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Theodore Bird Mar 2015
Grass-stained shirt hems,
     your mother's scrawl inside your collar, faded.
Scuffed knees,
     not quite bleeding.
Too far away from home,
     swimming in your reflection in your watery cup of tea.
Ripped up notebooks,
     a writer's love ignited.
Rough wine on the banks of the canal,
     crying, laughing, tumbling still.
Theodore Bird Mar 2015
A dash of spluttered kisses
     come raining down on your neck.
Buried in your sandy hair,
     shining lips in the candlelight.
I don't speak your language,
     you barely speak mine,
*Ik wil jij.
Theodore Bird Feb 2015
Low lights.
Low hum, clinking of cups, blurred coffee stains on a napkin.
Soft touch.
Soft laughter, squeaking of torn up leather seats,
     fogged up windows and bicycle bells.
Fault lines on the top of a crème brûlée
     and on the backs of your hands.
When my life was changed by a piece of pastry sometime...
Phoebe Jan 2015
My fingertips will never let me forget the scent of stale cigarettes.

I was a fool in London. All the friends I made had better accents than me.
I dreamed of Bulgaria and Brazil.

I walked through mud. I waited for French tides.
I trudged in heavy water waders.

My hands built a house with stones older than the country on my passport.
The etching of cement on my boots still reminds me what we carried there.

We drove along tired volcanoes and craggy cliffs in the dark.
I never learned how to drive manual.

We flew further south. I dried out in the sun.

The glands of Spanish streets pulsated
citrus mist into the air, my lungs.
I never did remember the difference between limon and lime.

We stayed in a haunted castel but missed Halloween.
The upper peninsula, where Napoleon dreamed of a better dinner.
We moved to Shangri-La. Even in Eden, people still snore.
But there were cakes laced with flowers. And I was over the moon.

Then, a dreamscape. The closest to the Arctic I’ve ever been.

We ate deer for dinner. I baked Danish pies. I slept supine in a smoke-filled yurt. It was all peace. It was all over.
I wrote this poem shortly after I returned to USA after backpacking and working in Europe for three and a half months. I lived in a hostel in London where I made many friends from all over the world. I built a house in Bordeaux. I lived near the beaches of Normandy. I worked in a castle, or "le castel." I had many siestas in Spain. I got ****** in Amsterdam. I was a pastry chef in Denmark.
Umang K Jan 2015
Orange skylines with
Copper inconsistencies,
Cobbled pavements
Converging, at odd angles,
Stepped on
By fairytale homes
And tourist feet,
Almost, just almost,
Drowning out the violins
And the voices,
Almost making me forget
That Europe isn’t home,
Somehow.
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2014
No peace in empire  .  .  .
Blind surveil themselves freely,
  .  .  .  Perpetual war.
The world of George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four exists in a state of perpetual war among the three major powers. At any given time, two of the three states are aligned against the third; for example Oceania and Eurasia against Eastasia or Eurasia and Eastasia against Oceania. However, as Goldstein's book points out, each Superstate is so powerful that even an alliance of the other two cannot destroy it, resulting in a continuing stalemate. From time to time, one of the states betrays its ally and sides with its former enemy. In Oceania, when this occurs, the Ministry of Truth rewrites history to make it appear that the current state of affairs is the way it has always been, and documents with contradictory information are destroyed in the memory hole.

A dystopia (from the Greek δυσ- and τόπος, alternatively, cacotopia, kakotopia, or anti-utopia) is a community or society that is in some important way undesirable or frightening. It is literally translated as "not-good bad-place" and synonymous with the opposite of utopia. Such societies appear in many artistic works, particularly in stories set in a future. Dystopias are often characterized by dehumanization, totalitarian governments, environmental disaster, or other characteristics associated with a cataclysmic decline in society.
Eliza Jane Oct 2014
You’ve left a handprint on my heart, from where you reached in and nurtured the burns and scars and helped life to grow again. you held your hand out to me and lifted me up to dance with you, a slow waltz that I had to learn as you lead me ‘round the room. When you left me to catch my breath, the fear of leaving you almost paralysed me - and the realisation that I must nearly broke me.

You showed me what it was to live, and to live in such reckless abandonment that I knew I would never belong in the place I once called my home. you redefined home for me, showing me the truth of “home is wherever I’m with you.” Your sunsets were painted more beautifully than anything I’ve ever seen, and the way you always lead me to the artist behind such great sky-paintings left me in awe. Who else can teach me to fall in love with two beings at one time.

I still reach for your hand subconsciously, lean in to rest on your shoulder before I realise that you’re no longer with me. You’ve left me homesick, wondering where home may be, the place where these itchy feet can finally rest. You’ve filled my mind with reminders of cities, people, prayers and dreams, and I’ve found that as long as these thoughts rattle in my mind, sleep and rest are impossible.

You’ve shaken me to my very core, and all that remains is that still beating heart, with your palpable handprint glowing in the darkness
non-fiction. I wrote this a few days ago, and tonight it's becoming more real and painful than before. Each day that passes makes me ache for 'home' more.
Luis Mdáhuar Aug 2014
"We can say that we have crossed the threshold of myth only when we notice a sudden consistency between incompatibles"
Mash Aug 2014
I want to live in Europe.

I want to run in the Bavarian Forest.
I want to be left in the English rain.
I want to feel the Russian Frost.
I want to skate in the Alps.

I want to feel the French Luxury.
I want to taste the Belgian Chocolates.
I want to sleep in the European Palaces.
I want to feel the Papacy Monastic.
I want to feel the taste of French Cheese and Scottish Whiskey.
I want to hear the Italian Piano.

I want to read English Poetry.
I want to hear the Spanish legends and don't forget the olive there !
I want to feel the magnificence of the Parisian Events.
I want to swim in the Danube River.
I want to be inspired by the fascinating paintings.
I want to be amazed by the beauty of the churches there.
I want to read about the greatness of the European History from there.
I want to search in The Vatican Stores and Warehouses for answers I was looking for.

I want to dream about reading the books that have been hidden in the Invisible Palace of Books in Berlin.
I want to walk among the shelves of The National Library in London.
I want to go shopping in the streets of Paris and Milan.

I just want to be European,
I want to live in Europe.

                                                                             - *Shilo
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