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Jodie Davies Sep 29
I laugh when you wonder why you can’t sleep.

Sinking, though your arched back
hovers on the cold ground.
Pretending like you’re above the world
though you hardly ever leave the floorboards.
Drops from leaking walls count passing seconds
because the clock got tired of screaming for your help.
Seven times a morning you snooze his alarm
though you lay there on your rotting floorboards
with your eyes closed. As still and empty
as the world outside your leaking walls.
I know there’s a certain irony of today,
the seas move closer to the fires
yet, they still refuse to stop burning.
Millennials sip ***** through their metal straws
to save the fish
then eat sushi to ease their hangover.  
I thank you for trying
but you’ve set out for hell on a go kart with a broken wheel.
I know you think you’re preaching to the choir
with your trending reposts and Instagram stories
but you’re gushing to a world whose eyes
only ever see water.
What luxury you loan from mother-nature now is nice
but tell me in twenty years why it wasn’t
nice enough to fight for.
You waste your money on anti-depressants
and insomnia prescriptions
because you know that
the reason why you lay awake at night
is the hardest pill to swallow.
If only you could write a letter,
apologise to mother-nature
for wasting one of her children.

                Maybe then, you would be able to sleep.
We are in a climate emergency. We need to act before it's too late.
Jodie Davies Sep 22
To rule you,
an army of complacent, restrained, organised youth,
it hides truth,
picking at your brain with its lies and its gold tooth.
It blinds you,
ignorant to those dying outside your bedroom.
Ask ‘What’s new?’,
though you’re living life through only hashtags and YouTube.
Deny degrading of the world that surrounds you
while the man who ***** eight walks among you.
For the time that’s been wasted
on you fabricating
a false realization
of the mess you’ve made,
$2000 and a screen
replacement later…
The grave you dug? Now you’ve dug two.
We pay attention only to a world that is virtual
Simon Soane Feb 16
In the breath
of a
your tiny moves make
sacred populus.
harlon rivers Nov 2017

in the quiet of stillness
I can hear a snowflake
gently land
upon my cheek
a flurry of gossamer
frozen lace lilts ~
the ennui
of chilling silence
into a wilderness symphony

thank you to all
for stopping by to read
"The sound of a snowflake"

written by:  h.a. rivers ... 11/13/2017
unsxfe Nov 2017
[Alright, I don’t know how else to say this, but...
You know Unsafe?
I only made 3 parts.
I keep getting wind that there’s a part 4.
I’m starting to think that SHE continued it somehow.
How she did is beyond me, considering she isn’t exactly real.

Oh yeah.

       You might want a little clarity as to whom i am referring to.

Alright. so, the series X is written about a mystery girl that is called (or rather represented as) X, no?

Well, the reason she’s called that is because nobody knows her name.

I never gave her one.

Getting back on topic, it’s supposed to be written by another fictional person, whom for the sake of continuity, we will call W. Now, W and X were in love, very much so. W is offed, X mourns, yadda yadda yadda, et cetera, et cetera. Well, I felt that in order to give X more clarity and depth, that i’d have to write a second series, One that is written in the perspective of X. This premise became what you now know as Unsafe.

But, for some reason...

As I continued writing Unsafe, it felt more and more like I wasn’t even writing.

It’s like she had extended into my subconsious, from the fictional world in which she dwells, and into my pen.

Luckily, she’s easy to identify. I write her in ‘a special way’ as opposed to my [normal] writing.


Alright, Don’t be alarmed, but She MIGHT (this is a big might) have escaped the domain I made for her,


And into my Notes.

I cannot tell if it’s true or not, as this notice is considered it’s own poem. I cannot interact with my Notes until I decide to leave any poem that I am currently in.

But more importantly, this also implies that she is SENTIENT, and no longer needs me to convey her thoughts and actions.
Hell, she might be fighting for control over my account as I write this!


I really ******* myself over, huh?

Anyways, if you see her, tell me IMMEDIATELY! Just whatever you do, DON’T interact with her! In her current state, she is most likely extremely hostile.
I do appreciate you reading X and Unsafe, but this is getting a liiiiitle serious here, so uh...

Please take caution! I couldn’t live with myself if one of my readers LITERALLY GOT KILLED OFF by one of my works.

I’ll update you guys if anything meaningful happens.

In the meantime, I think I’ll go somewhere...

‘finally, FINALLY! I’M SAFE!’          

‘this feeling is so wonderful’          

‘i can forget my past’
Christian Bixler Feb 2017
What is it, oh you
Of the yearning mind,
Of the wide soul, and
The wounded heart
Laid bare, what is it
That pierces, that
Cracks the buried
Stone, that draws life
Up out of the earth,
And yet sustains it, crown
Tall in the anchored earth?
Listen now, O you man,
You woman, child,
Bearers of the flame
Of the world,
When the life of man
And the life of tree,
Both are seen embodied
Of the ecstasy of the
Now-In-Life, when
Death is counted friend
And received in honor,
And not sought, or hastened,
When the enemy of my
Heart is my enemy and yet
My friend, and love is
Seen in all, and recognized;
Then will we have peace,
The world within the world;
And from peace love,
And joy.
eleanor prince Dec 2016
as one stage empties
slow shuffle exit
another curtain will

waiting for that spark
an instant in time
silent explosion

stylus on rock face
outline of past forms
a mountain's sudden

as eagle marks
still moments
above a darkened

brooding dawn
fights clouds'

and man's spirit
lifts high and
at last


- - - - - -
Sometimes poems don't easily flow for a time.  Perhaps we are trying to have each one just perfect.  This off the cuff poem arose spontaneously and is dedicated to Kamala  from (ending 31/12/16) who has wonderful talent.  This is my welcome poem to him if he finds his way here:
Take care - you are a brilliant poet - it sits there waiting for that spark - a turn of the head, a cloud formation, a child's sudden laugh on distant wind, the roar of a river...
an eagle soaring steady, ominous, yet beautiful - as a sullen dawn over a brooding sea - ah! I feel it stir in you - it is there...
for you are a true poet, my friend, so let it fly free...!
I found this pic on Flickr to accompany this post - it's worth viewing:
Christian Bixler Nov 2016
We walk through life,
and not;
and not.
We see the
and let it
taken as
a fixture
of eternity,
for the
most part.
This, is not
the truth.
The world
is not a thing
of diamond,
not a thing of
light, or
of spirit, wholly,
although it is
all of these
in part;
It is also an
earthen world,
a fragile world,
a beautiful
and one which
we are quickly
stripping of
its beauty,
and its life.
Our world is
dying, and
we are the
But, there is yet hope.
There is still
time, to
turn back,
to leave behind
us, all this
pain, and
and soul-wide
there is yet time,
but not for
much longer.
Therefore, I
charge you,
all who read
these words,
and feel them
within your
Revitalize your
the world.
Every action
think, before
you act.
I charge you,
do this
for yourselves,
and for the
and I swear
to you, before
God, and
all the infinite
and yet
of eternity,
there is yet time.
There is still hope.
the world will
and flower,
for all of
I promise you.
It will.
The world is a thing of beauty.
will you help to preserve this light,
to heal this suffering, inflicted
in the greed of our race?
Or will you not.
There is no other
undefined Oct 2015
when she stops writing about you,
it's time to sound the alarms
& i know when that hotline bling, that can only mean one thing.

hotline bling- drake

— The End —