Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Waverly Feb 2012
Know
that I cannot lose you easily;
you are not my apartment keys
or a mango;
you are
an ID
or a stranded muse;
I am a number waiting to be laminated
or a boat with
blue bedsheets for sails;
I will sell what will get me to you;
blue bedsheets for sale
and photocopiers
in overstock.
gwen Nov 2016
call me twisted,
but i’ve always admired a certain degree of controversy.
complexity is a dangerous beauty, like a hurricane -
admired from afar,
deadly up close.

my biggest fear was always photocopiers.
monotonous carbon copies, binge feeding
on Christmas music
and cold commercialized coffee.
simplicity was schematic,
intricacy was ******.

with a quivering hand and downcast eyes,
i clothed myself in these layers.
gift-wrapped, with a ‘danger’ sign as a gift card,
i became an enigma to myself.
diamond rings came with dark clouds,
locks and keys gave way to gun shots and bullet wounds.

fairytales were never meant for the 3-d world.
none of us are “fated” for a happy ending.
riding off into the sunset only comes with
hard work and hard lessons.

yes, i may still be an overthinker.
i may still have more thoughts than i have time
to put them in.
mundane things are still transfigured into
tainted, disfigured imitations
of insecurity, agonising and mental mutilation.

but it does not have to be this way.

pick up a pair of 2-d glasses.
you don’t have to see the world in technicolor.
sometimes monochrome lenses
do tinge the world
in shades of nostalgia, clarity, and hope.

peel off those layers.
you may cry, but cry of catharsis.
it may sting, but salt always does.
wear simplicity as your sail,
rose-tinted with trust and a silent knowing.
you may realise that what you were always looking for
was always right beside you.
Lb Apr 2014
I  came across a picture of a bird drawn over pages of a book, it made me think back to college and how we would be given tasks to draw or paint things.
Now usually an exemplar of some sort would be put up at the front of the class and before you know it you have about twenty very frustrated girls trying to copy this bird and not quite being able to. This then made me think what if the teacher just told us to draw a bird and put nothing up at the front of the class except for the words "Draw a bird". If the teacher did that what would the birds be like?

We don't need twenty photocopiers or twenty pieces of carbon paper, What we need is twenty different perceptions and ideas.

Art isn't the system, we don't have to suffocate our creativity cause it fits into a circle instead of a sqaure
Alex Vellis Nov 2019
We, heavy and sullen men;
on bent legs that  
learned to hold up the weight of our fathers
but could never hold up our mothers
in the way they deserved to be.

We, throwbacks to our youths;
that grew up and down
in cities with single streetlamps;
burned out bedroom windows
that tell you at least there was warmth here once.

you are worth less
than worthless
that is what our birth certificates read,
that is what we have been told
for our whole lives
worth less than worthless.

We, Sisyphean modes;
our backs burdened
by our father’s footsteps
‘please don’t let me turn into him’

I say this to you
over coffee
you tell me we all look the same
I say I have to leave,
you understand why.

Before I go
you tell me
to let my old self die
and become a new God.

I have traced myself back
to Carthage,
to Canaan,
to Athens.
I have traced myself back
to Olympus,
stood at the foot of a mountain
challenged the Gods to a fist fight

Much like my father,
they would never answer me.

In the small hours,
where the night hangs the day
and birds are a collection
of off notes,
where the workman dresses
his bathroom in white foam
and says
‘today is the last day I will do this’
on repeat like clockwork,
every. single. day

In the spent moments
between tying shoelaces
and wrapping fingers
around steering wheels
or clutching wallets
that march down to bus stops
to take stabs at photocopiers
or sit in coffee shops
or buy and measure rope
in full bodied lengths.

That is where we know loneliness
and futility
and a singular quiet death
that cannot come soon enough.

I see myself in his image;
a martyr with nothing to live for
but less to make my death
a worthwhile venture.
It is here
in the two am phone calls
to the Samaritans,
and the silent sobbing
about being alone
in the violet scars,
that trace my legs
like track marks
that I realise I am nothing like him…
Perhaps that is my downfall.

We, heavy and sullen men,
building foundations out of our ribs,
breaking down for not breaking down
soon enough-
wiring and rewiring and rewiring and…
there is not enough time in the day.

‘You are not enough’
they say.
And it sticks with you;
papier-mâché angles
that arch and tear
and fold and break
and break and break
and you must act strong,
everyone is counting on you,
you must act strong.

there is a finality in strength;
a fraught knot
used for hanging light fixtures
or bodies,
we can never unwind
we can never unwind
we can never unwind.

And Atlas will hold the world
as punishment,
until the world will pull him down.
We see this as a crime,
he is just pleased to still be here.
This old dog’s legs will give way
and we will wait
till the stars fall.

I am of lost co-ordinates  
and I can’t see myself as anything more than a map.
They say if you dig down far enough,
there is treasure,
I think I have been stripped away.

The next great exodus
will see me home
and for the first time,
in a long time,
I might be happy
but happiness is
a collection of memories
of you telling me you loved me,
even when it was difficult to do so.

I would live and die for you
even though you would never ask me to,
I am about ready to go.

— The End —