Reds are rose,
Blues are violet.
That is just the right amount of dose,
To get you killed.
Right by the open window you posed,
People down there screamed awild.
Breath of ruination filled your lung, into the nose,
And tears, had never felt so mild.
“Fuck it.” Said you, then jumped without a pause.
Now you’re down there but a corpse.
Never again the smell of those fair scent.
For your world had shifted, to the Neverend.
No Country is Worth its Flag. by rembulanemas, literature
Literature
No Country is Worth its Flag.
What is a flag
For a country,
If it makes the people subdue humanity.
Tons of firearms aimed at innocent souls,
While aristocrats laughed on their long gone ancestors.
History is just a chronicle of war.
It was only for the sake of being above par.
One death, after another.
One lives, while others suffer.
Why put freedom as a rebel against injustice?
All you have to do, is to run into the solstice.
Find peace, and your wishes will follow.
Do not bring tantrum on your matters, if it only caused sorrows.
Take your chances, for your country needs it.
Lit the dead torches ablaze, find its forgotten beat.
Raise your flag sky high,
Make the
Cheers, Father.
On your next birthday I will put more candles than usual,
for you will live forever and your legacy will bound to eternity.
"Seek for more books." you said.
Clarity will come to your solemn soul,
and your nightmares for the future will turn into ashes.
I want to bury myself into the deepest of sandglass,
So I would follow the stream and be infinite with time.
I want to cloak myself into the most azure ocean,
So the current would devour my body and I can be one with the sea.
I want to find a way into the speeding frequencies of the voice,
People calling their gods' names.
So that I could bond myself
with meaningful things.
And be done with it.
Reds are rose,
Blues are violet.
That is just the right amount of dose,
To get you killed.
Right by the open window you posed,
People down there screamed awild.
Breath of ruination filled your lung, into the nose,
And tears, had never felt so mild.
“Fuck it.” Said you, then jumped without a pause.
Now you’re down there but a corpse.
Never again the smell of those fair scent.
For your world had shifted, to the Neverend.
No Country is Worth its Flag. by rembulanemas, literature
Literature
No Country is Worth its Flag.
What is a flag
For a country,
If it makes the people subdue humanity.
Tons of firearms aimed at innocent souls,
While aristocrats laughed on their long gone ancestors.
History is just a chronicle of war.
It was only for the sake of being above par.
One death, after another.
One lives, while others suffer.
Why put freedom as a rebel against injustice?
All you have to do, is to run into the solstice.
Find peace, and your wishes will follow.
Do not bring tantrum on your matters, if it only caused sorrows.
Take your chances, for your country needs it.
Lit the dead torches ablaze, find its forgotten beat.
Raise your flag sky high,
Make the
Cheers, Father.
On your next birthday I will put more candles than usual,
for you will live forever and your legacy will bound to eternity.
"Seek for more books." you said.
Clarity will come to your solemn soul,
and your nightmares for the future will turn into ashes.
I want to bury myself into the deepest of sandglass,
So I would follow the stream and be infinite with time.
I want to cloak myself into the most azure ocean,
So the current would devour my body and I can be one with the sea.
I want to find a way into the speeding frequencies of the voice,
People calling their gods' names.
So that I could bond myself
with meaningful things.
And be done with it.
i emptied my old office
into the unknown egress
gathered up my paintings
my files of old information
pictures of everyone i love
their faces younger than the dust on them
my precious objects in their precious places
and i am not among them.
I know things, after all;
not exactly wisdom
but little tidbits
elongated
to fit everything
like why I was left here
to begin with
a pile of growths
an avalanche of vessels
hurriedly assembled
running late
flung over bones
why I dumbly teeter like an old trophy
coffee table art
that bronze figurine mom’s boyfriend took with him
when he split
a naked nymph, arms flung back, chin
in the clasp of some great headwind
fashioned to be coveted
stolen
broken
forgotten
why I loom over new spring ants
like an ancient obelisk
angry and unfathomable
and my heavy house is sinking in the gumbo
chickweed curling
around a slow explosion
in the
See for yourself.
Strip the pinbones to their teeth.
Use a microtome to thin each veil; engram to sacromere to the chest-pulp of chromatin,
You will find the same sweet euphonies:
Filatures spinning bliss from irrationals,
Rose-cloud billows from bluebird mandibles,
Shinplaster brewed to a platinum tea.
All that I'm made of,
Whatever you need.
I can't write poetry for dead girls. by lupus-astra, literature
Literature
I can't write poetry for dead girls.
there are too
many pills in this
world and too
much misery in
the human heart
but that didn't mean
that you could just
up and leave when
we both know it
could have gotten better
and i miss you like
a wolf misses her pack
or a goddamn dragon misses
her fire and i'm sorry
that i can't give you
a bouquet of jasmines
(they were your
favorite, after all,
because that was
the only princess
with a pet tiger)
because poppies are
too cliche and i'm
sorry i wasn't there
when all you needed
was a hug and for someone
to whisper "it's okay,
you're perfect enough
for me, don't listen
to that junkie bitch
who just happened to
give birth to you" and did
the boy called spineless has a backbone
lost in the rubble of hiroshima, his unfettered hands
pulling at maps and photographs.
with worn and radioactive identity, he knows
that the world is a veteran, sick of empathy
& can look massacre in the eye without blinking.
hastily, people will cleanse themselves
of alpha particles and corpses
they did not touch.
history classrooms will suck the marrow of tragedy
unafflicted, passing nagasaki
as another word in a textbook,
pointing at pictures, saying
that’s what you get
when you fuck with america.
he does not blame them.
they have not seen for themselves
the crimson cloud inhaling his o
This is for the Average Artist by WordOfChen, literature
Literature
This is for the Average Artist
It is painful at times,
Seeing those born with skill and talent.
They paint such beautiful things, using the barest of material.
Entire worlds are spun at their fingertips, all from a dot of paint.
I think sometimes, of how nice it must be,
To be able to capture such beauty, within the borders of a page.
To spin a tale from but the smallest of phrases,
To create a fantastic adventure from a mundane experience.
It is painful indeed at times. When I am seated in this room,
Surrounded by the dull hum of failure and regret,
I ask myself, with eyes burning in the mirror,
Am I finally ready to give it all up?
'No!' I say
I will not let it end