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I was raised on ridicule
Scorn and blaming.
Belittling laughter
Jokes and shaming.
Though nobody who knew
Seems to doubt it
They sure as hell wish I
Would shut up about it.

That’s just the way it is today.
Abused children, it seems
Upset people; therefore they
Are best not heard, just seen.

Four Eyes, Toothpick and Brat
These are a few of the names.
You might as well call them freaks
And creeps. It amounts to the same.
Screwup, ******, fumblefingers,
Bones, Spazz and Stumblebum.
Pantywaist, wussy, ditz and then
Plenty more where those came from.

From birth to death it seems
Sometimes, throughout all of life
Some people just don’t care
That scorn can cut like a knife.

It makes people question
Every move they might make
When somebody keeps on
Calling them things like flake.
The condemnation and rebuke
Aren’t covered up by the laughter.
People should question deeply
The effect they think they are after.

So cut the kids a break
It won’t turn out wrong
And the ridicule of a child
Can last their whole life long.
Justin Bieber is no big deal
I’m not even sure he is real.
He started out as pretty decent
Have you seen anything recent?
He looks like a kid who is trying
To join the gang but is only crying;
Sitting on the sidelines sniffling.
Dressed up in gang stuff and everything.

Poor baby Justin, as rich as a king
Isn’t quite satisfied owning everything
Has to cover up his body with tattoos
Like all the real-life gang members do.
Wears a hat too big for him all sideways
Plays in the sandbox where big kids play.
Wants to look all gangster and rough
But looking like a lesbian makes it tough.

Poor Baby Biebs with his millions of fans
Three pairs of underwear and baggy pants
Grinning like he’s bashful, we know he’s not.
Far too often he has proved himself a snot.
Some of us were worried when he was a kid.
We worried nobody was careful of what he did.
So Baby Justin Bieber is a bit of a wreck
Sort of like the words crawling up his neck.

Justin Bieber makes the young girls scream.
They don’t care he’s not the angel he seems.
If only he would misbehave with them, they think.
They’d let him act the fool, smoke and stink.
Because, after all, when you’re a teen-aged star
It doesn’t really matter just how fake you are.
The thing is be to be fashionable the youthful way
And let them get a glimpse of you every day.
why is it that every time I feel my strongest,
you somehow evolve slowly back into my membrane.
memories.
they overflow my cerebrum.
and then
my tears run red
and drip down my fingertips.
I hate how you do this to me.
weak, vulnerable, guilty.
I am numb when I think of your voice.
I quiver with fear of tomorrow,
how am I supposed to move forward
if my mind continues to dwell on the past?
In this world
Weeds are worshiped as beautiful
Roses are cast to compost as a vulgarity

In this world
Worms matter the most
consuming roses
one of their favorite past times
one of their favorite foods

The greater the ****’s ability
to choke the rose
the greater the ****’s glory

In this world
Roses are hated
especially their thorns.


©Christopher F. Brown 2015
You scare the **** out of me
I know
I've said this before

So many things
about you

just like new

So many things
about you

just like old

There is enough mystery
about you
to where I am reminded of lifetimes
before you
Them's, We's, Us'
before you

There is enough mystery
about you
to where I can not foresee how this could end

but I know that is the lie I want to
I always try to
force into being truth

I haven’t learned not to like that yet.

The cards keep giving me
moons, chariots, and wheels of faith

I just want to see the lover

It could be that
I know it’s not
you

It could be that
I want it to be
you

so I'll just leave it up to
you

©Christopher F. Brown 2015
my friend doesn't believe me when i say i was upset
she says, at least you had enough composure to
talk about it and defend yourself. i answer with
an awkward laugh, "i guess i'm kinda good at
pretending i'm not crying on the inside," i say.
neither of us realised, in that one moment,
how true my words had been, not even me.
she laughed and still didn't believe me and i
never stopped to think about what i had said.
now, in the dark of the night, it catches up with me -
i am a master of disguise, dressed up as an
eighteen-year-old with a permanent smile, i am
the queen of all actors, with an optimism
that people say is my best quality, when it is one
that i have never had. i guess i'm kinda good at
pretending i'm not crying on the inside, because
that seems to be all i do every day, and it seems like
it has become what i am now.
there is an art to faking happiness for so long that
people say it is what makes you you, when really,
sadness is what makes up your soul.
it is a mastered art when you start believing it yourself,
when you have to think back and realise that
you were miserable the whole time, because
even to yourself you look happy in the pictures.
i guess we are all good at something, after all -
though, for me, it is not the smile that you adore,
or the optimism that has picked you up at times,
or the enthusiasm for trying new things.
for me, it is the art of faking a new me,
the art of acting in everyday life, all day,
the art of fooling even myself with the notion
that i could ever be happy.
REVELATION: three, seven – the Kingdom of Heaven

The key to unlocking both glory and shame.

Philadelphia knows He’s arriving in newness

inscribing on foreheads His city and name.

(Though it could be on tee shirts or baseball caps, true –

unless someone takes time to decipher the text…

is it Greek? Aramaic? Amharic? What next?)

Don’t be mad – it’s not me but old John who’s to blame.

Of names and on numbers of Savior and Beast

I have lately been pondering, trembling, wondering

mushroom-cloud raptures in mind’s eye a-thundering.

How will we get to that marriage-day feast?

Will my garment be ready or filthy with fall-out?

(The song says His blood will make clean if we call out

in faith for forgiveness, in humble repentance

believing that grace will abolish the sentence.)

You may wish my rhyme to be likewise abolished.

Bear with me. Forgive me, I grant it’s not polished.

I speak what I feel and I write when I’m able;

which brings us to heavenly thoughts gastronomic:

what dishes we’ll meet as we dine at that table-

strict Jewish? Angelic? Or pre-Abrahamic?

Shall they serve us from silver or common ceramic?

Being clay to the potter, an unfinished vessel

I leave all these questions for others to wrestle.

Yet there’s still one more realm I explore in conjecture:

the sounds at that gathering.  Classical?   Rock?

Unending revivalist Christian refrains?

Shall we headbang in heaven with glorified brains?

Psychedelic/Psychotic…? or  Handel and Bach?

(Lighten up. It’s the end of my bible-school lecture.

You’ve seen a few rooms of my castle-in-air,

and we ALL know it’s reggae they’re playing up there…)
more notes:♪♫♫♪
 Nov 2015 Oliver Sireen
David
Hello?
 Nov 2015 Oliver Sireen
David
Hello?
Who am I?
Guess again.
Don't you recognise my voice?
No?
Why?
Well, you can hang up,
It's your choice.
But I just wanted to call
for old times sake.
You know:
Those times where we'd talk
at times we shouldn't have been awake.

Are you still there?
Can you hear me?
Oh, right.
You don't remember me.
Maybe I have the wrong number.
Well, I guess I'm sorry.

But before you let me go,
There's just one thing
I want you to know.
At the end of December,
when the mountains meet the snow.
I'll think of you, as always,
and I'll remember.
How it was me,
who once heard
your hellos.
 Nov 2015 Oliver Sireen
Ja
Today’s the day
That we remember
An unknown soldier
Friend or family member

Who died or served
In any war
But isn’t with us
Any more
BOEMS BY JA 222
The clock goes by,
I feel myself begin to die.
My mind races goodbye,
Until you came by my side.

I didn't realize at first,
But we have begun that part.
I thought I would be cursed,
Until I listened to your heart.

It beat in sync,
With all my feelings.
My cheeks turning pink,
Knowing it was my heart you were stealing.

Our love will last, sweetly,
Even in the worst drought.
Completely,
Without a doubt
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