sitting in this cell of mine counting bricks to pass the time
800 and 9 or was it 10 shit ill have to start again
paced the floor a 1000 times from the bed to the chair
just aint getting any were
out the window freedom calls
across the yard over the walls
Genre: Prison, Depression, Loneliness
counting bricks
by lee pettengell
sitting in this cell of mine counting bricks to pass the time
800 and 9 or was it 10 shit ill have to start again
paced the floor a 1000 times from the bed to the chair
just aint getting any were
out the window freedom calls
across the yard over the walls
but the bars i cannote budge
freedoms there but out of touch
so its back to counting bricks again wish i could stop this silly game
but its that or think of you like i always seem to do
The nothingness or her illuminated face,
Heaven under a hell of mud
The place towards we move
The place where our glance turns white.
Genre: Relationship, Love
DAS NICHTS by Juan Antonio Garcia
The nothingness or her illuminated face,
Heaven under a hell of mud
The place towards we move
The place where our glance turns white.
We are mirrors of nothing, humans
When we discern our path of silt,
We expect to see a space and a time
But we are nothing and thus we dream
Nothing is space and nothing is time
Nothing our interior neither our exterior
Beings that don´t long for anything,
They only live for laughter or for nothing.
we’re the cool girls of this generation,
the ones with the words ‘i .cannot. give. a. shit’
slashed across us in bold red,
the little lies we tell ourselves to go to bed,
instead of spending midnight hours strung on the edge
unable to seek behind or storm ahead.
Genres: Realism, Modern Day, Spoken Word, Self Harm, Depression, Strength, Recovery, Generation Y.
red wrists by Sanchana Krishnan
we’re the cool girls of this generation,
the ones with the words ‘i .cannot. give. a. shit’
slashed across us in bold red,
the little lies we tell ourselves to go to bed,
instead of spending midnight hours strung on the edge
unable to seek behind or storm ahead.
the ones who fell asleep
to the sound of constant yelling, artillery shelling; bitter bullets exploding
into ugly bruises splattered across still skinny limbs,
shifting stories of anger and frustration, guilt and regret
expressed across inches of innocent skin;
the ones whose clothes were just a little bit frayed on the edges
It was clear Lester was an old fool
Perusing that which is Delphic
In vain attempts
To seek divine forgiveness
For a sweet tooth for sin
And maladies of every nature
Only to give invitation to fear
And impercievable things
He will never know
Nor comprehend
Genre: New Goth
The Problem With Lester by Damian Christopher
It was clear Lester was an old fool
Perusing that which is Delphic
In vain attempts
To seek divine forgiveness
For a sweet tooth for sin
And maladies of every nature
Only to give invitation to fear
And impercievable things
He will never know
Nor comprehend
The fool,
Blind to his folly
In pursuance of the impish and profane
In time, discovers their true associations
And maledictory nature
Injurious and virulent
He is soon bedeviled
To an eternity of futile pursuits
And a congregation of shame
The fool,
Mute to the whispers of the trees
Cries of the wind
And counsel of wild things
Wages wisdom for lunacy
Peculiarly, the selfish loon
For his vessel is perverse
Habitual in enduring disgrace
And he is forever weary
The fool,
His fate, kismet quelled
For there are those
That lay eyes upon us
Regardful our every deed
For the the price of redemption loss
In the hands of the damned
Is their baneful inclination
The fool,
A slave to his every whim
Devoid of prerogative
And sweet reason
Clever in his naiveté
But moored by dark, grave principalities
Like a hoary beast of burden
Fallen from grace
Even unto his last days
In misery, He shall amain in vain
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