Despair
Crispy, crunchy bits on the floor
Remnants of what was once me
Speak in sequestered voice
Whispers for none to hear
Memories masked in flimsy gauze
Distort into moaning miseries
Slices of soul oozing through my eyes
Trek along determined trails
Hollowness hails each morning
Darkness so deep that no light gleams
Heaviness haunts my limbs
Paralyzes rational thought
No hope, no…
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i know not many people would want to read a 10,000 word article about the minecraft end poem and how the author, Julian Gough, was never fairly compensated for his work and has made it public domain.
But it's a very well-written and heartfelt read, and he makes it very clear that none of this is a cash-grab and despite the fact that he is essentially a starving artist in this capitalist society, he only mentions his financial struggles despite Minecraft's huge huge success at the bottom of this article and not in the tweets so as to not dilute his message.
Anyway, I just think it'd be cool if those who are able to could support him in some way whether it be subscribing to his substack or donating to his paypal (that's linked in the article, you can ctrl + F to find it easier), that's all.
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you told me that daisies
are your favorite flower
and i had to fight the urge
to plant a bouquet
of them in my lungs.
i want to cough up
petals and stems
when you smile at me.
i want to be so full of
your favorite things
that i forget how to breathe.
-mars
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Flambe
-
Go on and worship me.
I'll let the flames
Ignite and swallow me whole.
I'll burn from the inside,
With a smile,
Watch me take control.
Try not to be surprised,
When you see how fast I change.
You think you know all about fire,
But I burn hotter in the rain.
x
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“Belovéd,” Yves Olade
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Maybe one day I'll be able to breathe again
Maybe one day this won't hurt
Maybe one day I'll stop destroying myself for scraps of your attention
Maybe one day I'll love someone else the way I love you
I doubt it
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I wish the thoughts of you will just leave me as easy as the way you walk away
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The Shell
Walking along the beach,
I found a shell.
an ordinary shell
it is perfectly formed
six rows of ridges
ruffles
completely round
except for where it joined
its twin when still whole
the shell feels surprisingly cool
and light
as if it’s soul’s mate
disappeared long ago
as I stare out at the Pacific Ocean
I wonder where this clam
might have lived
and how it got to this spot
on this…
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You cannot convince me that diluc doesn't write poetry, or at least keeps a diary. He is so dramatic, have you heard how this man talks? He's a poet in private and it's a secret he'll (try to) keep to his grave.
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how empty of me to be so full of you
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it's hard to write
when every poem starts to
feel like a suicide letter.
most days i am an
echo chamber of apologies.
i start to wonder if
there is anything else
left in me anymore.
i go to bed empty.
most nights i am
something much worse.
-mars
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