Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Chabadtzke Aug 17
I am well aware that my prayers make you cringe, and justifiably so, for they are indeed cringe-worthy. I do not wish to deny the impunity, nor the silliness, of my brazen requests and demands. Nor do I expect you to understand the plight of a lowly and twisted creature who is disdained and ostracized not only by lofty beings such as yourselves, but by his own kind. You wonder, as do I, why a self-obsessed reject of society was admitted to the Throne Room in the first place.

But it so happened last night, as you surely recall, that a bed was carried into the chamber. Sprawled upon it, you were shocked to see, was a youth neither ill nor deceased. It was I, and as I was brought before the Throne, I sensed the mortification on your faces, the embarrassment in your eyes, and the discomfort with which you averted your gaze. I heard you whispering among yourselves, "Is this boy so shameless that he cannot even be bothered to sit up while he speaks before the King of Kings?"

Then I was placed before the Throne, and I began to speak to G-d on High. I did not begin with praise, I did not end with thanks, I did not measure my words. I uttered things, blasphemous things, for which there is no justification. You gasped and covered your eyes and ears. Thus, you did not see the kindness and the love with which G-d received my words, and luckily so, for the confusion would doubtlessly be too much for you to bear.

And so, Heavenly Angels, while I cannot defend nor explain what happened last night, I do sincerely apologize for making you cringe.
Chabadtzke May 17
The streets are deserted; the cars are done beeping
It is silent, apart from the willow tree's weeping
And even old Mr. McRoger is sleeping.

            (Mr. McRoger, I'm sure you have guessed,
            Is a make-believe man who does not like to rest.

            Although, when he finally does get to bed,
            His sleep is so deep you'd have thought he was dead!

            ...You'd have thought so,
                     if not for the sound of his snoring
            which some of his neighbors have trouble ignoring.
            But back to our story, before it gets boring)

Not one suicidal remains on the bridge!
Not one midnight snacker is left in the fridge!
All are asleep on this side of the lake.
And if all are asleep ...

                            ... why are YOU still awake?

It is dark, which surely you know means it's night
And the thing to be done is to put out the light
And if the thing to be done's not the thing that you do
Then SOMETHING inside must be bothering you!

You're much too mature
and clever, I'm sure
        To be frightened of monsters
and things that might **** you

You're not old enough
to be stressed about stuff
        Such as taxes, and how much
the grocery might bill you

SO ...

If it's dark and it's night and your age isn't three
And you don't pay for food cause you get it for free
Then there's only one thing it can possibly be

You, my friend, must be the sort of young lad
Who can't fall asleep cause he's simply too sad.

I know how you're feeling; I've seen it before
You feel like you just can't go on anymore

You've sunken so deep and you've fallen so low
That you think,
            "Just how low can I possibly go?
            Of all the lows, this one's the lowliest spot.
            Can I go any lower? Why, no, I cannot."

Well, I'm here to tell you, you can and you will!
In just a few days you will sink lower still!
And lower and lower and lower UNTIL...
THIS low will seem like the top of a hill!


Things COULD get better.
They COULD, but they WON'T.
They could and they should and they would,
                               but they DON'T.

SO ...

Since you must be exhausted
from digging that deep,
You may as well
just go to sleep.
Chabadtzke Mar 29
This is a poem.

I wrote it because I'm sad

and if somebody likes it,
maybe they'll say so

which might make me less sad for a little bit.
Chabadtzke Dec 2019
It’s hard to define just what makes it so fun;
The comic relief, or perhaps it’s the thrill
But if you’d ask us which game was our favorite one,
It’s Pushing the Wheelchair Down Roseberry Hill.

No-one in town recalls how it all started,
But it soon became part of our daily routine:
To the hilltop the handicapped kid would be carted,
And we’d laugh as he fell, till he couldn’t be seen.

Oh, the terrified look that he gets in his eyes!
And that whimper, I tell you, it never gets old.
Nor does the echoing sound of his cries
As he tumbles and bounces; it’s comedy gold!

We don’t know his name; see, the poor kid is mute.
Luckily, though, he still knows how to scream
He screams all the way down, which we find rather cute,
Then we do it again, till we run out of steam

Now, now — there’s no need to feel bad for the kid;
The screaming and crying are all just for show!
It can’t actually bother him much; if it did,
He’d man up and stop being handicapped, no?
Blaming someone for a handicap, whether physical or mental, is quite literally adding insult to injury.
Chabadtzke Aug 2019
Behold! The sight
               of shifting eyes
      bouncing ‘round its fellow pair
As darkness falls
               and contact dies
      mirroring the moon’s harsh glare

Hearken, ye!
               That subtle sound…
      the dying gasps of slaughtered words
               as they are drowned
      by dropping pins and cricket-birds

Alas! The stench
               of stale vibes
      the sweaty feel a handshake leaves
The aftertaste
               your mouth imbibes
      of musty webs that Silence weaves
Chabadtzke Jun 2019
There once was a boy
And that boy was named Me
The boy had a heart
and a head, and a knee

He had other limbs, too
But what puzzled him most
Was the sensitive heart
to which he was host

What lay inside it?
And why was it there?
What made it cry
when its soft skin would tear?

The boy was intrigued
And so one rainy night
He got out of bed
and he turned on the light

He went to the kitchen
and got a small blade
He paused for a moment
a little afraid

He took off his shirt
So it wouldn't get stained
when he'd open his heart
to see what it contained

He steadied his hand
and dug into his gut
He ripped out his heart
and started to cut

Ignoring the pain
he continued to slice
Secrets, he knew,
always come at a price

As his heart shrunk in size
Like a punctured balloon
The boy understood
that he'd die very soon

He reached the last layer
and peeled the last peel
And the last thing he saw
Was a small ball of steel
Yeah, it's a little morbid. Deal with it.
Chabadtzke May 2019
Objection, your Honor!
On behalf of the accused,
I demand that this excessively
    harsh sentence be reduced!

Beside that, Your Honor
Can judgement be dispensed
Behind the subject’s back
    and without hearing his defense?

Moreover, Your Honor
Is this what you call fair?
To destroy, with zero evidence
    a man and his career?

But answer me, Your Honor
—Though I highly doubt you can—
Who gave you the authority
    to judge your fellow man?
Next page