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Poems On / About IDENTITY  2/11/2016 4:40:20 AM
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To Leonard Cohen

moss ceramics history buried by tens of wounds, the precipitated event piles as plankton, dissolved oil dressing your head, walked on through the edge of continent, the questions strikes this frozen wall, a series of sentences that settles in the glass, the bleak tones, the trees of the world of dreams, the forest of words, you're standing on the edge of a small river, who looked up to heaven? Then open the identity of this song, at first glance is never seen, only the rhythm permeates the soul, and like the wind gently blowing, suddenly flushed dusk, resigned murmur, swallow the valley, the sound is lost in the echoes, the poem becomes oil consolation, led to an eternity, you take another step, slowly into the valley, singing will be gone, but you never worry, because the books have you singing rewrite it.

Imam Setiaji Ronoatmojo

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My Identity!

To fit into another's mould
Constantly changed shape
Now I am not what I am.

That's my Identity! !
Valsa George

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Fasionable Suicide

</>The pain etched in stone, temptation bleeds into the wounds of the failed youths. This world is a big joke to us now, and everything is a fad to us now, the knife cuts smoothly to the bone, the hangman's noose is their new necklace-the darkness follows us in the shadows-watching till it overcomes us-why does everything seem so perfect when everything is so rotten? The knife is the new god and the gas the air they want to breathe, everything succumbing to the new fads. Revolving around what they think is bad, and what they think is false for they are the new sheep, the new wave. Lifelines destroyed as they follow the next one. Broken veins pulse out at us, as we squint to see the sun, we burn but the feeling calms the faithless. Overdose is the diet of them now, the pills swallowed on quantity, taken to feed what they feel the need asks for next-as it begs for the things that we hate-the fad overcomes what was and used to be, it is the now. Cannot underestimate the becoming of the end, life is just a statistic now, the life is taken, broken down to be apart of the list that overflows now, the new fad takes the hand of the grim reaper to feed the river Styx with the choked fashion stars. The outcast are taken, are not to be, they are the same, identical now-stolen identities form our world now, sheep of the same roam over and all fall for the new fad.
grim blackhart

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Being A Couple

Remarried, divorced or widowed,
A woman equally loves the new one.
Premarital sex will have no bearing.
Identity will take care of the couple.
Rm.Shanmugam Chettiar.

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Poems On / About IDENTITY