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  Oct 2017 Iska
Katelyn Billat
I've always been a bird,
Trapped in my little cage.
It's dark and cramped in here,
It feels as though I'm suffocating

I watch the free birds from
Behind my metal bars.

I dream of the day my capturers
Set me free.
The day I may spread my wings.
The day I may fly with the wild ones.

I have the power to break out,
But I'm afraid of the consequences.
All my life I've been told how to live.
To sit and be a nice bird.

I'm getting restless.
I'm getting peckish.

I want to break out,
I have the power.
But I'm so afraid that
My wings won't work anymore,
From the lack of experience.

I'm so afraid that the wild birds
Won't see me as their own.
I don't know how to fit in.
This, my capturers have not taught,
Only how to sit and be a nice bird.
Do what I'm told, what is expected of me.

Well I'm getting peckish.

I want to fly.
  Oct 2017 Iska
Katelyn Billat
Our love was beautiful,

innocent and sweet. 

Like flower buds on a tree, seeing the sun for the first time.   

It grew into fresh fruit, refreshing everyone who encountered it.

Then autum came and our fruit dropped to the ground, taking the leaves with it. 

Although it was a sign of death, I still found it beautiful.

We were breath taking.

Our love flowed like rivers and streams hidden deep in the forest. 

Then the cold came, and she came. 

We lost our spark. You spent more time with her, and allowed her to burrow her way into our tree.

Slowly, she took our nutrition and ripped the roots out from under us.  

She froze the remains of us and eventually we died.

Then you grew a new tree with her, using our dead fruit and leaves as nutrients.

Now a new frost has spread and this new winter has killed your tree with her.

This cycle will remain until you have learned how to shelter your tree from the cold. 

But the saddest part is that our tree was not grown from the cold that killed the leaves in which your trees now grow.

Our love was sprouted from the sun, it was fresh and new, and innocent.
  Oct 2017 Iska
Seema
One day...
This beautiful body will be, just a heap of ash
My name...
Will be cancelled from formal papers with a single dash
It's a birth and death lifecycle that we all ride
Tho sometimes people cheat death, so they remain clocked at the road side
The things we are running after, claiming its ours
Are laid back once you've been put to rest after hours
Being rich, being poor doesn't change the color of ashes to gold and dust
The bones and aftermath are identical once in grave, while the imitations put on our bodies,
rust
The organs burst first followed by the rest
Laying in dirt, bodies coned, head pointing to the west
Life fulfilling with what we have gained
Death comes uninformed, souls get pained
Burnt, buried, sank or served dishes to vultures
Life flies between living games of cultures
Souls light up the world as stars in the universe
Sometimes I wish, if life could also be reversed...


©sim
Spilling thoughts :)
  Oct 2017 Iska
Born
Hate is a strong word when your surrounded by lunacy
that crippling mentality that's  been woven to entertain us
or you, who's entire existence relies on fantasy
created to suffocate your intelligence
with a programmed 'urge' that'll always be there

Goals and dreams have been replaced by dalliance
do you know the meaning of dalliance
probably not cause your brain is too confined
to notice that it has lost control of its own self
but still, reluctantly have to ask you to
Care enough to think

Learning and creativity has been distracted by entertainment
a society that is willingly slaving their way to
a chained ignorance
so yeah, before I sleep I better check my fantasies
seeking instant gratification of some kind

Do you ever wonder what keeps you in mediocrity
is it the job that you hate, which your stuck on
Is it your failed relationships
is it because you cannot desert distraction
is it your inability to be creative
or is it because you don't know what to do
  Oct 2017 Iska
Rebel Heart
Poems aren't simple raps
About money or ***
Nor a contest
To see how many words you could rhyme
With time or chime or slime or crime
Like the crime I'd be committing
If I confined these words to such a small pool
Of what society deems poetry to be...

Poetry is a being
Born from freedom
Risen from the tides
Of emotions that ran so deep
It cut into a person's heart and soul...
So I guess I'm just trying to understand
When it became such a dreary concept
Taught in the confines of walls
As rigid and cold
As the useless rhyme scheme of words
Released into the world for a simple test
When in reality, poetry was meant to be sown with care
And grow into something beautiful...

The real beauty of poetry
Comes from the way
The letters dance and flow together
Into the head and to your heart
Binding us all together
Cherishing our differences
In the same rhythm it holds
The entire universe
With all its secrets
In the space between them
A response to a teacher RH and I had years ago that I found in the lost files of her (RH's) poetry journey... I guess at the time I, like the others, despised writing in general as much as that teacher of ours, but RH's love for it never dwindled and I hope it never does... Almost crying thinking about all these memories though it has nothing to do with the poem so before I turn this into a rant, enjoy and leave your comments below.. ~BM
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