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The Morning AfterThe whole thing was surreal, like one night had lasted for months.
By the end, all that was left were questions.
What really happened in the kitchen?
Where'd Stephy go?
And why did Ben put on all those shirts?
Slowly answers strobe like 'Nam flash backs.
The memories bit by bit tie in.
The moments of stupidity and the moments of genius.
A night we'll never forget
Mostly because we'll never fully remember it.
The hangover might be hell
but the source was heaven
The Landscape of HeartbreakThe Landscape of Heartbreak
A sun scorched wasteland
Where time has no meaning
Inhabited by angels with cast iron halos
Ash where bridges one stood
Slowly losing patience with this empire of dirt
My own personal purgatory
A place my mind never goes but is never far from
This is the landscape of heartbreak
The ResistanceConfined their eyes
To the darkest place
A world where
The justice has died.
Has been declined
And the screams
Are just wind.
Change the history
They won’t have
To lead us
We will burn
Around the world
Smother the law
With your protest
Create a new age.
The stolen freedom
Replaced with fear.
You can pull
Down the fate
Soon the sun
I call it passion. My mother brings me a soother, incased in a miniscule pearl pink circle.
As she walks into my room she hears a few verses of the spoken poetry titled "My thighs":
Sheepishly she asks me to refrain from watching anything that may cause' disturbance to my character.
Spark me off because for her and for many my body is constantly dripping, buttery with gasoline.
A supposed 'defect' that has caused many to label me as "Bitch" because unlike many ladylike girls I don't zip my lips.
In fact any jagged zipper teeth that may protrude from my plump lips have rusted, the zipper itself is broken.
She doesn't understand why I rage against subjects that shouldn't bother my ideal, pubescent mind.
To stop calling my brother "homophobic" because the word faggot rolls down from the tip of his tongue
with stomach-tightening ease.
(but she doesn't tell him to be quiet).
When I tell her I am a feminist she tells me to do my re
Steal their voices
In this dead
City you rule
With unfair laws.
Living on the floor
Begging for food
We only received
An empty dish.
Smiling you are
In our misery
You bring corruption
To all that you
We need someone
To free us from you
But your evilness
Will hide the sun.
Billboard Of ButterfliesTrapped technicolour heavens,
Ayuhuasca stuck in a crystal flat.
The angels were clipped at the carnival,
rebranded as homo inevectus.
Those feelers will never find the nectar-nirvana,
because those without wings
had to trap the moment. Fair doos.
13pm: Have a spiritual epiphany.
Science glances at the corkboard dissecting table,
wondering what it would have been like
to see those genesis' fly.
What a shame,
such is the mystery
of steel nets,
The World cries in the dark.
cosmic latteyour eyes shine, brilliant as
stars in the darkness
of my mind. I'm
I see you:
like a space-age
mystery, waiting to
come alive at my touch.
Algorithm - *For GazaThe world ends where the world begins
Infinite loop of insanity
Moment is the hope
And yet go back to one
Leaving“Why not just leave?”
Asked a stranger in ink:
A silent cry for help
Pierced with ignorance.
Assumptions of some monstrous fist,
Knuckled tainted with no venomous words
Left plain the simple act
Of just leaving.
Threats of non-existence
Or worse from whence that came
(And the inevitable blame)
Obstruct the simple act
Of just leaving.
Parties caught in no-man’s-land,
In the silent prejudice of being alone
(For how could she shatter their home?)
Bring more into the act
Of just leaving.
And what of those overlooked?
The stigma of “not keeping her in line”,
Of ticking the other box
Makes that one in ten incapable
Of just leaving.
I would pray for you, had I a recipient
(But life, to me, is too complex
To rest on the shoulders of one)
That you may learn, or at least never be
Inundated with the expectation
To just leave.
The pen is mightier...You may have every firearm in the world.
With every bullet carved and flags unfurled.
But It is by words that true fights are made.
It is by the pen that new stones are laid.
You may wield a sword sharpest of blade.
With daggers many and soldiers stayed.
But it is by the words read that worlds are torn
It is by ink and quill that revolutions are born.
You may kill and ravage the land.
Steal from the many to keep in your hand.
But by the writer's craft you shall be forgotten.
With treasures forfeit and powers fallen.
Never doubt the power of the writer's craft.
For it is by our hands that the world is draft.
Should you forget this simple truth.
The world will rot by ignorant youth.
Remember this simple cord:
The pen is mightier than the sword.
Teenage TaoismGiving birth is the closest I’d ever felt to dying.
Before that, my near death experiences had consisted only of my silent announcement of pregnancy—silent, being that my social media accounts were all deleted almost simultaneously and I never returned to school in the fall, saying without really saying that I had caught the malicious disease of “teenage pregnancy”. I’m sure the whisper spread in the hallways like the Bubonic Plague. That September, sitting at home on what would have been the first day of my senior year, I imagined friends I’d never talk to again saying “she was only seventeen, and so full of life!” at my absence in the cafeteria tables, as if they were attending my funeral instead of talking about me behind my back.
"Full of life," I had snorted then, folding a never ending stream of what had once been my own baby clothes. "Literally."
I walked around like a zombie for the months of my pregnancy, deciding t
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