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i can’t hide from the monolithic machines
that try to take my face
they feed it to the invisible giants
whose words keep bending into nothingness
I can feel the silver limbs growing out of my veins
as they slowly take my place
for this new world order is biology
and is chemically engrained

the portraitures that float above me
live alone in silicone ethers
and have no home
or places for honest solitude
i can’t breathe without the satisfaction
of my voice being heard by figures
this new world order is biology
and is chemically engrained
Lexie Feb 1
I was the last flower blooming in spring
Until your teaching
I knew not what leaving was
I boarded our boat
Set sail upon a sea of dreams
Darkness fell quickly
Our sea of dreams became nightmares
Our boat, stitched together with trust
Fell away, as we fell apart
Swimming in nightmares
Was not something I was prepared for
These are not the apple juice box memories of my childhood
This is a grown me, trying to find the right band aids
For the right wounds, always with the wrong people
Holding hands is warmth, I needed treading water
Holding my breath, for hours at a time
While the people who said they loved me, loved each other, and loved God
Screamed their ignorance into the walls of our house
Words fasten themselves to the studs of the walls, slip into the cracks of the floor
Ghosts you wanted in the middle of the night never sounded like this
Love is screaming.
A vibration engrained so deeply into me
Another layer in the crust of the earth
Love is screaming.

So, when you whispered your love to me in the water
I did not hear it
I did not learn listening
I did not think it was meant for me
spacequeen Sep 2018
Loving you is easy...
It’s missing you that’s hard.

I still see you
in every stranger that walks by.

Your eyes are engrained in mine.

Songs play that reminds me of us...

I feel your hands caress me as we dance alone.

I remember everything with you.

Now though, it’s different.
I don’t know you...
Nor do I want to.

I’m sorry that I had to leave.

But I knew...
It could never be as great as it was.
ls Aug 2018
I rest my head in the dusky hours
early in the hope I'll awaken refreshed
instead in the lonely hours
at 2am, 3am and 4am
my body rests
while my mind races with complex thought
caught somewhere between sadness and complacency
the past present and future merging into one
clashing and colliding
working hard into the night
sending my heart to palpitations.  

I close my eyes and the words I see written on my ceiling
are engrained on the insides of my eyelids
crawling with the spiders
I overthink instead of sleep
I dream in my conscious state
of what could've been
what is
and what might be
restless in a state of exhaustion
lucid in a state of total consciousness
hopeless to stop the relentless tide of my imagination
from rotting my brain inside and out
ruining any faith I have in a night of sleep
or a day of clarity and competence.  

The thoughts leave when I rise again at 7am
as planned
with the chiming of the bells on the nightstand
my head snaps into reality again
focus returns in the form of routine
get up, go
move on, mend.
Distracted and oblivious
my lack of sleep haunts me
until I repeat this dull cycle again tonight
I live my nightmares in the lonely hours
at 2am, 3am and 4am.
Nekron Feb 27
Love lost and love lept from balconies
And steps between stoop and pavement and before the floor the thought of becoming better. If only I could dissemble each twine of thought balled in knots to
The next which led to me the spring forth and become the grass,
soil ground from bones and the wood once engrained with beautiful carvings of deer upon a mountside reaching low for morsels
Balconies break but baked what to reach for, what handrail can come so cruel as to pry each finger?

I leave myself and my body with it, I giggle as friends joke about getting high off whippets, I’ve singled out the thoughts which creep. No longer notions of flagellation, each word a bare reminder of fragility to this foundation
of mindfulness.
slr Oct 2018
There are rivers everywhere
many are just out of sight.
    The ground is told to be ashamed
    for the home it gives these rivers.
          Because of that
          the ground tries to hide it’s rivers.
              The ground covers its imperfections
              with anything it can.
          It covers these rivers not because they aren’t beautiful
          but because they have ravaged clean canvas.
                        If you look closely at the soil
                        you will see hundreds of these little streams.
                              They are deep in some places
                              but shallow in others.
                                   Their color can be that of blood
                                   or the color of scars not quite healed.
                                           These rivers are not just at the surface
                                           for they come from the depths of the soil.
                                                   Taking years to fully carve their place
                                                   and take a lasting toll on the ground.

                                            I am my own piece of ground
                                            with rivers flowing freely.
                                    They cover my body
                                    engrained in so many parts of me.
                         These rivers show me where I’ve been
                         and where I will go.

                My rivers have faded
                from scarlet to peach.
         My rivers are permanent
         and I struggle to find their beauty.
My rivers are seen as ****
so I try to hide them.
         My rivers are not talked about
         because I am told they are shameful.
                 My rivers stretch across my body
                 and carve at its banks daily.
                          I have tried to dam the waters from flowing
                          but new paths just keeping appearing.
                                   Yet, through it all I have learned from my rivers
                                    that beauty comes in all forms.

My rivers are beauty
in its purest form.
I know I haven't posted in a long time so I thought I'd come back with an old poem that I love.

— The End —