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Daniel Mar 2018
I took a walk in the park
But I got bored
I took a moment to breathe
What am I outside for,

I hate this place
It all wants me dead
Can't help but make a face
My skin is turning red
Just what I dread

How long will I be this young?
I stay up late
I burn my tongue

I dont wanna pay my bills
I'll walk the world
I'll live off thrills
Life on the outside.
The words on my head right now is burning, another random poem for you people!
jas Feb 2018
should have been an astronaut
get in a rocket and just take off
this is not my world

im an outsider
searching for my universe
my place is not on earth

cant compare to humans well
though I try
to relate
I just die a little on the inside
----------------------

space
the planets and views behind
catches me by surprise
glimpse of my eye
a piece of my life
flashes before me...


to be continued
Jester Feb 2018
Ugly is beautiful, ugly is under the pretty skin and colors we wear.

When one thinks of art and the beauty of words it must always sound nice, it must follow and follow traditional laws of language;
**** that.

Art is an expression of self and soul is it not?
Humans don’t all have beauty in them, humans don’t always have some wonderful soul or righteous heart, so why should all art show the beauty of life?

Why not mock the beauty? Why not admit that sometimes we’re ugly, sometimes we’re crass, cold and vile?
Are we not all we are? Do our life experiences not shape and make us?

Life is not perfect and we all have pitfalls, everyone is flawed yet when it comes to art we deny the fact and mask it by saying “art reflects the tragedy” or “I use art to express my pain” and in that way, we make it romantic, but what if, we just showed it as it is.
What if we just said exactly what we’re feeling, what we’re thinking, what we want?

Must we use the beauty of words and paint and rock to hide our shame, or fear, to mask our greed and lust?
Sometimes people aren’t pretty, sometimes they have no soul, so what if some art was ugly?

What if I didn’t use proper words or language
Or started to; break up words by what-ever means I saw fit for the piece?

It would confuse, it would anger, it would look bad.
But that would be closer to human than always trying to turn some act of woe into some poetic moment.
For a moment reject the beauty, reject the urge to be clever or pristine, smear some mud across the page, ugly can be beautiful in itself because ugly is just that.

You are not the best, you are not the best looking, the fastest, the strongest, smartest, you do not know everything- so it would make sense that art at times should be flawed, that art should be ugly and broken, that art should offend you at times.
There is a humbleness to be found in ugly art, in art that is raw and exposed.
Once you take away the fluff that people are attracted to, once you strip her down and expose what she is, you may find that while some art is a flawless figure in her **** skin- other art may be torn, ripped and festering with disease but she’s not hiding anything in that moment- and on top of that. She doesn’t care.
Why should every poem sound nice?
Why should art have rules and laws?

Of course, we must have laws and standards, of course we must have laws and rules HOWEVER in times and for somethings- breaking that mold, stepping outside of the box, that is needed.
I say ugly art hides nothing and shows everything, pure surface value with no hidden meaning or deeper philosophy, which won’t do for some people.

Some people will rip art apart to understand its meaning refusing to believe in face value because they can’t understand the face value of ugly, they have to have something pretty, they have to have something clever or witty or something they can cling to as being elite as if that somehow places them above the social stature at which they reside.

Trust in ugly art, trust in unpoetic words, trust in blemished statues, trust in unpolished raw music, trust in ugly from time to time.
From the upcoming book IV
Zoe Mae Jan 2018
Unable to connect to others, I feel I'm always peering in
With envious eyes, I observe their lives, and wonder when mine will begin
The insidious illness that creeps into my soul, isn't easily diagnosed
It's hard to explain, to a real living being, what it's like to be a ghost
The doctors check my vitals and say "Umm, you look just fine"
If only that blood pressure cuff could read my ******-up mind
All the pills in the world don't seem to help, and instead just make it worse
I wish I could feel, something that's real, besides my mother's curse
Unable to relate to others, I feel I'm always on the outside
So I breathe on the glass and use my bony hand to scribble,
I am alive
Ako Dec 2017
A myriad of inscription
The bereaved, the monumental stone
The moss, the forgotten
The unforgettable misconduct

"Here lies, the carcass of a man,
Mistreated and misread,
A haunting hollow cadaver,
Put to rest, hereby a pest."

When the bell rings sephia
He was a standing stone man
Treading the black ooze of norms
Walking, swimming
Breathing and drowning

"I am not a *****,
Not a ***** of eyes
Take me as I am,
A belittled man in a straightjacket."

"I promise one thing,
Not an eternal curiosity,
But a happiness
Inside this monochromatic eyes."

They cut the jacket
Releasing a specter, the blue one
Which they had, they should
"The book told us to" they said

Thus, the story ends
Implying the rudimental humanity
"Bound by fate,
Parted by human."
The two last line etched in gloom.
A burial ground for mistakes and rejects.
scorpiothought Dec 2017
swallowed by the tempest
thrashing in the waves
harboring self-destruction

swept away by the breakdown
ravaging the vulnerability within
intensity unmatched
aimless passion blinds

light devastated by the dark
desire never-ending
jaded by the pounding hopeless flow

**** just to see the glare
of the distant sun
For anyone who's ever felt like an outsider just for existing. I may add more to this piece at some point.  I'd truly like to hear any thoughts you might have!
Eleanor Webster Oct 2017
"I'd like to be a fly on the wall," you say.
Would you?
Would you really like to be privy to all
that drama and intrigue, without ever being noticed?
Sounds nice, I suppose.
But I'll let you in on a little secret-
That, my dears, is false advertising.
Truth is, people always notice flies
They just choose to ignore them
And lower their voices when you buzz by on sugar-spun wings of self-confidence-
Maybe it's just all in your head
Maybe you've misinterpreted things-behind kaleidoscope eyes
It always looks like there are more of them than you.

So you gain confidence
You hover on the fringes of their circle
And drone out a low hum of 'what've you been up to today?'
Or 'how're you?'
Or 'long day, huh?'
The response is offhand
A verbal flick of the wrist
Batting the ball back into your conversational court
Because coming at you with a fly swatter
Or a rolled up Cosmo magazine
Takes more effort than they're willing to give.

You buzz about some more
Hoping maybe the silence will entice them to engage
But no,
They can't hear your buzzing
Or they won't.
So instead you stand
Fly on the wall
Content with watching the light catch your wings
Repeatedly wringing your hands near your face
In a way they probably think is malevolent
I promise I'm not plotting-
I'm just juggling the weight of my loneliness
Maybe if I shift it from one palm to another
Somehow I will lighten the load.

Take comfort in this, little fly-
The sun makes your wings iridescent
And even though they'll never get close enough to see that, you can.
It's not a trick of the light
Your fractal eyes do not deceive you-
They are duplicate.
A poem about social exclusion.
Svode Oct 2017
I'm an outsider
I don't follow social norms.
But being an outsider has become the norm,
so am I...
normal?
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