Stream of Consciousness
Emerald Eyes
In the background of every formal thought, that's where you'll find me. Where the colors all bleed together and drown out every sound, that's where I'll be. From Babylon to Taiwan, look and you will see. From Medusa's head to Caesar's bloody bed, there is only you and me. I'll devour you whole while your ghost is still alive. A paragon of deviance but your perfection is still up for debate. Epitome of disruption, paradigm of disappointment. I've given birth to essential ideals but your death dictates their destiny. I can feel the tremors of trepidation. I've come too far to recede back into those waters. The trigger you represent doesn't make you a martyr. I let you provoke me into a hysterical state. This allowance pushed me into a toxic and malevolent place. You picked the time and I rose to the occasion. I activate the weapon you handed me in this corrupted situation. The ignited impulse to self-immolate. There aren't enough apologies to sever this much hate. To the stars, to the sand, we traveled far just to end up back under this dome. The inevitable truth is that we are all alone. Your emerald eyes captivated me once. Once was simply enough
By Anna Torres2 years ago in Poets
How we CAN Solve Homelessness!
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By Jennifer Cooley2 years ago in Poets
The value of a human life. Top Story - January 2024. Content Warning.
What is the value of a human life? It must be high, because we don't have the rights to ourselves. I can't kill myself, that would be selfish. ___ loves me too much to bear that, i'm told. Not to mention ___, and ___, and ___, and ___ and ___ and ____ and any number of ___'s who assign me as theirs.
By Christiane Winter2 years ago in Poets
And In the Stormy Sky I See
I struggle through an inner molasses. My desire to write is quashed by my desire to be a good writer. I know I need to be writing in order to improve, but without any reliable feedback I do not see improvement, and, worse, I can see the incredible skill of many out in the world already, and I deflate. A pathetic, lifeless, child’s water balloon, completely deflated, trampled into a mud patch somewhere. Look here at the angular and forced quality of these awkward expressions. I want to pass on to you some interesting image of my inner world, but instead of poetry I show you, as if made of collapsed neutrons, the clunkiest metaphors and analogies. I serve visuals blunt to the point of somnolescence. Dry as only, cold, burnt toast can be.
By Stéphane Dreyfus2 years ago in Poets
