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Freedom(Open-mindedness is not a power.)
Hold up your hand.
Straighten it and make a fist. That arm is a solid structure, a column of cells, a staff.
It's simply a cylinder, and that is all.
(Open mindedness is not a force.)
Go up to a trashcan, place your hands on its side, and shove as hard as you can.
Try it. Watch the trashcan fly, its lid clanging open and its guts spilling over the pavement.
You did that. Notice the veins bulging from your arms.
Do you feel at peace?
(Open-mindedness is not a form of knowledge.)
These I know to be true: the sky is blue, blood is red, and the Earth is round.
"Do you deny sunsets, then? Do you expect only oxygen, and disregard calculus?"
i dont want to be wrong, its embarrassing
Now go outside.
Imagine yourself immersed in sky, wrapped in the great blue blanket.
There are thousands of clouds above you, some heavy with rain and others bursting with sunshine, and seagulls dip and dive around yo
This poem is not about sparrows.Birds just don't fall this hard.
You have slashed your pillows,
scooped up the feather entrails
and glued them in grotesque clumps
to your bruised skin,
and like some failed experiment
you sit in the darkest corner of your room
muttering, whimpering half-thoughts and
dark, terribly frayed strands of melody,
but still your bones won't break,
no matter how many times you
jump from your nest.
It's time to wash away the ink
you've been rubbing into your papercuts;
It's time to stop writing about
(That broken, bleeding beak
uttered no cry of self-pity
when I tucked it into a plastic bag
and crushed it with my shovel.)
a derelict building shifts its swollen form
wire cage elevators moving carefully as it swallows
nestled in a womb of fragile concrete fibres
the child of paint and pastel colours stirs
searching blindly for that energetic outside world
it stretches its delicate arms like an earthquake
Tell me where you come from, what you remember
of the black ground. Talk in riddles only your kind
understands, talk in flowers, talk in thorny branches.
You crack the foundations in starlike patterns, and
you stretch the heart of you for the concrete above,
longing to carry the sky as a bed for the Sun.
the twisting flesh of the whistling tree
blankets the screaming mud with salt
in a lush park tended by arthritic backs
an old man sits with a young girl
as devils arc their spines within smiles
they discuss the taste of snow
They know the end grows high, grows nigh,
outgrows the star dome like parasite patchwork.
The invaders never came, they were the ground stones,
The River Acheron(a movement of blood - destiny)
It is a place where life ends and love begins..
It is the river where lovers meet
~ A river forged in deepest scarlet.
Lost in the silence of blackened candles,
clad in silhouettes of poison I seek love
In the song of a ravaged dawn I hath drowned
Deep in the flesh of the underworld I bathe in
the nectar of requiem
O' father, caress my untamed wounds with
your dread, lest I wander among angels
Dark'n dreary the river's sorrow, as shadows
spill from mine eyes unto gardens of ebony
where my ache forever sails in portraits
of scarlet & decayed dreams
Under a blood-filled sky, I shall undress you
in the abyss of my dead soul
The wilderness of your lips I will ordain in
temples of melancholy as you lust and wither
Ash and sanguine bespeaks in the mists of
my sable carriage as haste I night's garnish
Surrender thee to eudemon horizons for
thou hath become the audience of
my eternal darkness
Bequeath your soul t
The Rot of FlowersI am so bored of flowers.
I dream in wounds
And I am bored of trees
Stretching to heaven;
They'll never reach.
I want to see the rot within,
gnawing on the insides,
I want to taste the pollution,
The city's poison
To distill, bottle, and sell
- humanity for consumption
I want to scrape off the makeup,
Turn the flesh inside out
And lick the rot.
Only then will flowers be beautiful.
© 2013 themagpiepoet
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