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Romann Sep 25
Am I really where I want to be?
Is this the path I chose, or the safest I picked?
Is there truly a prize at the end of this road?
And if there is, can I reach it wholeheartedly?

There is like a wall between me and those around me.
I don’t belong; I’m missing something.
I don’t have that unyielding passion.
I am bothered by too many things.

So I should just run away!
Run towards my goal, ***** the beaten path!
The scream of my soul will drown out the hardships!
This! Is! Who! I! Am!

If only it were that easy…
Can you always go back? Or is there a point of no return in life?
Pastel blue sky longing to
Hang over wheat;
There is only grass.
Green with envy at white clouds as
They pass.

                  (A different journey)

Poplars strive to touch
Shrunken, grey clouds that
Recoil at the very sight.
Ah, the plight of an
Innocent gesture.

               (Nowhere else to go)

Wind snears:
My train moves it so.
Grass is merely in the past
As I am slung
To and fro.


The seat next to me is empty. A passenger of invisibility kindly agrees for my bag to rest on their featherlight lap. Reservations elsewhere have been made.
Durham can wait.


In my lecture, there were four empty seats next to me. All other rows were full.


Last Monday, I got ****** at Stone Roses Bar. Stumbled along to ‘I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor.’
Hands were all over me:
Creeping and

                     Why is it that when
I want company, it flees?

When I embrace

             It molests me.
Carl D'Souza Jul 30
When I was at university
the standard used to judge
my essay
was “is it knowledgeable and sophisticated
in its use of concepts”,
and so I did my best
writing essays
to display my knowledge
of what authorities said
in a sophisticated way
like a DJ samples famous songs;

Now that I’m wiser
I realise
is not the wisdom
I need to achieve my joy and happiness,
and reading authoritative texts
and writing knowledgably-sophisticated essays
is a waste of my time,
and my time would be better spent
doing philosophy on my own experiences
to achieve the wisdom
I need to achieve my joy and happiness.
Jon Thenes Jul 18

There are six ways to die on my table top

There are four ways to get lost in my cupboard

There are seven men drowning in my bottom drawer

There’s a coma above the ceiling fan

and an incinerator under my covers

Under the bed is a mouse trap

In the sink is a death trap

In the gap between the walls

is the most appalling noise

and my radio produces

only the frantic breaths of fitness breeders

The tortured hide under my pillow

(though they belong in my ears)

The glass in the window is made

of the slowest distorting tears

(I never produced them)

The carpet covers my blood

My clothes are covered in sod

The wallpaper hides my dreams

and my dreams have spilled at the seams

I collect masks that are the person I hid

Where do I sit ?

The door is a lid

The room is too warm


An expanding balloon
Nearly twenty year old poem. Minor changes made.
Karen M Jun 26
Dinner is unknown.
Nothing here sounds good to eat.
F*ck it; I'll just starve.
We have 9 chicken restaurants. It gets old after a while.
Jeff S May 5
When I was a boy, the castles of education
soared impossibly large: Brick-laid with Blake, mortared
with Marx, wound round-about with subsidized ivy, rooted
in the 17th century.

And me, just me, on two legs, from 1981.

The flickering incandescence of rebellion started in
these fortressed halls; ideas more snapped than volleyed, until
at the end of our emotional tether, we society on our pale legs,
we sure did fall to a gust of reason.  

Emotion pounded at the walls in every century; and minds, fortified with logic and stoney fact, beat back, beat down, beat away the
Crying, yelling minds. For tears do not make progress.

I was tender, careful, deferential in my youth—an idealist without ideas; merely the powder keg of emotion lurking somewhere beneath my epithelial smarts. Ready and willing to rain against the parapets of education with unsightly feeling.

And I stood, in my academic frock, at the feet of the great hall of learning. And I wondered if my legs could stand it.

Is it any wonder I was raised to be an intellectual?
Heather Jan 27
Memory goes
where endless stretches of plains –
in ochre, beige, cocoa, tan and brown,
touch clear azure horizons,
cows drift like freckles on land,
limitless university; expand,
take ownership of homes
belonging to others, a broken record
of history repeating—
images create images
one takes the place of another,
whispered voices
in depths of night where
only prayer is truly welcomed...
come into this sea
of regret, this ocean of desire
when is the right time
to cry out in despair
beg an answer
or need warmth that comes
only from a smug
knowledge of righteousness
and power.
Ben Jan 26
Collapsed on a reasonably uncomfortable couch
I’m ok. I’m just tired. I had a long night.
My arms are going numb, slowly, my hands are beginning to tremble as I draw out my vice
I’m a spectator. I had a long night
My eyes will not focus, my face has gone pale and the space in front of me has begun to blur
I woke up at 7 today. I had a long night

I’m being called, there are voices rushing around me but never penetrating the whirlpool
It’s been two years. This should be over
I thought it was over

And now the spiral has begun.

I’m drowning, there are invitations to lunch that pass me by, an irregular tic toc beating me further into stupor
‘You ok’
I cannot answer. I don’t know how, and if I did my lips have betrayed me and as I try to quell any worry all I can muster is an incomprehensible mumble
Tears now. In public. I don’t have the presence of mind to feel ashamed. I’m disappointed, though, with my inability to hold myself. This ought to be over, I ought to be ok.

I need some space. I need to leave before I’m asked again. My limbs begrudgingly obey me and I just barely manage myself out the door. I’m invisible, I would hope
No more invisible than I’ve ever been

It’ll be over in an hour.
Then will come the explanations. The mere thought plunged me in again. I can’t explain this. I don’t know how.

And an hour later I find myself alone in a courtyard, in their rain, a trembling cigarette and red eyes, still staring
It’s over now
He is beginning to believe
that they are not "busy".

But rather,
he is just a low priority.

Relish in the worthlessness.
Happy thoughts.
    Happy thoughts.
         Happy thoughts.

The uni students aren't even invested.
They don't care.
They just lie.
They are impersonal.

Ghostly figures who do not exist.
Pale reminders of the neurotic needs.

            I am always trying.
I am always reaching out.
            I am always walking.

YOU'RE NOT ******* BUSY.
"Sorry, I'm busy that day"


           ­           Just.
             ­                         You.
                                   ­          Don't.
                                                           ­     Me.

Wrote this some time ago.
ACAC Dec 2018
hold on, wait, what, what similarities?

I sit in the group looking around, the grey plastic chair crushes my ******* spine as I cling to it for dear life.
the tutor comes to me last, two weeks in a row I don't get time to talk.
great, I'm already an outsider, now I don't get time to talk.

I listen as the group in the nicer, cosier and brighter room next door laugh and joke.
they are all young and pretty, a feeling of longing pulls me down like a giant magnet, why am I not in that group. have I not got the skills to be young and pretty anymore?

for almost one month now I despair.
how can I ever find my voice in this group there are all so strong, strong women.
this week she comes to me first, I speak, it doesn't help. can they even see me, understand my accent, it seems I'm more different than similar.

the next week I don't go, avoidance wins 1st place gold trophy as I sit alone in bed.
with other groups I'm so strong and proud, can I fake it next week, or maybe just conform and comply.

and so it goes on, am my question remains, what ****** similarities?
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