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Isaac Aug 25
I struggle to stay balanced
my asymmetry is well established
my to-do list is longer than my hair
which I need to cut, by the way
So many dead ends, so little day
So many tasks, my schedule cannot sway
the gears are moving, the thoughts invasive
the fears are proving to be quite abrasive
too much, cannot face it
so I meticulously place my crystals north
so I ridiculously colour coordinate my clothes
anything to escape myself mischievously
I struggle to stay in one place
I struggle every day
Hammad Jan 4
I woke up to a nightmare
and the next thing I knew
the world started spinning
so I closed my eyes
and hoped
to see it gone
but It didn't
I couldn't moved   an inch;
It's like my mind
tried to tame  
the chaos in me
which in turn
becomes
the violent whirling
and now my world is
upside down...
Julia Oct 2020
i put on vertigo today
to relate to the slow flooding of green
i came to the circling score
remembering how I used to get slapped
when scotty embraces made-over judy
i couldn’t help but cry as i fear
i want to be made-over too
in someone else’s image
Ruheen Oct 2020
I can see the way
Your rhymes they play
Your head
You've got that blame
On pause
Now hit repeat
I don't do rhymes
Patterns
Circles
Or anything
That spins my head
Because I get dizzy
And then my head hurts
Then I get awkward
And I don't like it.
Then I get nauseous
And I hate it.
And then someone out there
Decides to hit
Repeat.
...sorry it took so long.
Pete May 2020
“There’s not even room enough to be anywhere
Its not dark yet, but it’s getting there”. – Bob Dylan
.
A pair of die is tossed across a plywood-table.
It’s oak-veneer of creamy grain glisters with light
Which falls crummy, like dandruff from naked bulbs
That are illumined by a hand that screws;
There is no switch.
The flick of that wrist charms those die into snake eyes.
And so, the two-fold trick erupts our opposites on top
Of the laminated universe. The stones have settled.

You can smell the ignited, paper wick
Of a well-packed cigarette
But none of the sweet leaf which follows.
The virtue of our space is that
The substance is snuffed out.

No more panache with death-
Wish; just sadness fumbling with toilet
Paper, because tissues got expensive.
Pretty quick the crown of that nose chafes
Against the single-ply and specks of skin
Suspend themselves in oddly solar
Bathroom light. But the cells reform so quick;
The cartilage is solid like the trunks of effusive,
Sappy trees that create a sympathetic prison.
Soon, apathetic winter comes to ****
The ornaments obscuring
A depthless forest.

So stripped of foliage, an ascetic, wintry oak
Must look inside itself.
The anatomy of tree
As annulated grain,
Is kept concealed; flat circles. marking. years.
It sees Prospero’s Ariel and Carlotta’s Madeleine.
They’re gagged, trapped in the trunk
And point outside the Vertigo of time –
Inside the television – to “total flow” –  
(Where Scottie drools catatonically)
To spotless light, in evergreen rooms
That are built of such better pulp.

..

Conspicuous are characters around here.
It seems that silver dollars stack ten to a word
Of which so many do plague these matted
And miserly phrases.
Intelligent, it isn’t.  Green looks blue;
Intelligence is stupid. It does not sound
Like anything and means much less.
No, they’re hopeful to be musical or
Umbilical; like, connected to the harmonic
Mother who’s just now gestating an utterance
For life or death. Whichever side
Of the soil you prefer.

Most folks used to hedge their bets on both
But eternity is out, the moment is in.
Like Jesus Christ it’s difficult to stay
With the latest
Transcendental style.  
Friction atomizes faith’s tension ‘till
Belief systems are burned out.

The Library of Babel is in flames.
The ash falls and frosts the boughs
Of culture’s mangey oak.

That tree, was just struck by the zeitgeist’s lightning.
And furiously, so furiously our year’s snow is falling,
On all the breathing; all the sleeping,
Whom sawing logs are situated in the worst, possible
S(lumber).


I saw dust, and it looked like me.
I am the 3rd Adam.
I am a-bomb.
And I will deliver us.

Sawdust
Ramona Davis Dec 2019
It's made of flesh -
The walls, doors and windows.
It makes my air boil with trembles.
It's made of scorned blood -
The floors, ceilings and tables.
My limbs drip slowly, making me heavy.

In the place where was the eye, now is just a hole.
In the place where you waited, now I'm left alone.
But alone is not what you're thinking of,
Alone for me means
A feast of broken bodies
All floating in white rooms with skies as ceilings
Everything's a limit
The iron too powerful
Here they come on my chest o, ****** are thee.

Roaming on northern winds
Lay and feel me
I give myself to you
Feast of me alone
Now that I have nothing more to give
At last I give to you my soul.
Mystic Ink Plus Dec 2019
Sometimes
One feels
Dizzy
Not
Because of
Clinical
Ailment

For what dies
Within

Their world
Turns upside down
Irony
Nobody notices
Genre: Clinical Abstract
Theme: Dysequilibrium
Author's Note: Been to ENT specialist, Cardiologist, Ophthalmologist,Neurologist, Orthopedic surgeon, Pychiatrics, and so many somebody else. Yet the referral continues.....
m h John Mar 2019
i feel the whirl in my eyes
since you’ve left,
unsure of which direction
i’m floating in.

terrified of myself,
i screamed your name,
if it wasn’t for that day
you picked up the pen
and drew yourself in

i would still be in the air
looking down at myself
like i’m some sort of dove
afraid to lift my wings
to fly in the air
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