My heart bleeds
for all the nameless,
faceless victims sojourning---
them, you, me, us & him.
But tell me dear saints,
did not any truth
in the mind of those twisted lies,
a demagogues of the lost tribes,
those faithless wanderers,
but by the grace,
walk so blindly,
in a survival mode!?
Did they not forget
the underground classes,
living in the doldrums,
lives from paycheck to paycheck,
with perpetual media streams
reeking of greed-propaganda,
barely staying afloat
drowning in banking,
the credit lies!?
O yes, mountains of lies
draining each of
us & him
West reality made so
that people forced to consume
whatever material or unmaterial goods
here any protest is legalised
in form of demo
which is necessary surround by police
northeless there are people exist who are illegal
beside of refugees from east lands
there also socalled insane people
who are locked in closed loony bin
or hunted like amok
untill they really get insane
if you take separately each after other
their fate and observe it precise
you will find there all the evil of
what is the consequence of capitalism
which is so masterfully comuflaged in west
but since the victims, the renegades live on rand of society
no one ever take their lifes and deaths under lenses
feminists dont fight for the rights of the debased woman
in their neigbourhood
but just speculate about arbitrageness in Iran
not ever able to change something in afar lands
they simply ignore evil which happens beside them
every day, every night
there is pseudo-publicity in capitalism
since those who rebel against
become mostly so oppressed
that they never ever get any chance to
speak out loud
While those anarchists and punks
who squats in city and towns
will never give political asylum
to the one who's life circumtances
penetrate to be betrayed by friends
living on the streets and parks
and hunted by psychiatry
during anarchists and punks are not
real activists of underground
but just kind of subculture
which live quite comfortably in capitalism
it just funky to be anarchist or punk
and nobody knows how they will act
in critical situation
I lost my believe on socalled leftists
in fact they are same equal part of society
like bankers or yuppies
with a difference that they
pretend they still had some ideals!
Accordingly my individual struggle their claim
is nothing as fallacy
known to many
believed by the few as
whom believe? Whom with resist in action?
Where hides real iconoclasts?
They victimize the victims and
they glorify the killers
yet don't realize what symptoms
has the youngsters pulling triggers
Little girls becoming strippers
just so they can make some figures
guess they missed the bigger picture
My knowledge helps reconsider
A country man at heart
with street smarts like city slickers
I'll leave you looking ignorant
you think that I'm a nigger
The last man to kill his own people
name was Hitler.
I'm more mysterious then that
compare to Jack the Ripper.
We writers are insane.
All of us.
We revel in our own sad mess
While picking green grapes
Off the wallpaper,
Smecking away like mad
At the wondrous juices
Of the imaginary, judicial
We, like Hemingway,
Take our scotch in the morning
And our gin at night
And try with brutal, lashing effort
To make it through
We have put ourselves in shoes
We will never be able to walk in.
We must walk miles as
AIDS sufferers, as
Brutalizers of women.
We must deal with their pain
As if it were housed in our own entity of being.
J.D. Salinger wrote that
His literary son, Holden,
Wore a “people-shooting” hat and
Made it damn clear that he suffered from wild
And erratic fits of overwhelming depression.
Writing from a bunker
Far from his wife, kids and home,
His stories sparked murder in the hearts
Of already oppressed men
With “people-shooting” hats of their own.
We must toil with language;
Put it in the corner,
Love it, hate it,
Shift it and slave daily with it.
We must lose hours upon hours upon
Days of sleep
Before we find ourselves
Dangerously asleep at the wheel in front of us
In order to make the slightest change in our regular ways.
Our handwriting only becomes sloppier
And our words,
Kaysen, alone in a psych ward
With women who slept around and
Tried to maul each other,
To try to release the the demon
Boiling the very blood inside her veins.
But demons do not disappear easily
Neither do the tortuous memories.
They attempt to label me
With words of the disturbed.
Floods my synapses and neurons.
Happily urinates on my serotonin levels.
I bring myself to write
The effigy of the psycho
Day by day
As my pen scratches paper
And the doctors expect razor to scratch skin
Though it never has
And never will.
Writers are psychos.
We all are.
We remain the mad, psychotic, literate monsters
Who worm our ways
Into your head.
We nestle beside your dreams and fantasies,
Waiting to strike
And tear them apart or,
If you’re lucky,
Build them up.
A woman writer named Sylvia
Once put her head in the oven
Because the writer-demons were driving her to madness
And they wouldn’t leave her be.
Handling us is a torture
Only the most eloquent and experienced reader
Innocence cant never last.
In the presence of hate it's a fucked up web we spin when the only victim stands myself.
Come on it isn't so bad the repulsive stain never can we erase.
We are flawed and I just a scar left to bleed do we not understand now after I tell all?
Goodbye sweetheart hello institution at thirteen .
The reality would not be pleasant may I interest you in some lies to soften the truth?
What did I do?
A mother questions and fails to see.
We blind are selves to the answers keep it locked away.
Busted knuckles and a failed suicide attempt.
Were we not the victims of age cast in cells of misunderstanding my dear child
please never do as me.
The booze masked it well but your image only further inspired my hate.
Give it all till they see the truths.
Paper cuts are pleasant to the shit I've endured.
It haunts me a relict of a distant nightmare will I ever cease to wake.
I wish only I could say what haunts me .
But you only sent me away.
The past is a real cancer.
So erase it before it destroys you as me.
I'm a realist, mildly an idealist.
My ideas create a mindset that allows me to express feelings
But I build up a wall, high as a skyscraper..I stand, as a realist I know if I jump, I'm bound to meet my maker. I don't think idealist are weak.
I just think they escape the honesty they seek.
You don't walk a straight line in order for you to finally reach your peak.
Obstacles come and go, water is a need if you want to grow, you can't have a lightbulb without an idea and expect it to magically glow.
I know every action I do and especially when I am wrong but, I just won't rewrite all my wrongs, they inspire all of my greatest songs.
Optimistic that I'll make it, I just need more effort than 50 percent
because you get what you put in, as a realist I know if you put in half, half back is all you will ever get.
People remember your mistakes, the heroics they just simply forget.
I can't stand when people think it's okay to live a life without any regrets.
Sure things happen for a reason and karma "may" have your enemies morally bleeding, but your ideology sounds misguiding and thought process misleading. Karma is an excuse to allow a higher calling contribute to your spiteful abuse, you don't want the crime on your soul so you allow the angels to fatally shoot. It's fine, before we die, we all commit a crime.
Women kill, men steal, just being in love should require you to do time.
Born a realist sinner...far from an idealist winner
Success doesn't come over night
The sweet life doesn't come until after you've made your dinner..and cleaned the plate, but we're never satisfied...nah, we going to probably eat again late.
Work hard for the dream, don't just rely on faith.
A realist knows she may not show up, even when you scheduled a date.
It's all love to the victims, stuck in a fiction. If you hate this piece...your ignorance got you unable to listen.
Not my problem though. I'm speaking without any permission! I like that idea...oh Damn, wait...I think I just become my own contradiction?
...forget it, I'm healing, my words and unpredictable wisdom, I am still dealing.
Insanity is a fear that is expressed towards you when others have confusion
A realist, an idealist..no one is right...our concepts to each other seem all an illusion.
She saw the kids on the slide,
each with their own
burden to bear:
counting the last days
on their thin fingers,
a kid with an eye gone,
And she, Anne,
12 year old,
fine of remaining limb,
scanning the rest,
in the wheel chair,
Skinny Kid behind,
hands on the handles,
on her neck.
She was bored,
sun too bright,
kids too noisy,
to see eye to eye,
get a peek at that,
indicating the thighs
and stocking tops
The Kid, thin arms
and legs, short hair,
11 year old, stared,
took in stocking legs,
Don't get to see
that every day,
you're their old man
or fond lover,
grinning ear to ear.
want me to push you
to the beach?
from these wounded ones,
these dying doomed,
let me smell
the salt and sea,
let me hear
the sea's song.
So the Kid, pushed
the chair, arms
her one remaining leg
to the chairs' move,
the stump, showing
where her skirt ended,
shook and rocked.
Out the back gate,
onto the path
by the beach,
out of the nurse's sight,
or sound of voice's reach.
of the Kid's
his heaving her
from chair to bed,
the night before,
his thin arms
in case she fell,
the warm bed
holding her down,
he standing there,
gazing at her
with that innocent
as he pushed along,
her stump was
the night before,
how the thigh
of her other leg
was white as snow
as he stared.
Black bears on the sidewalk huffing
Wild cats in the cold prowling
A monster chained to the lies of the town
The tragedy of his father
Decaying on the winter’s avenue
He ran out of the city
He headed north across state lines
Leaving destruction and annihilation behind
Never taking one single look back
One afternoon he rose in a busted motel
With an unfamiliar beast snoring next to him
Blood dripped from its yellow hide
Are we all here?
The values and morals we all held dear now gone
The coyote was jet black
Frizzed and starving
And I was too frightened to even look
The blankets were steaming locks
And my love was next to me
So beautiful my love
Her eclipsing black eyes
Her soft sweet tasting lips
Hurry out the door run
She’s on her way
I cannot survive this, every time she moves in closer
I allow my wall to come down
Feel the cold fear on the back of my neck
The howl of the coyote in the distance
What’s your pleasure, what’s your pain?
Are you clever, are you sane
You don’t know, now it seems
That my soul cannot be tamed
The taste of fame, this is new
Now you thrive, now you lose
Now you fear the rule of two
Just play your role and make it through
Way back in the universal mind
The answers to ancient riddles you shall find
The sun burns endlessly on the city
Above and beyond its limits
And the mazes of the riverbed
Underneath the silent other worldly shadows of
Weary mountain men, on the cliff just over there
Wild dogs congregating
Hieroglyphics, fallout shelters, new advancements in self awareness
Every home repeats a cycle
Animal’s cage lock until show time
Now rest, rest
Carpet stains, cracks in the windows
Sweep the dust under the carpets
Many affairs stick on these sheets
Virginities lost in the comforter
The dead still linger here
Don’t pause or make one false move
My suitcase and briefcase are on the floor
We’re heading for the door
And we’re leaving now
And I guess you’re coming with me
She can’t lift the curse
I am not the one
There are a certain few who can
Dragged against my will
Crowd is screaming kill
Savages and thieves
Bringing victims to their knees
The innocent come but never leave
Come with me
Come with me
Just trust me
We hid from the swarm of nonsense and swill
The rich hide in their mansions in fear
The dead are rotting and no one cares
And we’re just lucky to be left alive
Come with me
Come with me
Just trust me
Life is cut short cause he went too far
We should have seen it from the start
He got in front of the wheel of a car
I suppose I missed that part
Some people live without faith
Then the pastors daughter went and got raped
By some one that came from the unknown
Then and there the answer was shown
I will make you mine
It was the blacked coyote
This chaos is not fantasy
We hurried home
Past the lakes and the roads
We returned home from
Our tales so tall
We came home from
Laconia and Meredith
We came home from
El Passo disillusioned
And I won’t give you
The keys to the empire
I will give you
A story to listen to
Fighting winds into submission
For ten years I tried
To live on the island of Elba
The mind games I played there
Now I have returned
To the place of freedom, bravery and wisdom
Mother, father of the west
Which of you shall join the celebration?
Now morning comes with her brilliant glow
Today we shall go back to the time I was orphaned
I’m finally prepared to come to terms with my origins
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly found significant.
A vast stretch of abandonment and history - long forgotten and left to be consumed by Time himself.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly understood.
Decorated by Mother Nature with an asortment of trees and shrubs and an abundance of flowers it's only scar which betrayed it to the present was a solitary man-made structure, tattoed with the bold letters of "FALCON SECURITY" - surely an untold testimony to this place's past life.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly acknowledged.
Ocassionally it would become the temporary haven of hobbos and hermits alike. Living in mutual homelessness they sort comfort under the trees, in the confines of the hideous building or simply amongst the long, billowing grass of the place. They would build thingie-ma-jigs, what-ja-ma-call-its and thing-a-ma-bobs and sell them to the curt passerbys of their place.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly appreciated.
Surrounded by infastructure, and industry it stood out like a rose amongst the thorns and brought beauty and clarity back into the otherwise monotonous, morbid environment. It stood defiant and strong against the hungry, salivating greed of humanity - yet someday it was bound to succumb to our over-powering ambition for development.
Once I knew a place, a place that no longer exists.
In the blink of an eye that place was destroyed - uprooted and upheaveled.
Every tree, every shrub, every flower ripped out and now gone. No longer a haven but a grave yard where the dead lay scattered like fallen soldiers across the battlefield. Victims against the War of Industrialisation they fell prey to mans' heinous desires.
"Collateral damage" for a "brighter" future they say.
I say, who needs another vehicle retail outlet.
Once I knew a place, and I will never know that place again.
Ask me anything.
My soul is yours to inspect with your fingertip-tapping
On flat-screen cell-phone, iPhone, you phone and I'll say, ask me anything.
Ask me if I cry myself to sleep at night and I'll say maybe.
Ask me if I like that boy and I'll fake smile at you through computer screens
Hiding whatever true feelings I have left to cling to.
Ask me if I think I'm beautiful.
I will respond with the detailed analysis of everything you have ever convinced me is wrong with my body and my appearance. I will tell you that I need some thinspiration, that I've really got to hit the gym more than three times this week and I really shouldn't take sugar with my coffee.
Ask me if I'm friends with Sarah, or Michael, or Brittany,
I'll cringe as I type out forced words of admiration, knowing, they're together laughing curses at their phones reading whatever I have to say about this question.
Ask me if I fucked the quarterback of the football team at a party, saying you heard it from someone who heard it from everyone else and I'll respond a quiet “no,” fingers and arms shaking, knowing full well I've never been more involved with a boy than ballroom dancing in the eighth grade and that now I'm too afraid of letting anyone in, let alone into my body, after the hands of a family friend went a little too far and got a little too friendly.
Ask me if I have any friends. At this point, I'm not sure how to answer you. I thought I had a friend in you and all the rest but a rogue rumour wrecked it all and none of you are rushing to my side to help me back up from the fall. I thought at least I'd have a friend in myself, but it seems that I've lost faith and have found no reason to love who I have been molded to be.
Ask me to do the world a favour. Ask me to get lost. Ask me to cut my veins open and watch them bleed. Ask me if I like the taste of bleach. Ask me if I have a rope and chair handy. Ask me to die.
I’m sorry -
I won't be here to answer you.
Even if you do not experience these hateful words, you are contributing to an idea that having this account is normal and "cool" and this idea pressures young girls and boys into making these accounts where many are subjected to the cruelty of intrusive questions and accusations. No human should treat another human like this, even with questions on the internet or a comment typed out behind a computer screen. Think of Megan Meir, whose "friend" manipulated her mind during one of the most intense periods of hormone-hurricanes in her life. Think of Amanda Todd, whose name endured cruelty even after her soul passed on. Think of Rehteah Parsons, whose death proves that words can break hearts resulting in more damage than broken bones ever could.
Think of your own someday daughters and sons. Think of your siblings.
Think of yourself, and when you truly take a few minutes, or an hour, or a week to think on this problem I promise you, you will realize that you do not need to contribute to it.
Please end the cruelty now.
PS: My sister is no longer in school because of this. She is thirteen. On a daily basis she receives death threats, vulgar insults, questions about her (non-existent) sexual activity, and intrusive questions about her social relationships.
She responds to these, because as far as her thirteen year old mind has been convinced by her peers (and I can't blame her, the root of the problem goes much deeper than her ability to make decisions), she has to respond in order to have a high number of questions asked and to gain followers she must be interesting and to have friends she must have a high number of followers).
As a senior student and someone who has never really felt the need to conform to fit any social rules or barriers, I don't think this is okay either. None of it is. It's a vicious circle and someone needs to stand in the way so it doesn't go 'round again and take another life.