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Oli Sep 7
beauty and honesty slowly escaped from me,
i made my way to you, and i held you like the sun was all i bled, where i lay, melting between where they walk, imposing their concrete and asphalt trucks onto one another.
and i felt it for the first time, pouring it into the holes after the fact and coming back to be reminded, to be reassured.
offering my hands, wet and clean, and thinking back to when i used to believe that everyone is **** and that skin is skin. and that it's okay, and that it's only natural, and that...

i'm so ******* frustrated, with ambitions that dance and mock this hospital bed. and i'm so dry now, and i'm peeling, well beyond the point of contemplating the execution, lost somewhere in thoughts and fears, i'm so dry, i'm so dry, so please. just let me complain, just grant me this wish with no conditions, or let me defy them because i'm only human, and god i have urges, and god any means of coping is poking holes above my head, just enough to open, just enough to get by.
this human body, mortal and fragile, a million positions. prone to lose everything desirable with eyes that won't see it any other way. a distant, longing relationship with my name. don't leave.
written at some point in 2017
Dawnstar Feb 5
On that bleak frontier, thousands suffered
For the Emperor's cruel project;
Men with hollow stomachs making endless mounds
To fashion his recreation hall.
The monster was alike to its creation:
Heartless in the handling of generals.
When Li Guang, an expert strategist,
Fell into the hands of barbarians,
He played possum and seized a horse,
Riding for nine miles to rejoin his men,
Spitting arrows at his pursuers.
After bringing his troop safely home,
He was recommended for execution.
...Woe befalls he who settles there,
Where exhausted horses go to pace,
Where the crows are the only ones eating.
Should the rice harvest fail, a soldier will go
To the red northern gate and die unmourned.
The fruits of the south are sweet in all seasons,
But the fruit of the Long Wall is ruin and death.
Ameed Jan 18
How painful it is to be given freedom for a tiny glimpse?
Your ropes are unleashed, you can think without being scared;
You can talk, run, jump and maybe soar without caring about others.
But then you must go back to reality, to your world where thoughts are frozen awaiting execution,
And tongues are rolled in awaiting permission.
This is pain itself, pain that is more painful than remaining blind and not tasting this simmering sip of freedom.
It is that aching because it is sudden, because it is dragging us from our caves and throwing us in an utmost sunshine for only minutes.
However, freedom is worth a thousand pain like that, freedom is worth everything, everything.
© 2019 Ameed Shehayeb All Rights Reserved
SJG Sep 9
Jesus may well, for all we know, right now may,
Be decomposing in someone's shed.
And there is no heavenly sword or rotten mount
To reorganise the dead.
I find I'm smoking more, I find silverfish under my pillow,
I find strands of light emanating from cracks in the ceiling;
As if to say: "Do not mourn nor await something
That has already visited."

Because Jesus would not want for any person
To suffer as he did.
He would not fetishise his means of execution,
Or reign through organised institution;
To Jesus, there was nothing more wicked.

Because Jesus did not (and does not)
Sign autographs or hawk relics.
Jesus would not condone nation states, megachurchs,
Instruments of containment, or great swathes of capital
Invested into luxury apartments and drone technology.

(Every day, I lose a little weight.
A few pounds here or there.
I find my brain slowing down,
And my heart ceasing to care.

And if there was something between us, a universal language,
I would write down the things I was not and will not be,
And later, from you, your deficits I'd like to see.

Drag the river, until the bed is bare.
And all assorted junk treasures
Can once again, gaze back and stare.)

Because Jesus was not, and is not,
A wound across a palm.
Jesus was just another witness
Concerned by the mess of brief existence
And the little feeling things that come to harm.
Lauren Bloss Sep 2018
The sound of the blistering gunshots pound in my ringing ears,
Bringing on a headache of a thousand wounds,
Impenetrable by the outside force,

The sight of the innocent fallen colors from the opinions of others brought to a vicious reality and physicality that would slaughter the purest of souls,
Bringing fear that is everlasting and never forgotten in my mind that shall remain forever damaged,

The feeling and sense of the souls that hammer my barely beating heart,
My breath burning slower like a fire dying out,
I try and scream but all that would come was a faint and distant shout,

The uttermost terrifying taste of the foul air,
So bad that the puke climbing up to my throat shall retreat before execution,
I mutter to myself This is not fair"

The most agony and torment any individual may be so unfortunate as to experience,
The smell of the rage and the misery filling my nostrils as I try to keep striving for what I have arrived here for,

Before I stand once again I notice the blood on my dirtied and culpable hands,

I fall to the ground so lost that I have forgotten to feel the unforgiving wound in my chest,
The guilt stabbed harder than any bullet ever could and ever would,
And as I took my final breath I vowed to myself,
To never fight over opinion and shame ever again,
Or I shall die once and for all.
This is a metaphor, however, I wrote this to allow you to decide how you interpret it.
Wyatt Sep 2018
Lately I'm lazing under covers
looking for cover in a firestorm.
The fire in me interferes with the
block of ice I've got for a heart.
Hot, cold, bought, sold,
through taxes or tolls
I've learned one thing,
this world ain't the answer.
All that bitterness
and all this cynicism I harbor
is easily justified when you look,
yet you just can't see it yet.
I wanna get out of here
and find what's next
because at 21 I've already seen
through this world around me
and these constructs that
spin the world around day by day.
Done enough to justify a grave?
With these allegations which
I'm forced to entertain,
they give me a hefty penny to pay
to win back the respect
from people who don't deserve it.

I'm glued to the 'gram,
writing pages on the 'book
just to get a like or two.
Selling myself short,
shipping my values out
to appeal to this world
I already know is on a crash-course.
So am I gonna crash with it?
Every story I tell is dictated
by my diseases in the brain.
Monsters in my head
and I got a Monster in hand
to battle late nights
without peace
as I turn to the screen
to type what I can't speak.
I write what I think
and my brain is on overdrive
tryna find an answer for me,
yet I trust in things that are faulty
like shady family and wolves calling
for an execution of confidence in myself.
I'm shifty in the seat because I know
this comfort is only temporary.
In this world defined by our decisions,
in this life defined by my moves
I lose in truth and in a lie I'm aloof
acting like everything is going well,
all according to plan yet
there ain't a shot I can shoot.
My life is falling apart slowly,
will I be in the afterlife shortly?
Is this my best work or
is this here what proves
I'm the biggest phony?
All this time God has loaned me
is going towards contemplating
how to best deal with the cards I'm dealt.
Dealing with healing a drive on life-support,
I'm stuck in park on the sidewalk
watching all my enemies give me dust to eat
as I'm paralyzed staring down at the concrete.
This world doesn't benefit the kind,
it's gotten me stepped all over
and some days I feel like
I could give up being sober
just to further bury this pain
like a soldier that just won't die.
What would losing my mind be like?
Take me on for the ride.

I'm five years ahead of y'all
yet in the present day I can't
formulate a call to action
to distance myself from snakes
waiting to catch me in a choke-hold.
I'm bitter because now I know
the future only benefits the bold.
The bigger the talk,
the rest do what they're told.
In your eyes I see
a coward that got lucky,
I see a child in a man's body.
I could get real ****
if that didn't mean
losing all credibility
to the people who matter.
The ones at the bottom
crawling through the days
who see the smile on my face
and envy my strength I flaunt
in place of my obvious weakness.
I take too much, take all the hits
and boast myself in good, clean fun.
Am I an idiot or a fighter?
Haven't fought a day in my life
yet I'm holding on for dear life,
any hint of sanity I can use to get by
and lately I'm lazing under covers
looking for cover in a firestorm.
The fire in me interferes with the
block of ice I've got for a heart.
Hot, cold, bought, sold,
through taxes or tolls
I've learned one thing,
this world ain't the answer
but if you step to me now
I'll match your firestorm
with one of my own.
Looking for cover in a firestorm.
I make myself so happy for no reason then stick my own back,
melancholic acts of treason, cut and measure my own lesions;
a line between pleasure and pleasing.
Not an pessimist nor a type of optimist but a realist who has mastered the execution of delusion and illusion.
Oxymoronic, Guess I'm just human;

Apparently the semblance of a god,
so making something from nothing isn't odd,
but I was given everything from a soul to my bones, hair to my toes;
Even to me who stays in this, sinew and ivory, home the reason is unknown but I know the weight of this form has its toll.

Ties made are rarly cut
more than the material is used,
bonds spirt imbued,
that which feeds hate and love.
My soul is the ocean my form the soil my mind the heavens so it's wisdom guides the toil.
What I put on to my body will seep to the sea, be it poisons or ointments that is to be seen, my wish for foresight seems obscene,
a noxious tint colors the scene
Ah this is but a show, how else can I explain the tragedies sown.

Who wrote this play?
No
Who paid its commission,
who conscripted us to suffer, no need for permission, no fine print played off as a simple omission?
Actors with no access to backstage
so it is do or die,
freedom in a cage,
the 4th wall blocks our eyes.
we get no reactions for our performance
no real feedback,
so we face our troupe like opponents, for no real reason.
Whilst some seem to flourish in a limelight others perish in darkness
some disappear through trap doors others fly with out harness.

seasoned thespians sometimes show us a way; how to perform our parts, from when they entered the play.
We are told there is a script, so I would say some have forgotten thier lines
but honestly the script has never passed these eyes,
all I know is that somes voices are drowned out by the soundtracks of anxiety and sadness;
The polyrhythms of fear and deafening sound of loneliness and madness
How could the director have this?

That's the purpose of a tragedy; make the watcher feel like they are living lavishly.

Wanted a reason why I find it so tragic.

In the words of Life 'There, you have it.'
Slam tracscribed. I've been reading some tragedies and re-realized that fact can be truly worse than fiction
kB 2 Jan 29
Head a hostile environment again
Emotion overthrows intelligence
Fragile skull accepts another beating
and indecency becomes preference

Absorbing black into gray matter
Meticulous infiltration;
Makes death a desire
and living a fear

Friendly fire
Mind battles disease, disease
obliterates mind to violence
collided with sharpened corners of myself
****** mess, wrong message

Swallowing hostile heavy medications,
contain my elation so that overjoy
doesn't morph into mania, or joy
Mass of electrons now inside
find nothing positive; thought paralyzed

Deviating cells that scare themselves
from the darkened sanguinary state.
wide eyed faces searching for a homeostasis
Far from stable since demon's rule

Constant epiphanies with no execution
turn to facts filed in brain catalogs
Fully aware solutions are there,
but the drawers are glued shut

~kb

— The End —