação das pessoas

Everything we have and think, where we came from and to where we are going,
comes and has come from the imagination of people.
Lily Mani Sep 2024
If I could give it all, I did
I gave away a privileged life, one could dream to live
At the time, I didn't think I had much
My mistake and all my glory was crushed
My perspective was crooked
All were in awe of my life, yet I overlooked it
I thought of my life like a house of glass
Too fragile and meek, so over-class
Ironically, that was an understatement
My life, a house of gold to be completely blatant
Yet still I took my life with no value
The gold was my ashtray I spew
Now my life, a burnt down house, scarce of abundance
A daily reminder of my descendance
Into a void; hell
Hopeless on whether I'll live to have a story to tell
Of how life gave me something
And how quickly I gave life reason to make me nothing
Isaac C Sep 2024
I may not hear them,
But they're not dead.
I notice them at times.
They sway my mind
And turn my head.

They used to make me hurt,
Reminding me of things
I try not to remember.
They played their games
With me right in the center.

They'd mumble to each other
And utter parts of phrases
To hold my interest
And keep me thinking.

They knew my private thoughts
And heard my monologue.
I always felt like I was watched.

They made me feel ashamed,
They forced me into fantasy,
And soon my mind was gone.
This poem is inspired by the experiences I've had as a schizophrenic.
Antonia Sep 2024
day after day
time passing through,

thought after thought
they're all about you.

Mr. permanent resident
inside my head

I built you a castle,
made you a bed
and each night
I watch you
laying your head
on or memories and you cover yourself
with my love
Nigdaw Sep 2024
not a word written
not a word uttered
thoughts stream
like traffic on the motorway
so many journeys
so many destinations
not even sure
if they all make it
Sunday fades into a sunset
Monday looms with it's onset
nothing to do but wait
a perfect moment passed
a perfect moment lost
darkness descends
this will be no more
Jeremy Betts Sep 2024
I mess up a lot
For example;
I got off the ***
And then I ****t
Believe it or not
But that was after this thought,
"I don't have a shot
At the life I want
The break I need
Will never be caught
It must be written into the plot
So wether I like it or not
This is my spot"
And that matches up
With what I've been told
And what I was taught
You get what you get
I got what I got

©2024
Abi Winder Sep 2024
let them love you this way:

with long drives to far away destinations
with the sole purpose of finding a beach
that feels right underfoot.

with car park crying
and laughing and debriefs
that echo long into the night.

with celebratory drinks
and pub feeds
and sometimes the odd fancy dinner.

with mid week check ins and soup left on door steps
messages of poems and songs that make them think of you
(i need you to know that you deserve to be thought of)

with hands soaked wet
by dishes you didn’t want to wash
and with blankets pulled up to chins.

let them love you this way.  
softly and in all the ways that count.
all they ways you haven’t been loved before.
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