"inhumans" poems
Your society
Created a
Vanity, so ugly it
Poisoned
punctured and
Primed
A youth.
Self-obsession
Attention starved
Cruel and mindless
inhumans.
Smartphones breeding
this dumb
Generation.
Martyrs,
On digital
crosses.
Look at me.
Define me.
Press "like".
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
Three and four times
Delved down in the mind
Wether their dreams or another's
They did not know for sure
Somewhere in those depths
Of distant realities and mindless dreams
Lies the greatest truth of all
Which is what those beings sought
Once human but no longer
Did they search their dreams
And the dreams of sleeping gods
To secure that ancient knowledge
But the further their sorceries brought them
The madder they became
Until nigh all of them succumbed
To a dark sickness of the mind
Trapped within those lost and sable dreams
Do those inhumans yet remain
Having forgotten the very thing
Their broken minds searched for
Should you encounter one of them
Those ancient weavers of dreams
Be careful that you are not also dragged down
Into that madness along with them
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC
I came from the wheels of light
just to dwell in the shadows of night
all do fear the fall of me
yet this is my destiny
I send calls to the last of me
this warrior that was never broken
the thought machine of your masanaitions
that baptized in the fury of battle
Oh yes I am warlord most high
and God I do want battles to fight
yet in the communion of the dark
I do slumber and sometimes sleep
I wonder if I laid down my arms
would you inhumans find me harm
No No , for I truly know
YOU WOULD TRULY **** ME
If I was not me
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
It was the year 2085,
love was dead,
hate was in the air.
All the resources used up,
millions of people killed by atom bombs,
mutants and other inhumans roam the the ruins of earth.
Survivors reside in a hidden city,
hardly enough food and water to go around,
some of them had to go.
The unlucky few forced on their knees,
everyone ignored their sobs and pleas,
tears and snot ran down their faces like rain down a window pane.
Please for mercy,
cries for God,
left their lips.
God was dead,
mercy was a luxury in this new world.
A cold barrel of a gun against their heads,
as cold as January ice,
as cold as the icy stare of the executioners.
One bullet for the back of each head.
They collapsed one by one,
like a building after a bomb goes off,
death is freedom from this wasteland.
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 1:58 PM UTC