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I screamed and begged for the world to say something.

Anything.

Your eyes hover upon my disheartened letters.

Do not leave me here to rot with all my ambitions at my feet.

Why are you looking at me like that? Say something.

That day she left me, she never loved me she says.

As I held the world in my arms

She smiles at me and I can only choke on the letters that she shoved down my throat.

That day I lost her.

And all the hope she gave me would only fall apart in my hands.

-Kore
Not doing so good right now honestly.
Mark Wanless Mar 2021
with compassion my
food i travel and growl and
the world pads my feet
Noah Libitsky Mar 2021
Where the birds fly
In the sky
Where man wishes to go
But not everyone has gone
Everything is small
On the World down below
That is where you really know
You are on top of the world
This is my second poem that I have posted on this website and I feel like this is the best poem that I've ever done. I hope that everyone likes this poem as much as I do.
At the end of the day,
You’re left lying in your cold bed
All that warmth you felt ,
Evaporated into the mist of the night.  
You feel empty, and lost.
You can’t dream,
Because it’s for the fortunate,
You know your worth,
And you know what you can never be.
You smile, a sense of solitude
The lost hope,
A glimmering promise
Lost in the depths of the world,
The life that we call our own.
The place for crime, and forgiveness,
Of success, but mostly failure.  
You thrive in the thought of your world,
What’s become of you.  
You’re lost, among the glittering fireflies,
Losing your little self you called your own.
You try to battle it out, but you’re bound.  
You cry out, no one’s there. 
You think about your life, and the forbidden realm
You know it’s the end,
Petrified, you hurry to scream,
You’re voice straining to make yourself heard,
You’re life in a nutshell,
And as your voice starts to rise,
You realise, you’ve dreamt.  

-Srijita
Norbert Tasev Mar 2021
During ugly's swarm of cheap prostitutes, don't worry about crushing! Don't let anyone believe you peeed in fear! If every curse-memory and minute-man rushes, a thousand ghosts could throw lasso into your throat every day! Silence can hardly surround you anymore, because you could not come to terms with your Difference! Indifference is listening to you with its great petals! Sooner or later, the World will collapse again, and you will hardly hear the supplications of your wounded soul! Honest prophets are worried about freethinkers and the Sincere Prophets are turning into stray dogs! The chaos-silence of the stars hugs her upside down her *****, the Nirvana-Nothing is still bleeding from the wounds of the earth!
 
I notice the grin of Mayan-smiling, ******* Angels: as Man sells himself for sale! The restless tranquility of your soul is a privilege and a rare holiday! "You should become one in eternal universe life on your Dear side if you could hear the wide screams of my heart attack!" "This is how you hide in stone silence if you are tensed into the Hangman-smelling, hibernated Time every day!" With fierce fear, atomic bomb angers are also lurking; instead of the right paths, they steer you towards your diverted, cross-decisions!
 
Your lonely ancestors are named — no wombat puppies and loyal hedgehogs! You have your last solid excuse for yourself! From barely pre-human swaying nights, you can barely hear: You pay with the momentary click of your being when called by otherworldly voices! The horror of your suicide is getting closer, trembling over your head! "You have to be in pain all the time to understand the incomprehensible human offspring constantly censored even in the forbidden phase of your body!" With whom will you share and share the childish cramps of your soul?!
George Krokos Mar 2021
Out of the hell of this world we all have to find heaven
and the steps to go through are said to be one to seven.
This world then is a stepping stone to that which is higher above
and the essential requisite for the journey is ever increasing love.
_________
© 2021 George Krokos
From "The Quatrains" ongoing writings since the early '90's.
Svetoslav Mar 2021
When the moon starts to glow, we go to sleep.
As the sun begins to shine, we rise from slumber.
It is the cycle of life; one cannot cope without the other.

There are animals and plants in a forest that decrease in numbers, everything else is becoming objects and lumber.
Animals breathe what our nature exudes.
Plants feed from the rain and the sun.
All that lives is in balance and holiness
that defies imbalance and loneliness.

Some people don't think of what our nature eludes.
They are sticking to lack of emotions for a personal gain.
Their playing with guns goes on and on.
Fun ain't emotionless and it's no and no.

The very balance in our world depends on ourselves
for we should unite as one to withstand tyranny,
thus, the beast in his lair will cease to feast.
Infamies and felonies will turn to clarity and purity.

Come one, come two, it's up to you
and it is not something new we have to do.
Come three, come free.
It is destiny, can't you see?
Come four and come more.
Unite by the destiny's door.
Ode to the people protecting forests and wildlife
As long as people love power
more then they do people
As long as people love money more then they do people
World peace will be far away!

Shell ✨🐚
We must love each other more!!
At the end money and power won’t help you!!
Winter Mar 2021
This renaissance mind
has rejected
my being...
I can no longer
accept
the world that
I am seeing,
take shape
of late-
are we fated
to hate?
This race war
it's an
eyesore-
but not a joke
anymore.
Coleen Mzarriz Mar 2021
How long will these enigma of misfortune can be carried out by
my hands—laid and lewd
shining with mud and uncertainty.

How long will the stones be put into pressure
to become the diamonds in the city—where known is familiar
and the unknown is discreet and mystical.

My head throbs with excruciating pain—it can be called as emptiness, a glass without water,
whom the sound shrieks like death is coming.

Into broken pieces of the diamond city—I have felt the pressure, the innate madness of forsaking the world and the world knowing my limits and the little shadow that keeps me company beneath my bed.

How long, oh, how long will these enigma of misfortune be laid out in my grumpy hands—in between secrets and opportunities.

How long, to be an artist?
Another crisis, another piece.
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