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A Vintage FeatherI crave to live in the sunA Vintage Feather by LUCKy-LoTi
Embracing its nurturing glow
With my lavender touch to meet its skin
With its purifying light
My tears can feed the milky way
And blackness can filter out of my veins
I can live beyond my inner wall
But I left my wings in my closet to collect dust
Because I am terrified of heights
CaughtCough... wake up wet,Caught by Redsterfish
back covered with sweat,
done by an unremindable nightmare.
The robot-voice said: work finished at midday!
Already a bunch have applied and brought roses,
at the door of a dinky little swine.
How can I, really, how can I,
get in touch with a world that is nothing but stress,
and the try to suit everyone, and threats?
Crunchy and over-spiced skin,
fat drippin´ in your mouth,
a chef fears the paranoid black ring, dinga, ding, dong.
That uncalled freedom and peacefullness,
will not stay for long,
accomplish the rightgeous being in the right space.
Nasty and tasty, waste the hasty,
try not to let it rain, hide the drain.
And then your fist hits the head of the housewife...
The animals won´t leave you alone,
need to be fed for some reason,
...what is it that turns the disc?
Happenings And Routine Makes It Go AwayThe big bald head of a nervous infinity,Happenings And Routine Makes It Go Away by Redsterfish
is pulling the strings, that move your wooden body.
As you were sworn in to a wooden icon,
not knowing, and supposed to not knowing the materia called life.
Punched into a world, some sick dictator has conceived.
Ah yeah daylight robbery was such an amazing idea.
Slavery of your brothers for any sake, should be it?
You know, just meet other insects at a certain place,
speak certain words at that certain occasion.
Otherwise you´ll bleed, there isn´t too much information,
everybody should understand, unpunished.
Speech is around a very tiny subject, but think what you like?
One day the individual just got blown up and exploded.
The mixture of wish and forced to and irreality was highly dangerous.
A desert turned up... no being around, the dead planet?
Development was killed by a substance, you choose, didn´t you?
It was in your hands, not one to blame.
The chance is gone, only fear and being on the bottom of social life,
17/09/2015I do not want to sing17/09/2015 by MadreCojo
To release the smoky heaviness in my breast
Anchoring me down
Taking me to a dark, dank place
Filled of nasty nightmares and battered hopes
A song filled to the brim with truth
A song throbbing and convulsing with my sorrowful soul
My siclkly, stinking soul
These harpies wait to pick the skin from my warm carcass
A song of my own voice
The voice of my own face and not of the many decorated masks
Crafted for another's pleasure
Created as protection from those vile feathered vermin
A song from a twisted, weeping face
Chipping, cracking, caving in
As there can never be any truth
The winged monsters screech before my song is half way
Muse On The LooseAs you keep being there on time,Muse On The Loose by Redsterfish
You just feel how that cotton swab grows.
You know you only get those feedbacks: It´s fine.
And then your pillow will explode at the show.
All those feathers hover in the air,
you still think: I don´t care.
And before you knew what was happening,
that psychologist pushed you into that mould ...kling.
A massive weariness which is the precursor
of a insidious and paralyzing state of mind.
Creativity and fun is about to flee ...behind?
Surly you only want to get some sleep, tame the predator.
The routine will do it´s very best job,
freeze your mind and float with the mob.
That´s all they want you to do.
Work for their world, fit like the perfect shoe.
They don´t need to dig for alternatives,
it´s their business, just has to run faster and fluently.
You will be the collateral or even at the junk fives,
if you don´t say yes and amplify their very own cruelty.
You will be a part of the system, the tiny little cog,
.upon surrender..upon surrender..upon surrender. by Amanda-Graham
... only she knows ...
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
touch stones without remark tumbled
one after another
no clack of disapprovals shed
one after another
as though i were an insult though they never spat me out
as though i were a crime they'd committed in dead of night
as though i were several different outfits now out on consignment
as though I were the dog who barked at a breaking