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Mystic Ink Plus Jul 2019
I used to think
Whatever
Something / Nothing

When realized
Everyday got, just 24 hours
And everyday is today
Meanwhile
Honoring the spirit
Breaking the pattern
Everything changed
The direction
The effort
The goal
Except
For the inner peace
In the end

And I am not the one
I used to be

Neither you
Genre: Experimental
Theme: Evolve || Peace Of Mind
Mystic Ink Plus May 2019
Ideally
Forever means
Don't give up
Rarely
It is let go

Let go
With blessings
What is not
Yours

Honestly
Nobody owe nobody
Yet
Love is love
Genre: Observational
Theme: When nothing matters
Steve Page May 2019
You wear the mask
that gets you through the day.
You close the door and tear
and tear the mask away.

You wear the mask
that gets you through the war.
You close the door and swear
there is no better way.
Lines 5 &6 are from a movie.
Ylzm May 2019
Gun in one hand, bible in the other.
Is not the word a sword?
Why need for a gun too?
Or is it a justification to ****?
The same as a rocket launcher on one shoulder,
and the koran in the other hand.
Or a flag in one hand, and a sword in the other.
The image says justified intimidation.
Fear me, for I have the Authority.
But really, the Authority is only as valid
as there are fools who submit.
And the only true authority is the gun, or sword,
as you certainly know it.
And the flag, or bible, or the koran,
are but for your own conscience.
or cover for your lack thereof.

The bible and the gun:
an oxymoron;
a display of faithlessness,
the defilement of holiness,
a blasphemous act;
affirming the proud fool you are,
that says in its heart, there is no God!
Tony Tweedy Apr 2019
When someone tells you that you have wounded their soul you can't mend the wounds by denying or arguing you didn't.
Their soul, their wound... your conscience.
Its a personal thing... not your decision.
Poetress2 Apr 2019
She never wanted to be a Mom,
and now her life is nothing but wrong;
What will she tell everyone she knows,
maybe she'll wait until she shows?
~
The Fetus who slumbers in her Womb,
one day will be running out of room;
She must Abort this one in her,
for shame she simply can't endure.
~
She makes an appointment at the clinic,
know one must know, no one must see;
She arrives the next day, still so unaware,
that her Fetus is growing, lots of hair.
~
They lay her on a Hospital bed,
where soon the Fetus will be dead;
The Doctor inserts a clear, long tube,
where it wreaks havoc, within the Womb.
~
The baby moves away from it,
it feels like she has just been bit;
Upon her face, there is a scowl,
it's much too late to turn back now.
~
The hose clamps on to her very, small hand,
the Fetus can't cope, nor understand;
It pulls the hand right off the arm,
yet Mother thinks she did no harm.
~
Next it grabs onto her hip,
and her tiny leg begins to rip;
Emersed in pain, she pulls away,
she'll not live to see another day.
~
At last it latches onto her head,
the heartbeat stops, this child is dead;
She smiles, her reputation intact,
a conscience is one thing she lacks.
I watched a video on a live abortion.  It had such a sorrowful impact on me.  My prayer is that these words, while graphic, may save but one baby's life.
Where am I, you ask?

Lost in the clutter of my mind

Thoughts all jumbled up
Like a spool of tangled thread
And just as thin
So close to breaking

Fingers get caught
And slowly turn purple
Once released, permanent damage remains

My conscience plays the fingers
My mind the thread

Pull to hard,
the thread snaps
Don’t pull enough,
and it’s forever knotted
Daan Feb 2019
A mild case of impostor syndrome,
a severe symptom in the form of
confabulations without instigations,

are the base of our disease.
Who we are, is glued to our
actions, due to devour
what our soup tasted like before it all went sour.

This is nonsense, this is weak,
this is no writing of which people speak.
Is it even right in use to say the things, written.
Stop longing for the time of long before,

when we were all still rid
of conscious thought and feeling,

back when we were reeling in and out, casually,
of our devout inadequacy.
When do we deserve a title and when are we what we’re called?
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