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Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2018
What ails thee, pilgrim of the mall,
Silent, earthen grief of the fall,
Pushing beneath her branded mask
A chariot to manage her task?

A writ of habeas corpus on paper:
'"Garden rocket," "lamp," and "mirror"'
For your inward eye and the terror
Of the still blast of oldhood and time
That left you with no place but rhyme -
And the mall.
What ails thee, woman of language
And the fall?

© LazharBouazzi
Skaidrum Feb 2017
new moon
"just let me sleep,"
moon eaten
my absence upsets all.
Look at me, really look at me,
stare up at the belly of a loved sky,
watch fingers dipping into bowls of blood holding hope,
feeling around for a sliver,
of sweet milk,
of relief,
of anything;

new moon whispers
on the dead bodies left behind,
god sighs---
he knows;

"I am not the same"

waxing crescent
map out my wreckage,
my skeleton of poetry;
in the spines of books loved by mankind,
bury me there in a pages of flowers---
in the altitude of words;
read me with a hunger you have never known before,
over and over;
whenever it seems fit~
like the light of the moon is a cigarette.

he's always smoking now.
god takes another drag;
he describes to me:

"You could be my bible,
you book of blood"

I can't stand smoke...

"I have no business in being your  holy snakeskin."

first quarter
I've been searching for
solid ground, solid shadows,
a solid compromise;

I wanted a little more
than ordinary love from him so I

asked him where the static began,
for me it's below my bottom left rib
and found that it was also where the spiders started too.

Time, that quiet thing
obeys god, only
because it waits for no one

it loves
unzipping the law of alchemy,
cause ink flowered in my blood again;
I should thank time
it was this saving kind of grace;
always has been

god stroked my hair this time
and said quietly:

"You see,
the saddest thing is realizing
that there's nothing more they can do for you"

waxing gibbous
Oh, where's my love?
Is it in the fever I call happiness,
is it in the sword my mama raised me to be

Is it in the way
the moon tiptoes closer
when he says my name
in that beautiful way he does

or breaks my name
over his teeth like it's just
glass apples

God doesn't even look at me
he doesn't have to;

"Do you believe in angels?"

the wreckage answers him
"not lately"

full moon
And it begins again
I watch as he just looks away
and says it's fine
it hurts

god narrows his eyes but shrugs

"Pain had other plans for you."

I breathe out raggedly;

"I guess,
if there's no key
then I'll just swallow the whole door."

I trusted you.
I love you more than anything.
© Copywrite Skaidrum
Deborah Birch Mar 2011
In the bleak December cold,

when the lights of Christmas have gone out,

a frozen emptiness gathers - poised above the lost and alone.

It seeps into the hearts of those who have taken vows

To the Holy Order of the Forsaken.

Witness the new "Holy Innocents" whose spirits walk the night.

Blithe spirits, who gave till their essence became too transparent.

Their proffered cups - now too airy to fill,

they cry into the wind for substantiality.

They walk towards the verge of the world and the old year turning.

Shall they plod on - or silently, simply, step off the edge?

My friends, - there is no life, where there is no love.
Damaré M Aug 2016
How I wish I knew you, oh im almost absolutely positive that things will be much simpler. I would no longer chase the race of these small minded women who constantly run away from their true escape. Too frightened to heighten their righteousness. A real man in 2016 is intimidating but not for you he is. You're a goddess who only should be standing aside a man with a Godly frame. The look in you're eyes explain to me how a dude with small hands cannot complete your task. I have to ask. Are you finish settling for these dull minded homosapiens? You are the idol of mankind who any ol' kind of men cannot apprehend. If you look into my eyes, press up against my forceful figure, without words witness how the heavens speak wisdom to our spirits. As we have connected eyes an exchange take place. You take my strength and I take your weaknesses. Oh how I hope to get to know you.
this one's for you.
s Aug 26
bake the cake in time lapse
and boomerang the icing,
mark yourself on the map
but act like no-one’s watching.
swipe along the filters,
pick the gif it deserves,
couldn’t be any simpler,
yet I'm a bundle of nerves.

used to be hard to know
if it’s dream or memory,
but now I think its borrowed
from your Instagram story;
I need to reconfigure
truth from media feed,
it seems I’ve bartered reality
for the comfort of this gleam;

and crossing a trembling icon
on that five inch screen,
is no longer killing the application,
but just a version of me.
Saumya Aug 2018
If 't be true i ev'r befall to meeteth myself,
i'd sitteth graciously on silence's table,
and studyeth mine own evolved, yet un-evolv'd self,
undisturbed, unhurried, un-agitated,
by w'rld's brightest gulf
. and smileth backeth, as i seeth myself.

if 't be true i ev'r befall to meeteth myself,
i'd sitteth comf'rtably on peace's table,
and gaze mine own wounded, yet un-wound'd self,
un-agitated, un-deviated, unmoved,
by w'rld's s'rry self
. and smileth backeth, as i seeth myself.

if 't be true i ev'r befall to meeteth myself,
i'd sitteth calmly on agony's table,
and obs'rve mine own painful, yet not painful self,
unmoved, undaunted, unleashed,
by w'rld's weirdest self,
. and smileth backeth, as i seeth myself.

if 't be true i ev'r befall to meeteth myself,
i'd sitteth fain on glee's table,
with mine own eyes smiling, and smiling at myself,
unaffected, unguarded, unremitted,
by w'rld's unrequit'd self
. and grineth backeth, at myself.

if 't be true i ev'r befall to meeteth myself,
twill forsooth beest a did bless, contending  miracle,
as yond's at which hour i couldst pateth & greeteth myself,
in real, in real, in real!
and maketh this fact p'rceivable,
yond our w'rld may sure oft hest struggles,
and our m're existence in t,
may just beest negligible,
but we nev'r gotta f'rget
to stayeth hopeful, smileth and giggle,
nay matt'r how hard the struggles,
as yond's the most wondrous fuel,
yond can oft causeth miracles,
in a w'rld,
so obsess'd with struggles!

And then with a sigheth,
a blooming grineth,
yet a sparkling desire within,
i'll did bid myself,
a farewell
Yani Oct 2018
"You have the most expressive eyes," you said.
Sigh. I believed you.

I still don't know...
Is it the reflection of every bit of me
          from my secrets no words could unfold
          to my shallow happiness, a given sight to behold;
Or is it the sparkles you knew you brought
          that I without a second thought would admit,
          with certainty that you and I would fit
That you loved more about me.

You'll never know...
With the same glass you used to read me through
          I memorized and engraved your complexity
          on tissue folds and pumped blood within me;
With the stares that met and laid us both naked,
          deep, hard and unstoppable I fell;
          but your heart remained calm and still
I ended up hiding and locking myself up in a shelf.

"You have the most expressive eyes," I should say.
It was goodbye; I cried.
J J Aug 21
Sun and moon collide to cotort the figure,
Melting him like ice,
Presing skin,and stetching it thinly as to
Resemble the endless Lethe
SoVi Sep 2018
A desire to fulfill
Reality was changed
My path is different

But I realize

That on this night
There are only lies
About my dreams

When I wanted to escape
There were no doors
I slept in the darkness

In the beautiful night
I shed my tears

In the beautiful night
My hope left me

In the beautiful night
I lost the laughter, the light, and compassion
My happiness left me

In this world
I did not mean to tell you
That there are no wonders

I did not want to fill you with deception
I wanted to see you happy

In the beautiful night
My tears leave me

In the beautiful night
My smile evades me

In the beautiful night
Depression and anguish returns
Everything bad comes again

In the beautiful night
My fantasy is gone

In the beautiful night
My wishes leave me

In the beautiful night
My youth and hope are dead
Reality is all that's left

The night is full of stars
That fills the sky with little faith
But I know that all of this is a lie
To trap us in a fantasy that has nothing to of life left

When I wanted to escape
My hands raised
Ready to knock down all the walls
I did not want to hurt you
But this is the only way
To escape from this cruel world
I did not want to hurt you
But maybe this is for the best
That you do not remember the truth
From this cruel world
And how did they lied
Filling us with lies

That wishes do come true

The beautiful night is falling
And we are the cause of it
With our hands, we are going to
Shatter it
Burn it
Change it
We will  make our reality

In the beautiful night
We are going to gain faith

In the beautiful night
We'll consume the stars

In the beautiful night
We'll be the light that shines for the future
And create fantasies

© Sofia Villagrana 2018
Inspired by the song Ice/Sis Puella Magi from Puella Magi Madoka Magica.

The version of the song used specifically is:
Anivel Aidan Jan 2017
However improbable
I like to think that the multiverse theory is true
That for every choice we made
there are versions of us who made different ones,
and that for every lost opportunity
there is a whole another universe where we took a chance
The paradox will never end
the parallels will never cross
But I like to think that
somewhere out there
no matter how unreachable
there is a version of me
that still has you.
Mary Gay Kearns Oct 2018
The insects and wild flowers
Follow the banks of ‘The Wandle’
Allowing what is hidden and not heard
Behind posted iron railings
To be noted, found on a map, imagined
Its very name conjures up the journey
Drawing one into its currents and flows
A place of beauty where time seems slow
Rippling the edges of thought, living as a space,
Exploration, given  by inclusion and exclusion
Forever to ‘wandle along’ under the sky
Between the gaps in the real
And what finds itself from what
Came before in experience and words.

Love Mary x
The River Wandle is the largest river of the south southwest sector of London, England. Its name is thought to derive from the community around its mouth, Wandsworth. About 9 miles long, it passes through the London Boroughs of Croydon, Sutton, Merton, and Wandsworth to join the River Thames on the Tideway..
Mouth: River Thames
Empire Nov 8
There was a version of me
That wanted this
That wanted what I now have
Doing all the “functional” things
Looking alive
But she never could have anticipated this
I hate it
I don’t want it


Take all this **** away from me
Just let me live
I know I’m betraying her
I’m betraying her dreams
I don’t want to give up on her
But she was misguided and confused
And now I’m suffering for it
I don’t want this
I don’t want this life
I don’t
I don’t
I don’t


My heart screams
As the first tears in ages
Well up in my eyes
But they won’t fall
Because I’m not that sad
There’s too much serotonin in me
And dopamine
And norepinephrine
Because I’m ******* drugged
And I want to WEEP
But... I... I can’t...
I’m just unsteady
I’m not okay
I’m not okay

Chicken Aug 2018
I guess you could see
by the look on my face,
I know
You’re full
Of ****.
Walk with caution long-haired girl,
It's already late and the bells are about to sing,
You will not want to fall in love with the guitarist
Of boots and hat.

They say he takes the girls
Especially those with black hair,
Be careful brown skin,
Not his size, but his spells.

When the horses cry,
Run to your house and do not wait for serenade,
The braid to the horses,
While playing his guitar.

And if someone touches your sale,
Be careful! What is the Sombrerón!
Hope White Mar 21
If you are what you eat,
my best friend is tortilla soup.
Warm and comforting;
a perfect companion for cold, bleak nights.

If you are what you smell,
my father is a California wildfire;
pungent and strong,
but a sweet warm oak like a
winter stove. A smell
strong enough to remain with you
even after many days since his absence.

If you are what you hear,
my grandma is the coos
of too many grandchildren,
who eventually grow to songs
of her praises,
louder than a preacher
who lives his weekdays only
for his Sunday sermons.

If you are what you see,
My sister is the wide eyes
That forget to meet your gaze
And misaligned smiles,
Of the children
That society too often
Forgets to love.

if you are what you touch,
my mother is the soft tufts
of translucent blonde hair,
And the heat of fevered-foreheads
of the babies she thought
she may never have.

If you are what you know,
I am love.
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