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Nereo Cafolla Jul 2018
Over the icy hills you hear a breath;
As this field sinks in the frigid blue
It spreads in the soul a fear of death.
The hope to return still lives in you.

How can you be so blind not to see?      
That even your worst foe could be      
                  
Your best friend behind these lines.       
A scream drowns in the darkness,
Now he is rotting as the moon shines.
There are no heroes in this grey mess.
Is it worth to waste human meat?
What is victory but a lucky defeat?
For Rob, bearer of absinthe

Could it have troubled Pandora’s mind,
On learning where Hope springs -
At the base of her box she chanced to find
The cruellest devil with angel’s wings?

To foresee it seep into our veins -
Leave us to trip, blunder and fall,
Cause mankind monumental pains,
And make a mockery of us all.

As the drowning atheist looks to the skies -
Before a wave knocks him to his demise
Into an absurd and uncaring ocean.

Somewhere a poet quietly smarts
The excess love from her swollen heart
And on a page whispers her devotion.
A poem inspired by the work of Charles Baudelaire that mostly came about because I told a guy I'd write him a sonnet when I was drunk and it still seemed like a fun idea sober.
Hadiy Syakir Sep 2018
no one is subscribing
to the universal affection
draining subconscious ailment
that needs no treatment
quaking with fear
shaking with revulsion
looking to prolong
an hour, a minute
stretching one seconds
into ten seconds
where are we going,
past the streetlights
the crossroads
the commotion
inside the canal boat
that surrounds and accompanies
this road -
will it ends one day,
sometimes, somewhere
and brings an end
to the entire's generation
guilt and disease?
DEW Mar 2016
Body of shame.
It haunts in tatters.
All this grief smites all that matters,
'til there's no one left to blame.

It has the fading scars
of good ol' times*
plastered
like flaking paint:
Tattoos of radiant beach sunsets;
forgotten "beneath" a shore
of its memories
like an ordinary pebble
under a mountain of stones.

Ethereal grasp
never touching a thing,
yet finding itself
touched
by desire.

Where goes the time?
Past yet to come.
It has broken scales that balance wine,
*yet it's sober to passion's drum.
Haven't written anything here for a while.
Been writing too many twitter poems, haha.

I hope you all enjoy!
Homunculus Mar 2016
Enamored of the possible, and racing,
  Through a winding maze of endless choices,  
  Daunted by the obstacles we're facing, and 
  Dizzied by the clamor's many voices,

Shackled by a heavy chain of causes,
  Binding us to all we've ever known,
  The many paths before us give us pause, as
  We struggle to define which are our own,

Within a world that's not of our own making
    We anxiously await the day we'll find,
    A journey worthy of our undertaking, so
    That purpose in our lives may be defined, but
    
Perhaps our fate condemns us all to wander, and
       Our lives are merely mysteries to ponder
I think this is the first of a series of 5 Shakespearean sonnets based on Aristotle's rhetorical foundations. Telos means an "ultimate object or aim." This particular iteration also owes its driving force to Heidegger's notion of "thrownness" or the idea that we all inherit a ready made world from the history of our predecessors, and struggle against the way the facts which constitute that world condition what is possible for us to achieve within it. The other 4 will be Kairos, Logos, Ethos, and Pathos; and I will be working on and publishing them as they come to me. - Your Humble Servant
The flat earth is flatter
   Than the round earth's a sphere,
And what's all the matter
   Is very unclear.

The world is a caper
   That's made of illusions.
I use white lined paper
   To draw my conclusions.
Hadiy Syakir Jan 20
intelligence is
the new authority
resistance is
the new sanctity
velvety memoir
of the patchy ride
in a rainbow rollercoaster,
left everything prime
on the outside
sink into the wagon with
wild, visceral inside
embark on an odyssey
observing the past,
questioning the future.

future is a distant memory
of all the anachronistic glory.
Rakha Mar 2018
You worth more than a thousand golden crowns
and continent wide silks
and all the brighter, wilting stars in the dark
and had you pulled the universe to you,
it will surely crawl under your thigh
as a machination made only for you.

And you worth more than the ten thousand horses that I had slain
and I pulled them onto your sheets
as whispery faeries gnawed onto its skin
onto its slippery vein
gory, but lovely all the same.

Alas, you worth more than another ten thousand of them running
hooves clattered across the impenetrable glass of auroral dome
and I saw you rode on another ten thousand that had not deserve you-

as you deserved gold and stars
and all the greater fury of this land,
not treachery and I.
Gold was the color of your ruse
and your words deify scorching stars into bloom
and you reek of rust — the finest yellow there was.
- and once more i pray to see you
Hadiy Syakir Dec 2018
to:
edward,
you
are
in our
breath.

r[ain

dro

ps

on

ev

ery

fa

ll

en

le

aves]

­ec
l
usive.
Hadiy Syakir Sep 2018
there were
shadows
that fought
for the right to
exist
descended off
the stairwell
fell into
the frostlake

and it continues.

before
they struggled
in the dark
then,

everything's gone.
Nicholas Mar 8
Oh,
how you have begot routine

An occupation entered most
unexpectedly

Consuming a once
vivid and polymathic soul
Seeped into your bones
Left you forgot,
a flickering and
dying star

Yes,
you're here every day,
but you're heart feels vacant;
gone away, or really still at
home, wherever that is

Your body's traveling the
world, but your mind's spinning in
circles,
too fast to see past the
fugue

Will you reminisce of these days to your future
children?
Or will you skip this period,
for this is
not really you to begin with?

Hope
your intermission will come to an end

May you someday return, spirited and
renewed
Hadiy Syakir Jan 5
I wonder
how can you
be content
with a 10-inch horizontal screen or
42-inch rectangular box
that will only make you
fall deeper in the escapism
and forget about the whole sense of realism.

/I
do.not/adore!
-you./
Herb Apr 5
There is another land
A land that no one knows
Where dwells a little man
Who toils, and reaps, and sows

He works from dawn to dusk
Though tired, he cannot stop
His hands grow rough and sore
From nurturing his crop

He gauges the sun and wind
He hoes, and waters, and weeds
He follows his intuition
And prays that he succeeds

It's all a delicate balance
Between too much rain... and none
Will his knowledge stand the test?
To complete what he's begun

There's no one to advise him
His decisions are his own
It's up to him to till the soil
Until his crops are grown
Hadiy Syakir Dec 2018
lights turn on,
and it wakes me.

I want you to know how it feels like to be in my shoes, just like how you wish that everyone can feel the same as you and despite all of the feelings in this world that are generated by the same kind of source; love and hate, kindness and cruelty, sadness and happiness, we still fail at agreeing on the only great fate for us as we are reluctant to determine what is really right for us and therefore, in return, we can never leave our mark in any era, any generation that we are in, for the failure to avoid our will to consume from the deep within will ensure that we will endure another war, another famine, another epidemic that can only be undone by us, by having the empathy and love towards one another.

lights dim,
and it shatters me.
Hadiy Syakir Dec 2018
What most
of the people
afraid of
is their disappointment
in mortality,
the unconvincing possibility
of invincibility  
and everything that is
waiting for the eventuality
while
all they have
to do is just
to embrace it
like letting the wind
wrapping up
their body on a cold, rainy night.
Arianna Oct 2018
A harp and lute
Hum from the shadows
One breath beyond the Veil
Through which I'll never see
Alive.

Their plaintive strains the heart
Of an invisible Lover keening;
Their melancholy singing
Sublime! I know not what voice sings,
What gentle hands do strum the strings!

What wond'rous Love! like a candle, consoling,
Exalts my soul in gold of mourning,
For alas! I never shall meet You alive,
O Nameless, in this world,
But on high.
Over the past few years, I've had this weird feeling of having lost someone, this bizarre, gnawing grief of the soul. I have absolutely no explanation for it; nothing's happened that could logically trigger such feelings. Nevertheless, I can't shake it off. :-/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGephWGvYqc


"Prayers and Musings in the Temple of Fire, No. V"
NC Burchett Dec 2018
To be a flurry,
dancing white noise,
a fragile static
lost to the earth
in an embrace
of sublimating grace
with a thawing kiss
to quiet the storm
Hadiy Syakir Dec 2018
Time is slipping away
and we can't keep everything at bay.

But I can always feel you,
like how the leaf kisses the morning dew.
Irate Watcher Sep 2018
Slowtar,
the monster,
is black sludge.
He engulfs
all alive,
complaining
begrudgingly
about the ongoing
construction.
striped
cones
only
tell
us
where to go.
Gnat Oct 2018
"I will beat this," I swear.
No one else has,
as there is no end,
but there must be an end.
I'll find it.

Watching everyone spin
on their axis,
touting their progress,
there must be a someone
or some thing!

Watch me spin.
Spin and fidget.
Watch me spin,
spin and fidget.

Spin the blades
to your right.
Now you're loading. Now
you're spinning.

"I will beat this," rings obsolete.
Now, "I will secede,"
seems pragmatic.
Is it romantic to
be at one with nothing?

Cross legged on the floor,
I whisper,
to myself,
"Oh,
         you
                 bet."
Hadiy Syakir Mar 20
There are lives
that died and gone to waste,
but there are also lives
that are well-lived yet already gone to waste.
Samuel Hoffmann Aug 2018
Fake it till’ you make, people say,
And I wonder just how long people wait for that day.
Because everyone fakes something and makes something too,
Everyone just tries their best and barely gets through.

Fake it till’ you make, people say,
And some people, like myself, fake it every day.
Because inside their heads they say today they’ll make it through,
Everyone also wakes up and says that tomorrow, too.

Fake it till’ you make, people say,
And I don’t know how people wake up every day.
Because I wake up blue and brush a smile on my face,
Everyone else seems fine, but I doubt they can paint with grace.

Fake it till’ you make, people say,
And after almost twenty years it all just fades away.
Because I see others lives, and say hey that looks sweet.
Everyone looks fine, copy them, they must know reality’s beat.

Fake it till’ you make, people say,
And people say whatever, wake up, and go on their way.
Because people just accept realty is meaningless and lame,
Everyone gives up hope before they even know the game.
Honestly I believe that this mentality of Fake it till’ you make is inherently flawed as if its away to justify that you don't currently live in the future you want.
Hadiy Syakir Dec 2018
we are always
aspired to
be god,

look at how
we systematically
programmed the school,
the difference with a factory?

we are always
aspired to
be god,

check on how
we systematically
organized the prison,
harmless for the society?

we are always
aspired to
be god,

look at how
we unashamedly
arranged the tv and radio
pursuing the utopian future?

we are always
aspired to
be god,

check on how
we unashamedly
clear the forest and rebuild,
as if we care for the community?

we have never stop at
avoiding the eventual fate
trying to take everything
under control
and forgetting our actual role.

the luckless ones
gaze into the empty sky.
Hadiy Syakir Nov 2018
What if
the black hole,
is something similar
to the door that
Truman Burbank exited;

an alternate world to his, where over there only truth exists?
Kelsey Feb 21
I'd hear the word
And recoil from it
The thought of prayer
Left me disgusted
How hard it is
To face each day
While gripping nihilism
So intensely that
Your knuckles turn white

What's the point
Of goals and dreams
If everything
Means nothing
And when you die
It's just like it was
Before you were born
You don't exist and
You don't even know it

Why waste my time
Being anything of value
When I can drown myself
In drugs and *****
And still expire
Just the same as you

Yet once in a while
That question would
Push it's way into
My consciousness
"How could all of this be meaningless?"

The seed was planted
And as it grew
It broke through
That existential dread
Leaving just enough room
For hope to crawl in

I started to think that
Maybe there's more
To all of this chaos
Than anything I could
Ever comprehend
And who am I
To be so sure there's not

Then slowly my
Perspective shifted
My mind was open
And I no longer
Viewed the world
As upside down

Though the universe
Will always remain
A mystery
And the truth is something
I will never catch
For today,
I find myself okay
With "maybe..."
Pete King Dec 2018
Realisation can be a harsh pill;
One I've always struggled to swallow.
The dose, in this instance, was to be
That my happiness isn't a reward.

It's not earned through great achievements;
Contentedness isn't product of valour.
It's not found in deep breathing and spiritualism,
It's not created by anything external.

No.
My happiness will always be through
consistent fidelity and belief in a purpose.
A purpose that simply has to be weightier
than the small stuff we're sometimes thrown.

It's the consistent drive:
To love.
To laugh.
To make laughter..
To put pen to paper.
It's a thousand-melodies,
On twelve piano keys.
It's the gnawing hunger inside of me,
That says it would be simply unacceptable
For me to leave this world,
Until I have brought forth
Everything I feel I have within me.

Happiness is always going to be a fleeting thing for me.
And that's alright.
Because I'm only just getting started.
Hadiy Syakir Jan 5
well,
it depends.

it depends
on how you look at it.

the anger that
branches in you are meaningless.

the frustration that
rests deep in you is meaningless.

the desperation that
is trapped in you is meaningless.

all of it might poison
you, but you, you are still you.

you are still here,
out there, existing and surviving.

it does not matter
why or how you are breathing.

because you are
just a future ground zero.

and you are still around
pondering over the possibilities.

and performing
at this grandest stage ever
is the proudest achievement
of your life.
Ali Ashraf Oct 2018
in this drunken madness
called "the world"
let's stop for a while
look into mirror
reflect upon ourselves
and ask the same old questions

what does all of this supposed to mean?
what is purpose of all this?
where did I come from?
where am I headed?

© Ali Ashraf
Existential crisis
Hadiy Syakir Feb 15
this is the city of faith
the city of doubt
discipline overrated
tough will is decisive
the decider, the dictator
in the grey hazy morning
try your best to make it
celebrate all the symbols
concedes mimicking rats
satisfy the prowling big cats
pick whatever that is left
in your accustomed route
and push through it
till the death of the sun
in each of your weary run.

all hail the lost souls,
see you in the city hall
at the end of the day.
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