8 hours ago

Your family home
has been sold
to the cultured,
the old vultures
feeding on the garden
thick with rabbits
and your father's dead
daughters, you sleep
in a pickup, tired
of work near the water,
fond of the instant,
you travel through
the country you know,
farm long forgotten,
the word free written
in red hard on your arm.

John Edward Smallshaw

River boats float along,
up and down
from side to side,
Putney to

all this
stems from the Thames
the arterial tree

for the sailor in me the Thames will do
on a flat bottomed barge
muddling through to
St Katherine's and Tobacco dock, to
Tower bridge and make a stop

Ferries and Wherries and
days on the Thames

making friends
with the mudlarks, the spivs
the preachers, the sharks
all parts of the stem
a branch of the tree

life is for me from
the Thames to the sea.

Leigh Marie
Leigh Marie
2 days ago

Forgetting you means survival when
I care means nothing cause
Your actions mean I'm not good enough or
Maybe they mean she's easier but
not talking doesn't help
you define best friend or
future or
3 am phone calls
So why don't you just talk
and mean what you say

#sad   #hurt   #relationship   #angry   #mad   #hookup  
Lady RF
Lady RF
22 hours ago

It was the way
she bounced back
whenever she fell.

It was the way
she loved unconditionally,
she made it look so easy,
she did it so well.

It was the way
she could see
the essence & beauty
of each soul,
in everything that was alive,

whether it be
human, animal, or plant,
she longed for
harmony and respect
between them,
'cause she needed nature
to thrive,
as well as survive.

It was the way
she reflected
sincerity & genuineness
in her eyes,

her eyes
spoke without words,
they said:
"Innocent, compassionate,
and very kind, but very wise."

Her hugs
also spoke a language
of their own,
they always said:
"I appreciate you,
and I care about you,
I really hope you know
just how much!"

what it really was
about her,
was the way
she could touch you
with her words;
your heart,
she would capture,
embracing it
ever so tightly in her clutch!

By R.F ©2016

Cait Harbs
Cait Harbs
4 hours ago

Meeting in an alley behind a motel,
like criminals exchanging goods,
You handed me a bloodied package
You'd cut out with your own hands -

A heart.

A simple heart still beating in the night
With wings that never learned to sing,
You gave me the only pearl life
Had ever given you, despite all you'd done
To prove you deserved them all.

A heart

That I now held and I did not know
What concerned me more at the moment:
How to get the blood out of my clothes
Or how I was going to carry such a fragile thing.

I'd never given my heart to anyone;
I'd sold pieces of it on the black market
Of hookups and one night stands,
Half of it crushed before my name had dried on it,
But the rest of it I had was long buried
In a place the cops will never find it.

A heart

You gave to me, and you looked at me
Like I wasn't actually the failure I had become,
Like I could be trusted with something
So meaningful to you,
So precious,
Like I could be the keeper of your flame,
And in that alley, for a moment,

I really wished that I could be.

But I've broken every china doll
I'd dusted in my own soul's display case;
If I'd broken dreams and hopes and confidences,
How could I ever hold a thing as precious as

Your heart.

I didn't even know what to do with mine.

Ben Fernekees
Ben Fernekees
15 hours ago

Woke up,
Tripped down,
Scrapped my knee on the way to the ground,

No trace of blood,
No trace of blood,

Another victim of the dark,
Scared to walk into the light,
Scared to put down the knife,
Scared to know he was never right,

No trace of blood,
No trace of blood,

The night before? Hiding.
The day before? Running.
The week before? Crying.
The month before? Shaking.

No trace of blood,
No trace of blood,

Too many words in one head,
Too many thoughts driving to madness
Filling up and emptying away,
Unable to escape as the fire consumes,

No trace of blood,
No trace of blood,

One last day before the darkness,
Nothing more noticeable then the silence of voices,
All awaiting what's next,
All watching, as I lay in the pool that gathers.

No trace of blood,
No trace...

Matthew Conrad
Matthew Conrad
4 hours ago

dear western society,

no one cares for the peasant who provides
the pheasant for the royal table -
but when the pheasant isn't there -
the royal orchestra cries out:
where's the pheasant! where's the pheasant!
as if both pheasant and peasant were alike...
indeed, the peasant isn't there to
provide the pheasant for the feast-
and with such vitriol you proudly say:
once these roaming stars that go against
all reason in cosmology disappear, you'll
know that i was here - you'll know -
perhaps the pyramids were only overshadowed
by the Eiffel tower, but many more pyramids
were mentally tattooed into the minds of men -
and rose far greater and were more
harder to overcome that man took to
climbing Everest - stone by stone his legs
encountered a new form of laying brick-on-brick -
for if western society deems me mad
to purge the old hopes of colonial rule - then
i have already chastised my body to have no heart,
and let it be carried on course toward Iran
or Afghanistan - and there entombed -
i hope Western society loves its humour as much
as it loves it's panic and paranoia and picnics
of waiting for the far right to wake up -
and this liberal-leftist mush of kind words to
be shoved into Disneyland of other fantasia.

yours sincerely,


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