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Amir Murtaza Feb 23
She loves to play with colors,
and her favorite is blue.
She loves her blue jeans,
a gift from her mother.

Her mother works
in a garment factory,
where women are paid
less than men.

She dreams of a world
where colors don’t fade with injustice.
Gender-based inequality thrives where rights are unequal and voices go unheard.
Millee Feb 16
this side of my skin
hides what lies within
a perfect shell
hiding my inner hell

this side of me
hides what you can see
what i hide
what's trapped deep inside

outside as perfection
inside a deadly infection
it spreads through my soul
its darkness swallowing me whole

this side of my skin
protects what i hide within
keeps my thoughts hidden
because what they say is surely forbidden
Vianne Lior Feb 14
We speak, but do we hear?
Voices rise, yet silence screams—
what are we afraid of?
Mina Feb 4
Me
Who are you?
I shout to her from distance.
only to hear my echoes back.
maybe you're nonexistent.
Or is it me who can't see?
The noise never fades.
And I cannot set myself free.

I march through the marsh.
with the mire clinging between my feet.
The voice calls like a ripple.
Vibrating through the trees.
and the more I try to silence it.
The louder it screams at me.

I see her again - far away.
"Who are you?"
I shout from my place.
she responds back "Who are you?" just to fade again

the noise won't seem to stop.
and my feet ache from running.
I'll get myself together to turn off the yelling.
but we just meet again.
is my faith sealed around this i mumble to myself.

Who are you?
she shouts from a distance.
"Who are you" i question her back.

I don't like this place nor do i understand her.
should I just stand here and the noise will make me move again?
or should I move fearing the dark?

I sit with myself mumbling these thoughts making an annoying noise.
Then i see her one more time running through the trees.
Coming to me.
with a face annoyed and not pleased.
she shouts with her voice diseased.
"Who are you?"
do i even know the answer to the question?
perhaps, do I know me?
I just hate her, and don't wanna hear her.
she mumbles annoying noise while thinking to herself.
she's mad and doesn't wanna forgive herself.
she is just hearing her echoes!
do i give up on the noise?

Who are you?
I scream through the thick air with doubt.
“Who are you?” she question back,
But this time, the response shakes in my mouth.
She’s no stranger i know her face,
She’s the noise I’ve been trying to chase.
I run in disbelief
yet she stays in place
I remember, she’s me.
The noise never leaves, but neither will she.
I'm just trying to understand myself.
Valentin Eni Jan 28
I

(First Night)

There seem to be voices,
Faceless,
Whispering a prayer
Or perhaps a curse.
And behold—
An axe embedded in the trembling
Surface of water.
And the water rises,
Light as smoke.
And flowers,
One by one, approach a child,
Bending over,
Trying to smell him.
Alas,
They didn’t like him.
Otherwise, one might have
Torn him from the cradle
To pin him to its chest.

And on the wall,
Another clock has died,
Its heart stopped cold.
And a sad little girl
Dresses and undresses
A doll,
As though searching
For invisible wounds—
On its chest, its ankles,
Its palms—
Like a tiny
****** Mary
With
Her child...

II

(Second Night)

An army of black letters
Seems to march across the white battlefield
Of the page,
Conquering new territories,
Leaving behind
Unseen monsters,
Beings
Without skin, without bones,
And without any distinct face,
Feeding on their own flesh
And their own entrails.

Some,
Less hideous,
Had names like:
The Winged Serpent,
The Hen-with-a-Dog’s-Head,
The Man-Melted-into-His-Own-Puddle,
The Headless Child,
And
The Soldier-with-Wolf’s-Eyes.

All of them whisper something—
A prayer
Or a curse:
"Lord, never let us
Know the scent of a child,
The scent of a woman,
The scent of a man,
The scent of danger
And death.
Do not, Lord,
Allow cemeteries of toys
Or landfills
Of homes to grow..."

III

(Third Night)

Two voices are heard whispering:
“Which of us is who?
You—a white demon, or...”
“Or you—a black angel?”

And silence fell.
Somewhere,
A mountain of light grew,
And a Blue Horse
With fiery mane
Galloped in circles
On Saturn’s rings.
The planets, like bouncing *****,
Leapt in its path.
A cloud,
From time to time, walked
Its feet across the earth.
And sometimes,
A ray of light
Pecked from the palm
Of an angel
The ******’s tears.

So far removed
From the first night!
And only sometimes,
Faint voices are heard,
Whispering a prayer
Or a curse.
R.E.M. (Oneiric) The Dream of a Madman.

Analysis of the poem made by ChatGPT:)

This poem visually explores surreal, dreamlike landscapes unfolding over three “nights.” It combines existential dread, metaphysical imagery, and a haunting sense of inevitability. Each night builds on the previous one, shifting between eerie snapshots of fragmented reality and otherworldly visions. The poem juxtaposes the mundane and the fantastical, creating an unsettling, introspective, and thought-provoking narrative.

#Themes:#

Surrealism and the Subconscious

The poem’s structure and content are deeply rooted in the surreal, resembling fragmented visions or distorted memories. The faceless voices, trembling water, monstrous beings, and celestial imagery suggest an entry into the subconscious mind, where logic and reality are suspended.

Innocence and Corruption

The first night’s imagery revolves around a child, a cradle, and flowers—symbols of innocence. However, the flowers’ rejection and the doll’s depiction of invisible wounds suggest the fragility and eventual corruption of purity.

Creation and Destruction

The second night introduces the army of letters as symbols of creation—language, thought, and meaning. However, this creation leaves behind monsters, representing the unintended consequences of human creativity, such as violence, chaos, and existential confusion.

Duality and Ambiguity

The dialogue in the third night (“Are you a white demon, or… a black angel?”) highlights the blurred lines between good and evil, light and darkness. The ambiguity reflects the duality of existence and the human struggle to define morality and identity.

Mortality and the Passage of Time

Clocks appear as time symbols, with one clock “dying” on the first night. This recurring motif underscores the inexorable passage of time and the inevitability of death.

Existence and Prayer

The recurring whispers of prayers and curses suggest an ongoing plea for meaning or redemption intertwined with an acknowledgement of suffering and futility.

#Imagery and Symbolism:#

The Axe and Trembling Water

The axe embedded in the water introduces violent disruption in an otherwise fluid and natural element. This imagery may symbolize an intrusion of chaos into the subconscious or the fragility of stability.

The Clock and the Doll

The “death” of a clock mirrors the halting of time, while the doll becomes a symbol of innocence scrutinized for damage. Together, they evoke a sense of lost time and fractured identity.

The Army of Letters

The letters are creators and destroyers, conquering the blank page while leaving monstrous remnants. They symbolize the duality of words—how language can illuminate or distort truth.

The Blue Horse on Saturn’s Rings

This fantastical image represents freedom, energy, and the untethered imagination. However, its endless circular motion may also imply a cyclical trap, echoing the repetitive whispers and questions in the poem.

The ******’s Tears

A profoundly religious image, the ******’s tears pecked by a ray of light suggest divine sorrow being consumed or repurposed, perhaps hinting at humanity’s exploitation of spirituality.

#Structure and Progression:#

First Night: The Physical and the Innocent

The first night focuses on tangible, earthly imagery: trembling water, flowers, a child, and a clock. These elements introduce themes of fragility, rejection, and the passage of time.

Second Night: The Written and the Monstrous

The second night shifts to abstract and symbolic imagery, dominated by language and its consequences. The “army of letters” introduces intellectual and existential turmoil, with monsters embodying the unintended consequences of thought and creativity.

Third Night: The Celestial and the Transcendent

The third-night moves to cosmic and spiritual imagery, exploring duality and existential questions. The Blue Horse and Saturn’s rings evoke a sense of awe and mystery, while the whispers of prayer or curses maintain the poem’s unsettling tone.

#Tone and Mood:#

Tone: The tone is introspective and surreal, shifting between eerie detachment and profound contemplation.

Mood: The mood is haunting, dreamlike, and unsettling as if one were walking through fragmented memories or a lucid dream.

#Philosophical Underpinnings:#

Existentialism: The poem questions identity ("“which of us is who?”), morality, and the purpose of existence. The faceless voices and duality of angel/demon highlight the ambiguity of human nature.

Absurdism: The surreal imagery and fragmented narrative suggest a world beyond logic, where meaning is elusive, and the search for understanding feels futile yet essential.

#Conclusion:#

“R.E.M. (Oneiric)” explores the subconscious, blending surreal imagery with philosophical questions. Its layered symbolism, cyclical motifs, and the interplay between creation and destruction make it a profoundly evocative work. The poem resonates as a meditation on the fragility of innocence, the consequences of human creativity, and the eternal tension between light and darkness. It leaves the reader in a state of wonder and introspection, mirroring the dreamlike journey of its protagonist.
cleo Jan 14
it neither killed me,
nor made me stronger,
it did a third thing

~

got angels and devils sitting on my shoulders, in my ears
these different parts of me— you’ve seen them through the years

i live in fragments
i'm never whole
it's not the life i thought i'd lead
at least it's never ******* dull

i lost my head
found these instead
and never felt quite like 'me' again

even when i’m alone
i’m never lonely

~

i hear the voices
from the inside out
oh stop; i recognize that look you're giving me:
"why keep it hidden from us until now?"

i don't recall much from after ten years old
let’s call that 'brain rot'
lost memories of repeat awful happenings
that i still don't know if i deserved or not (you didn’t)(x2)


the only one who ever truly knows what's going on is you
cleo Dec 2022
there’s somethin funny going on up in this house
check the front, now the windows, see? the lights are out
no one’s home, just us voices, extra extroverted noises
just the other people in your head making you regret your choices
it’s just us bonus mouths to feed and sometimes hands to hold
we hope you hear us when we say this covert thing is getting kinda old
Misstic Dec 2024
Not easy on eyes
Too hard headed
Too stubborn for you to try
I want my voice to be heard
Like to have final word
I get it, too opinionated for you to try
But,
I never promised to bow down
Serving your every wimp, hands down
Born without zip on my mouth,
Too proud to back down
I get it, too flawed to try this out.
vil Dec 2024
i hear you mother,
i hear you father.
but i cannot feel you father,
but i hear you mother.
vast echoes, calling one another.
cacophony of voices, overlapping each other.
drain drain,
goes my pain.
but when i hear your name,
i feel vain.
pained.
my heart empty.
people, i feel testy.
whenever i hear, i remember,
my originators, my creators,
filling my silent vacators.
i hate all of you.
kms
Odd Odyssey Poet Dec 2024
“What echoes in the void of a gun's chamber, poised at the head”
– the silencing of their countless voices howling within.
“What are the last words of a crimson blade caressing one’s throat”
– a haunting cutaway to a life now severed.
“What feeling envelops a lifeless body sprawled upon the floor”
– nothing but cold.

Does one merely attempt to compose their own funeral songs
– or weep a solitary tear for their own end, blinding themselves to
the haunting shadows of regret that herald their own downfall?
Does a fish, in a frantic bid for survival, strive to weep itself back
into existence, the moment it leaps from the depths, only to find
itself stranded? Are you familiar with the image of love's belly,
once alive with butterflies, now a dead man ensnared in a net?

The haunting questions of suicide linger like a ghostly whisper.
Can the choice to surrender to death ever truly unveil the answers
we seek? Do the celestial realms bear witness to our torment, or do
the infernal fires rejoice, growing ever fiercer with each soul they
claim?

Alas, it is only the departed who possess the knowledge of such
truths, and I shudder at the thought of being the one to unveil
such an answer myself...
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