deepundergroundpoetry.com
can you
see through gilded gaze
the c͈͙̮͈̕o̵r͉̯̠̩̳̘̱r̩̺̤̗̩̦̼u̞̹̻̟̣pt̡̥̟̝̜i͔̺̦̣͈o͇̯n͎̺̞̥͖͞ sewn deep within us all?
born of stardust and yet we d̰e̢̞s͚͇̼̟̺ͅt̼͇͍́ŗ͙̱̘̻̙o͚̥̖̞̥̪̬y̙̠̪̫̯̥ͅ,̴͕̪͎͇ ̲̺͈̱͚̫͕de̪̯͈̝̬̕s̢̖̠t͕̪͎͈̮̞ro͔y͚̠͚,̨̞̙̘̮̫ ̣̰̭͉̣ͅd̷͈̦͎e̵̟͎̫̟̗̫s̱t̖̝̜̞̱roy̫̱̤̩̼̲̺ the very mother... oh i'm so sorry, mother.
she who watched us cl̗̬ą̺͖̤̲̥̥w ҉͙̤̻̮̯̙̬o͝ṷ̙̰̣̝͙̹͝r͖̹̠̝̬͟ ̪͎̭̼͢ͅw̧̪a̛̱̝y̨̹̺̫̩̱̻ from the sea.
i f̲̼̠̩̼è̖a̛̩̣̺͉̦̯r͡.͏.̥̭͓̹̜̺͟.̮͓͚̹ ̧͚̱͍̺͍̘̹F͙͎̣ȨA͖R͖̳̣̤͢,̡̮̳͎ ͏̦͈̹̪̯̜c̢͔̱̣̲͙r̰̞͇̪̜e̴̹̮̯̟e̳̮͖p̹̳̳̪̝̱͈in̖̙͔̘̺̱̘g̮̲̟͈ͅ ̺̝̺̲ͅͅd̶̳̺̳̻͈re̞͓͔͍͎a̭̞͈͉̻͙ͅd͙ ̳̜̠͡w̷͚͍̲͇̥̘͎i̻̥̦̳̼͘t͈̞̰̫͎̦͝h͖͚̞̱͠i͙̼͚n҉̳̲̦̬̱̙ ҉͖͍̤m̱̳͇y ͔̮̼͠bo̗͕̹͚͉̣͢n̙̤̰̼̪ȩ͕s͓̖ what we will become.
for instead of moving forward, we fall ever back, into hell..
we live in our own personal hell.
if heaven exists, if g͈̪̼o҉̰͎̺ͅd̡,̢̳͚̳ ̨g͎͈̩̥̳͙̠o̞͇̻̦d͕̖͈̞̙̰͖,͔͇̺̪ ̰͙̞͚w͓̜e̤̪͉͇̺̺ ̶p̧̬̼͇̪̗r̸̤a̷̫͉̼͍y ̶̦̤t͟ó ͍̺ỵ̭̟o͚̖̹̝u̻̩̮̞̠,͈̙͕͖̱̜ͅ ̟̱̞͇̹̹b̤̮̗͘u͔͕͎͡t̮͈ ̳̯͈̮͖y̲̫͙̖̙̭̮o̵̙̘͈u͍̟̖'҉̫r̤̮͍e͕̳̥̮͙͔ ̶̘̰͍͈̙j̜͎̳͖̖ͅu̧͙̙̝̘̮s͓̜͖̯t̫ ̬̹̟͈̫a̸̙̘̗̝̰̥̯ ͢c̫o̬ns̵̹̜t͎̱͇̹ͅru͘c̮̱̺ṯ͖͞ ever existed, then why.
we cannot tend to our tiniest souls; instead, treated like a commodity for revenue. if money be the loudest voice, could we call ourselves humane? money trades hands.
d̺̻͍̳͇e̸̤̮͓̖̮a̙̙͚t̪̫̱h, ͙d̹̲̘͢e̡̮̮͙̩̗a̢̻̘͍ṱ̙̖͎̝h͇͇̳͖.͔̺̮̼̬̝.̀ ͔̝͟e̵͚̜v̯̩̼̻̼̳e̛͔͉ͅr̹̺̝̩̪̝̦ ̠l͓̰in̼̟̘̭̣͜g͍̬͘e̙̭̫̣͔̦r͕͖̠̼͉̻i͇̹n̩̗̠̬̲͖͉ǵ̺̟͉͇̖ d̪̫͖̟͖̜ͅe̦̯̪̜̱̥̜͢a͍̯̥̕ͅt̴̤̭h̜̼̖͔̳̗͇͡ ̞̭͍́f̻̞͈̠ͅͅo͏l̸̤̘̫̱̫l̳̫͖̤o̟̹͎͔͎ͅw͙̮̹s͉ ̗̝͡į̙͕͔n ͖ỳ̰o̞̠̻̦̭̻̞͝u̳̭̦̹̕ͅͅr̨͍͈̼̭̜ ̨w͠à͉̺̠̩̯͙̰k͇̺̬͓͉͘ͅe̠͖̕ and so many you'll never see will linger, anguished in the shadow of your greed.
the c͈͙̮͈̕o̵r͉̯̠̩̳̘̱r̩̺̤̗̩̦̼u̞̹̻̟̣pt̡̥̟̝̜i͔̺̦̣͈o͇̯n͎̺̞̥͖͞ sewn deep within us all?
born of stardust and yet we d̰e̢̞s͚͇̼̟̺ͅt̼͇͍́ŗ͙̱̘̻̙o͚̥̖̞̥̪̬y̙̠̪̫̯̥ͅ,̴͕̪͎͇ ̲̺͈̱͚̫͕de̪̯͈̝̬̕s̢̖̠t͕̪͎͈̮̞ro͔y͚̠͚,̨̞̙̘̮̫ ̣̰̭͉̣ͅd̷͈̦͎e̵̟͎̫̟̗̫s̱t̖̝̜̞̱roy̫̱̤̩̼̲̺ the very mother... oh i'm so sorry, mother.
she who watched us cl̗̬ą̺͖̤̲̥̥w ҉͙̤̻̮̯̙̬o͝ṷ̙̰̣̝͙̹͝r͖̹̠̝̬͟ ̪͎̭̼͢ͅw̧̪a̛̱̝y̨̹̺̫̩̱̻ from the sea.
i f̲̼̠̩̼è̖a̛̩̣̺͉̦̯r͡.͏.̥̭͓̹̜̺͟.̮͓͚̹ ̧͚̱͍̺͍̘̹F͙͎̣ȨA͖R͖̳̣̤͢,̡̮̳͎ ͏̦͈̹̪̯̜c̢͔̱̣̲͙r̰̞͇̪̜e̴̹̮̯̟e̳̮͖p̹̳̳̪̝̱͈in̖̙͔̘̺̱̘g̮̲̟͈ͅ ̺̝̺̲ͅͅd̶̳̺̳̻͈re̞͓͔͍͎a̭̞͈͉̻͙ͅd͙ ̳̜̠͡w̷͚͍̲͇̥̘͎i̻̥̦̳̼͘t͈̞̰̫͎̦͝h͖͚̞̱͠i͙̼͚n҉̳̲̦̬̱̙ ҉͖͍̤m̱̳͇y ͔̮̼͠bo̗͕̹͚͉̣͢n̙̤̰̼̪ȩ͕s͓̖ what we will become.
for instead of moving forward, we fall ever back, into hell..
we live in our own personal hell.
if heaven exists, if g͈̪̼o҉̰͎̺ͅd̡,̢̳͚̳ ̨g͎͈̩̥̳͙̠o̞͇̻̦d͕̖͈̞̙̰͖,͔͇̺̪ ̰͙̞͚w͓̜e̤̪͉͇̺̺ ̶p̧̬̼͇̪̗r̸̤a̷̫͉̼͍y ̶̦̤t͟ó ͍̺ỵ̭̟o͚̖̹̝u̻̩̮̞̠,͈̙͕͖̱̜ͅ ̟̱̞͇̹̹b̤̮̗͘u͔͕͎͡t̮͈ ̳̯͈̮͖y̲̫͙̖̙̭̮o̵̙̘͈u͍̟̖'҉̫r̤̮͍e͕̳̥̮͙͔ ̶̘̰͍͈̙j̜͎̳͖̖ͅu̧͙̙̝̘̮s͓̜͖̯t̫ ̬̹̟͈̫a̸̙̘̗̝̰̥̯ ͢c̫o̬ns̵̹̜t͎̱͇̹ͅru͘c̮̱̺ṯ͖͞ ever existed, then why.
we cannot tend to our tiniest souls; instead, treated like a commodity for revenue. if money be the loudest voice, could we call ourselves humane? money trades hands.
d̺̻͍̳͇e̸̤̮͓̖̮a̙̙͚t̪̫̱h, ͙d̹̲̘͢e̡̮̮͙̩̗a̢̻̘͍ṱ̙̖͎̝h͇͇̳͖.͔̺̮̼̬̝.̀ ͔̝͟e̵͚̜v̯̩̼̻̼̳e̛͔͉ͅr̹̺̝̩̪̝̦ ̠l͓̰in̼̟̘̭̣͜g͍̬͘e̙̭̫̣͔̦r͕͖̠̼͉̻i͇̹n̩̗̠̬̲͖͉ǵ̺̟͉͇̖ d̪̫͖̟͖̜ͅe̦̯̪̜̱̥̜͢a͍̯̥̕ͅt̴̤̭h̜̼̖͔̳̗͇͡ ̞̭͍́f̻̞͈̠ͅͅo͏l̸̤̘̫̱̫l̳̫͖̤o̟̹͎͔͎ͅw͙̮̹s͉ ̗̝͡į̙͕͔n ͖ỳ̰o̞̠̻̦̭̻̞͝u̳̭̦̹̕ͅͅr̨͍͈̼̭̜ ̨w͠à͉̺̠̩̯͙̰k͇̺̬͓͉͘ͅe̠͖̕ and so many you'll never see will linger, anguished in the shadow of your greed.
Published 23rd Apr 2018
Author's Note
i am an author that suffers heavily from depression and borderline personality disorder. the process in which my thoughts trickle through are like the poem you see before you, nothing really makes sense and yet.. it does.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Anonymous
- Edited 11th Feb 2021 11:45am
24th Apr 2018 00:55am
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