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Vote for the best PAIR of poems.

Disjoint Act I

They don't applaud your performance,
They applaud because that's what
all the others do, and because
they hope that the waves of sound
might make the curtains fall.

You see, all the doors here
lead back to the stage; but
you'll never hear an encore, because
you'll be finished
much before the play.

I think you should stop drinking
from those cans of conservatism.
You do the acts, not the scripts,
and if you don't like the lines
then why open your mouth?

I'm attired colorful enough, but
to your color blind eyes
I'm just shades of gray.
Stop blaming me for forgetting lines;
I've only changed them.


We rode bicycles over a mountainside made of cheap street crack and wine.
‘Michelangelo,’ she said. ‘these walls ain’t even half as tall as what we thought they
were. Look, you can see all of the sky tonight. Oh, you can see all of the sky!’
She asked for a statue, and I etched her out a marble portrait of the moon.
‘Baby,’ she spoke. ‘the moon?’
‘Without the sun to light it up, it’s just another rock.’
‘Let’s go.’ She sung.
We found shovels in our empty garden bed, and dug until we hit water.
‘We’re stuck,’ I cried. ‘we’re really ****ing stuck.’
‘Close your eyes, we’re in a ship. Okay? And we’re sailing through a stream of
cement and bricks, and we’re not stuck, okay? Just close your eyes and paddle, like this.’
I cupped a hand against the sunlight. Her eyes were mirrors in a morning so bright.
There were birds dancing like kites strung up for a day parade,
And there were old trees and soft hills and low rolling meadows,
And for a moment the sun swung behind a cloud.
‘The moon never looked so alight.’
As she laughed I placed a frame around her neck and made her a masterpiece.


The blame game can only go so far before it becomes battleship.
The constant denial of ones actions,
Leaving the world at a loss for truth,
Without the single, slightest clue,
As this is just what we know,
This is what makes us human,
This is what drives us,
To live on like false parrots.
But all can be changed,
By a simple answer,
That is ignored,
As most are,
But with one word,
One word:
New ideas,
New lives,
Can come from this,
Because it is the epitome of self.
That which we avoid continuously,
And at absolutely all costs.
It can represent a lifetime or a moment,
Though we’re terrified of both.
Verity is slipping away from us,
Slowly but surely we’re tearing each other apart,
Because above all that’s what we’re afraid of.
We’re scared to trust and be trusted,
As this would mean welcoming others into a very firm bubble,
And it would put a halt to the current world of, an I for an I.

Peter Pan

a long time ago
it wasn't hard to realize
that we all had
our own special place.
not neccessarily
one to run to
when the tough got going;
but as a child,
i visited the clouds frequently.
for leisure,
and a breath of cleaner air.
i would lay on my back
above the earth
above the birds
didn't mind sitting under the sun.
it was only the size of
an ant, anyway.
i know because i measured it
with one eye closed
between my thumb and finger.
this was all mine,
no room for two.

i tried to remember
the day when they took
it away from me.
when they brainwashed me
to believe that decency
revolves in the solitude
of a man's mind.
that responsibility and
opportunity are not yours
until you're as naked and
empty as everyone else.
because no one can see you
bleed unless you're bleeding.
i couldn't,
so i ran.
i ran and kept running
to find my place.
not my home,
or the arms of my therapist,
but the wind that used to
sweep me up
into the embrace of God.
the clouds,
just had to get there
because i refused to watch
this world burn.
they tried to follow me
but the fact remains
there is only room for one.