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Sasa Milivojev Oct 2019
In this century withal
Rivers of blood still flow
Bombs echo
Children are being killed
Heads are being severed
Millions are starving
Diseases are devouring
And you are singing

The gallows are trembling
In the valley of the fallen
In the salty tears
With our putrescent sores
We fall prey to the crows

Our festering entrails
For the starving wolves

A shattered house
Little boy is weeping
Over the body of his Father
That forever now is sleeping

Schools Temples and bridges bleeding
bloodstained wedding guests are screaming

Little white coffins
Maternal howls
Above Uranus
Hear the painful growls
Delirious poets are prattling
And not a word are you uttering

They blinded you
When they ***** your daughter
Strangled ‘er with the wire
They abducted your brothers
Tortured in the cellar
Shattered their fingers
With ferrous clubs
With a saw agape their skulls
Their legs wagons lacerated
Their limbs with machete dissected
Flayed the skin of their backs

Dumpers of corpses
Bulldozers to the grave consigned
Roads run over their bones in cement confined
Bodies filled the bottomless well over the brim
Come closer
Look within
The infinite darkness of the abyss
To hear the silence of the universe

A spark is glistening in an innocent eye
Children are helplessly falling to the dust
Venomous saliva dripping from their mouth
As their rosy intumescent faces bust

In their closing prayer
Reverends to a cross immured
Laughing at the stake they burned

Tender ivory cherubs
Flew away like a flock of birds

Rip my heart out from my chest
As I am unsleeping
May your golden ship catch wind away from shore
To raise your glass of blood once more
As you feast your eyes in silence

Saša Milivojev

Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
nim Jun 2018
is weeny people
having thoughts that
are immense, vast, oversized for their age
for their teeny, picayune bodies

but that isn't the problem

it's the elders not acknowledging them nor their thoughts
it's their need for self destruction  
it's anxiety, depression, Weltschmerz all over again

it's not being enough
but feeling
way too
Edward Coles Feb 2018
If all the leaves are gone
Then where’s the story?
If all the money is gone
Then what are you hiding?
If you have been here before
Where do I go from here?

If all disaster falls
At the last leg of home,
If all the thieves are caught
Then why all the cameras?
If even ******* fall in love
Why can’t I?

Saturday and it’s 5a.m.
Saturday and the room starts to spin
Smoke a cigarette and look down
At this grey, grey town.

And they will beat the drum
For any cause
If everything is ******
Then where do we start?
If all the money is gone
How do you manage
To sell out to all your friends and thieves?

If all the leaves are gone
Then what’s the damage
When every country is armed
To their teeth and think-

When the power is gone
What will we feed upon?
Have we reached the end
Or can we start over again?
A song I wrote

axr May 2016
ˈvɛltˌʃmɛːts,German ˈvɛltˌʃmɛrts/
a feeling of melancholy and world-weariness.

reading the newspaper became a chore
don't wanna read about another war
don't wanna read about climate change
no, don't tell me about the dark side of humanity
might as well lose my sanity
i don't want to know about the dead refugees
it only makes me feel more helpless
rivers flowing with filth
guns buried under corpses of the innocent
i'm a sad being behind a laptop screen
dreaming about glory the world will never see
i'm trying out something. please leave your comments below.
JDK Oct 2015
Don't warp it into something that never was.
Just a game we played inside our heads with our hearts.

Failed predictions of a future that could never be.

You'll only ever be you.

I'll only ever be me.
Together, alone. Separate but whole.
Alessander Jul 2015
You would figure
such a moment would be burned
into the paradigm of memory
when exactly did I learn
life was no cartoon?
well, it wasn’t one traumatic incident
rather a rushing current of events
a drunk uncle here, a screaming mom there
a belting boyfriend or toy-stealing sister
playmates picked dead last no matter
older boys bullying the younger
teachers who didn’t particularly bother
some cousins had yards and fathers
while others like me had neither
always more chores than fun
and no one ever explained how come
priests were less present and less kind
than the mexican street venders
there’s no specific scene to pause when I rewind
I honestly can’t remember.

It wasn’t at a funeral, by then
though I was young , I somehow knew
life was not all beautiful and true
that those adults who told me what to do
sobbed on dark beds and screamed at phones
then wiped their tears or ****** walls
before reentering the room
their eyes a little more like stone
while I pretended to un-see it all
and kept on playing with my toys, alone.
Weltschmerz: World-pain. World-weariness. That unique breed of melancholy born from recognizing the actual world will never mirror our ideal world.
Edward Coles Apr 2014
My head is in the toilet again,
as I cling to the tiling
to satisfy my place. All the time
growing smaller,
growing tired of this face.

It reflects in the ****-water like moonlight,
like a stranger huffing solvents
in the street. All the while I think
of your location;
in both life and the placing of your feet.

I have tumbled through darkness for years now,
so far that I have entered
forever-night. Oh, I miss your
voice on the telephone,
and more so in the absence of light.

I'm having trouble with my head again,
as I wilt like the orchids
on your table. I fear that soon
I will slip away,
that soon,
I will be but a passing fable.

— The End —