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Janelle Tanguin Oct 2019
There were warning signs to beware,
great walls you had to climb,
more parcels inside,
sealed with labeled reminders
to handle with care.
That a wrong cut of a wire
could trigger explosives,
that the place wasn't just fragile,
it was also volatile.

There's a reason why
from miles away you'd been told
to keep your own distance.
Why this wasn't just something
you could happen to stumble upon,
but a shipwreck, a paper town,
a lost city you needed to find.

When it dawned upon you
that this was not paradise,
but a haunted cemetery of some kind,
you snuck your way back
to the hole you fell into;
burning the place to the ground,
like the ones who came before you.
Inktober 2019
Day 8
Prompt: Frail
M Solav Jul 2019
There is form. And there is force.
Lightning blazes the sky with frightening might
Which bursts and dissipates in arteries of light
How it animates the living,
With its thundering displays!
How it penetrates us with awe,
And fills darkness with stories
And that is what we call the Force.

There is form. And there is force.
Gushes of wind brush the once austere surface
Which rises and resonates in hills that interlace
How it fuels our imagination
With its frenetic waltz!
How hypnotic its furious motion
And the flow of its assaults
And that is what we call the Force.

There is form. And there is force.
Mountains spring from seas and glide down the coast
Which is where we have crawled and now thrive the most
How it shapes the current world
With us barely noticing!
How volatile all our endeavors
And at the mercy of its whim.
And that is what we call the Force.
Written in June 2019 - for an exhibition in Peking.
Anastasia Jun 2019
Volatile (Adjective)
Seeming to change without reason; unstable and unpredictable

Synonyms: Me, Love, Emotions, McDonald's ice cream machines
i can barely keep my eyes open rn
Selcæiös May 2019
Nobody knows until they go,
That knowledge stole the innocence
Right out of your soul

And now where do you go?
You knocked;
But nobody’s home
And you still gotta take cover
Before the Nightwalkers roam

So you’ve got no place to go
Abandoned family cause “you’re grown”
Turned a home into
A house with plenty of holes
Decorating all the doors

But once the sun falls,
When your eyes gleam
You’ll do anything to keep
from recalling all of those volatile scenes

And now you can't fall asleep;
Just cause a few memories
Sneak up on you,
And you can't help but peak

Rapidly, you’re falling into
depressing thoughts
Instead of falling asleep.

Nobody knows until they go
That knowledge stole the innocence
Right outta your soul
Right from under your nose

By the time you know, it's way too late
Cause the world has long since taken that
Piece of your soul.
Maxim Keyfman Sep 2018
that something volatile seemed
because of the hard brown binding
the book flew pages
everything was in a huge bright flight

and all the previous distances were forgotten
forgot all that will be next
everything around was forgotten and pulled
was just that the flying flew

it flew a black flame of a fire
it flew and flown and circled
but all this was just a melody of the eyes
only the sound of flutes of distant

Avery Glows Jun 2018
I've grown speechless,
secretive, deaf.
Running and hurling,
running and hurling
for what—?
There are only tides that beacon and retreat,
never one that lingers.
For how could love be blended
into such frivolous motion.
May 2018
please know that I love you more than the stars, the sun, and the skies could hold.

but I don't know how to fix something without damaging it the process.

you are fragile, and my hands have unintentionally fractured you countless times. I know this, even though you've never explicitly told me.

I dance on eggshells around you: I am atlas, pirouetting across an empire of thin ice, just so I don't mar you with my words.

swallowing conversations and feelings is a talent we both possess. to spare the pain of the other, we dampen the truth. we drink the fires of resentment and leave them to ferment.

I cannot fix this without potentially damaging it further.

I'm a storm with skin. my collateral damage knows no bounds, spares no mercy. you know this. but hear me, and heed me closely.

I don't paint you as the villain. you aren't the martyr. we are equally responsible for this damage and decay. the rot of something once beautiful.

yet I cannot fix something without causing further damage.

we are a two way street. growth of beauty cannot flourish in stagnation.

please, do not test the limits of my volatility. I cannot mend the tatters of thirteen years with a single spool of thread.

I refuse to swallow fermented resentment. I walk on eggshells carrying mountains for you no more.

this tapestry will end in one of two ways: opulent splendor, or devoured by living flames.

I cannot fix something without destroying it in the process.
February 25th, 2018

I cannot bear to lose you, but I cannot journey this voyage across the empire of eggshells with the universe on my back for you any longer.

please don't push me to throw thirteen years of friendship to the fires of the abyss.

didn't anyone tell you that I am named after the Durga Kali for a reason. ?

© kalica calliope
Lost Mar 2018
Drowning in a sea of my own creation, a black void of crashing waves that erode my bedrock, slowly but surely.

The knight watches from the cliff top, his sword dangling helplessly by his side, knowing the fruitless endeavour of attempting battle with the creature, was just that. He falls to his knees, begging the merciless gods to release his world from its onslaught of tendril esk darkness.

But the cries fall on deaf ears as the monster deity unleashes yet another wave of black and the sky falls into the sea with an impossible crack.

The storm rages on as its host shambles around its own reality, the now black skies reflect in its eyes, but the light of the stars has since been extinguished. The firery core has been contained within the maelstrom of black. And the throbbing sentience is being infected and enslaved by the demon god once and for all.

The knight is a fugitive in the world that was crafted for him. His armour is battered and flawed from the constant losing fight he was destined to wage, forever. The arm that once held the mighty sword of light feels like the weight of a thousand men were standing on it. And the sword is glowing ever fainter.

But still, the war goes on, the casualties rise and the demon god is winning. This is no fairy tale, our hero is not recovering and the monster has no weakness.

This is real life.
My... life.
So I’m trying this thing where I write poetry, without poem formatting...
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