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The World Wide WebAll this information at our fingertips
Yet we choose to look at cats?
Freedom to voice our every thought
A privilege left unchecked
A steaming pit of tricks and trolls
Accessories now abused
Drowning in the vanity
And self obsessed depravity
Our lives uploaded; digitalised
Essence poured upon the screen
Entitled to an opinion
Set up for a response
Like throwing a lump of meat
To a pack of wild dogs
“Ten years ago, these people would not be allowed crayons,
Let alone use of the internet”
ConstructDelving into the origins
Of what makes an individual
Who are you? Who am I?
There’s a lack of understanding,
Yet we jump to judge
And claim to know
That which we could never understand
Attempts are seldom made
To investigate the unknown
To strive to discover
Those we claim to know
From the inside out
Extract the innermost thoughts
In place there is an idealist mirage
To which our beliefs shall cling to
In desperation, or disbelief
It’s the construct of our mindset
That leads us all astray
PsychosisCan’t seem to get away from it
Only lies to guide the path ahead
Psychosis running rings
Within a translucent failing mind
The blood still running thick and red
Before your eyes, you chase the prize
Arms outstretched into the night
The surface layer burns so bright
You built your own deception
To illuminate your mind
The only success resides in isolation
You never learnt
A mindless abomination
Still deluded, still cracking at the seems
Couldn’t work out what this all means?
This is the element of failure
Built on your own perception
Of a world of your resolve
Delusions of TranquillityOf hopes and nightmares
Inflicted on sub consciousness
There was never greater meaning
In the delusions laid hence forth
Vaccinate the thoughts
Eradicate the mind
Relieve all sense of feeling
Before ideals take their hold
Destroy all depth of meaning
For fear of letting go
Transcend the vivid outline
That dark tranquillity paints
Defend the shattered meaning
Of the ever stretching sky
To Depict an ArchitectYour words are breaking
Your frame is sinking into the depths
Of your own epic delusions
Your created frustrations
This new world wasn’t meant for you
Trapped in archaic traditions
Preaching false renditions
To nobody’s ears
Lying, raping, tortured, forsaking
Is that what these scriptures foretold?
Your priests on high are shaking
From the new ground rising
To depict an architect
Of this garden of eden,
This world scorned anew
Travelled through the deepest of secrets
Whose image is it in?
This great creator you pray
Is it yours, is it mine?
This fantastical fanaticism of centuries past
Built on little foundation
Its teaching you preach to the wavering masses
This superstitious adventure must end
For the good of future kind
You are not above us
And there is no below
A life of servitude
For the choice of heaven and hell
Is it just a weapon of choice?
To fire upon the weak and the wounded?
The scared and the damned?
So you deceive them to induce these thoughts
And gain control
Queen of DelusionsThe outside doesn’t count
When the inside is burning hate
Jealousy devising vicious schemes
To drag everyone else down
Confined to your own deceit
Controlled by your own delusion
That you are the queen
But you’re strung upon the gallows
As you should
Surrounded by the darkness you emit
Taunted by the face in the nightmares
It only drags you deeper
Towards your own demise
Night TerrorsMy eyes snap open. I can’t make out the ceiling above me, but I know it’s there. I look down; no duvet, I’m fully clothed. It’s the dream again. The number of times I’ve recalled the same nightmare is incalculable, every time it’s slightly longer than the last recount, almost as if it’s building up to something horrific. There’s nothing I can do except let the dream play out until I lurch screaming back into reality.
As per usual, I check the clock on the bedside table to my right. It reads 3am exactly. With unusual movements I pull myself up from the bed and stand in the middle of the room, still enveloped in darkness. The door as always is slightly ajar, allowing the glow from the kitchen clock (My room is on the ground floor) to invade the darkness of my room.
Without registering the movement of my feet, I find myself pulling the door open fully and stepping out into the kitchen. Everything is unnaturally cold, like an invisible frost
TwitterExcuse me sir!
I don’t believe we’ve met,
But may I have your attention please?
I’d like to inform you
That I’m about to bombard you
With useless pieces of information
Regarding my day
What I had for breakfast!
That I brushed my teeth
That I had a shit
What I watched on TV
And so on and so forth
I can see how interested you are
So here’s a picture of my lunch!
And my breakfast
And my dinner
And my ‘cheeky McDonalds’
Look at me! I’m a celebrity
Of the world wide web
It’ll be written on my epitaph
How I changed the world
And inspired people
With my shitty retyped tumblr posts
The 54 images of my dog
What was that sir? You don’t care?
Let me inform you that
I scored 100 points on Farmville!
I feel everyone should know!
It should be headline news!
Can’t you see?
I’m the face of the human race!
Isn’t that just great?
World Long GoneWake up
The party’s over
Just when you thought the world
Couldn't fuck you over
What’s in your head
Is more than reality
Could ever dream to be
A cosy retreat
From all the lies and deceit
Of those you surround yourself with
You were too busy
With pointless dreaming
To realise that the world has left you behind
They all moved on
Let Them In.With my back to the door
I can’t help but fall to the floor
Out of breath, out of time
Out of sight, out of my mind
They’re tempting me; they lead astray
They mark my words; I am their prey
I can’t fight them anymore
So let them in and end this war
Leave me to my demons
Let them have at me
And strip me of my reasons
To ever be happy
I am broken enough
So that they fit in the cracks
I never wanted to be this
But now there’s no turning back
Let them take control
Because without you in my life
This is how a person like myself
Can ever become whole.
Definition of a Writerwrit•er
A writer is a person
Who sees the world differently
From a high perspective of understanding
To an easily balanced imagery
They stand at the edge of the cliff
And run that extra mile
To gain what a normal person cannot see
And to obtain the hope that they wish to cherish
A writer is a person
Who buries their ego and places boulders upon it
They learn the rules, follow the rules, and will break the rules
And make writing their own
They lay upon the dusty old ground of a graveyard
And do an annual ritual to free the inspiration that has been pinned down
They want to show their abnormality to everyone around
And make this journey an unforgettable experience
Writers are masters of inspiration
And will set aside whatever may ruin the ecstasy of their writing
Which they will forever embrace
And will fight to claim the title author
In their world of words
Their stories are set free
Some are killed to b
EternityThe altar is bloodied
A drama just happened
She cut her veins
He sliced his throat
Their love was toxic
Death was the only antidote for to be united eternally
Why I Stopped WritingHere's a little story about me,
about my skill to paint a grim little scene,
to make the mind creak,
to talk of those things which we don't like to speak.
I was a girl of sixteen and I had a dream,
to exist so broken hearted that I would know,
know to the core,
that love was as real as I thought it should have been.
I was dramatic to say the least and wrote poems spanning ages,
wrote of crashed cars and seeing those eyes again later,
FEELING that stare,
knowing that though time had passed,
he'd not actually gone anywhere.
English class came,
seemed so lame,
most days in the back with the boys,
getting out of work with the most clever ploys.
Then one day the teacher said,
we could share our writing,
with all the others,
to my in
The PoetFor the work of a Poet to be truly appreciated
he must write it with his own blood and tears for ink
his soul the sharpened quill to nail the words
like so many specimen of unwilling insects upon the paper.
And once he has bled out
becoming the cause of his own demise
the reader is left behind to digest his soul
so plainly trapped within a cage of words
his requiem written as a love song to his Muse.
Across the RoomAcross the room, it's you I see.
You look elsewhere and don't see me.
For the first time I lay eyes on you.
Your beauty is something new.
I watch you for a little while.
My lips can't help but form a smile.
So perfect your long hair.
Your skin is oh so fair.
Your body is rounded just right.
Your smile makes the room alight.
You get excited and voice raises pitch.
Sounds like a song with melody rich.
Then embarrassed you start to blush.
I wish I could console with my touch.
Wondering if I should come near.
Rejection I really do fear.
I don't even know what I would say,
And chances are that you're not gay.
I watch until you walk away.
Maybe we'll meet some other day.
Lasting Impressions.It crossed my mind
And lingered there
Like footprints in concrete
It invaded my heart
Made it home
Like a bird nesting
It lifted my soul
On waxen wings
I flew too close
Now I ask myself
My eyes closed
Was it worth it?
My Little FlameO little flame,
you once burned so free.
You were bright and warm,
so comforting to me.
But now you wither and cool,
soon to go out.
I hope to restore you,
but my heart's filled with doubt.
I don't have the energy.
I don't have the drive.
I'm sorry little flame.
I can't keep you alive.
And without you, my fire,
there's really no hope for me,
but this was always inevitable,
always so plain to see.
O, flame, I wish it were different.
I wish you could live on,
but it's too late now.
Our time together is gone.
So good bye lovely flame.
Thank you for your time.
I'm glad that for a moment
you were only mine,
and as I watch you fade away,
I can feel myself going dim.
Already I am nothing.
I can't live without him.
My flame was my last hope,
so now I say good bye.
I have no reason to live,
and I wish very much to die.
In HindsightI'm not ready to meet you yet,
I need to have a mental breakdown
That I'd rather you didn't see.
You can meet me down the road
When my mess is just a story,
Part of my mysteriously alluring past
Not the painfully present now
It will seem so romantic,
My idealised mental anguish,
When you don't have to deal with it
Day after day
I'm sorry to tell you,
But please come back later
When I'm a bit saner
And you somewhat braver
And both a lot easier to love.
Second ShadowThe hand on your shoulder
The whispers in your mind
The words on your tongue
The voice in your throat
And the feelings in your soul
To drive to madness
To seduce the insane
To draw the blood
And dull the senses
To plague the memories
Of damage done
To fake safe haven
As the character changes
Light the anger and fuel the rage
Another mind to feed
A second shadow
To take you into eternity
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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