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 Aug 2014
Musfiq us shaleheen
It’s a cross road
I can rather avoid both ways
may be,
my love can choice one of those

This is a station
the last train will come soon
may be,
my love can ride into it

This is that beautiful park
where we met together
may be,
my love can come here anytime

This is an open horizon
where everybody can wander
may be,
my love can stir around it

This is a nice dream
where we can paint a picture
rather I can stop viewing it
cause my love can shift into my soul

This is an evergreen love song
that can love thee
rather I can put some cotton into my ear
cause my love can move into my blood

This is an empty heart
where we can write love
may be,
my love can write an ode within it

Can you say me Sir?
How can I run away from love?

@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Love bend us very, but sometimes it has pained us when we are going to loveless or loss our love any how. So i try myself to avoid love.
 Aug 2014
Jonny Angel
What if I got drunk,
****** out of my gourd,
decided to get stewed
on the cheapest whiskey,
throw myself
into oblivion
shooting smack,
poke my biggest vein,
inhale a pile of pink-flake,
the kind that
melts in your mouth
& you can't feel your tongue.
I might attack
my ****** soul
with ripe *****,
pop some dexies,
lick purple stars,
then go
whacked outside,
into the salt breezes
driving my beat up Rambler-car.
I could pipe my distaste
for this messy
robot-establishment,
tell them how it is,
these control freaks
trying to run our mean streets.
I could spew it to them in rhyme,
write free flow verses
about starry night skies
& our misplaced loves,
the agony of
our cracked
bleeding hearts.
Indeed fellow trippers,
I could show them
the danger in my eye,
cry for the sympathetic wolf,
flip a few Molotov cocktails.
But whatever I do,
you must believe me,
you wonderful people
& you sober-minded drones,
I have seen the light
from the bottom
of the abyss
& it ain't pretty,
it't ain't pretty,
doped up,
living a ******-up
life on the edge.
Ramble on, ramble on poets!
 Aug 2014
jeffrey robin
(       ^  *  ^      )
     <                       O                         >
      •    •
          <>    
                      (  )
                                      (   )
                                                            (   )
••

                          WE LOVE                          
          
                                we are wisdom                          
                    
                                      WE LOVE.                                

••

We know.

WE HEAL

We know

••

**** THE PIGS

they don't exist

HOW ARE YOU ?

••

I read the newspaper once
I watched television once

I'LL NEVER DO THAT **** AGAIN !!

••

WE LOVE

we heal

WE LOVE

••

WISDOM ?

come on

YA MUST BE KIDDING ME !!

!••!

WE LOVE

WE LOVE

WE LOVE
Under misted august sky
where the fishnet boats dot the Matla River
I stand drunken on the wild mangrove.

This abandoned out of world noon
when the river breeze whispers
you are deathless
my blood paints in my eyes her face.

Only the estuarine heron
wings smelling of sun and fish
is my timeless witness!
Matla - the estuarine river in the mangroves of Sunderbans.
 Aug 2014
Left Foot Poet
Tragedy morphs into insanity for the living,
the living grow jealous of the
dead and dying,
envying their release,
softly, the confusion grows,
until crescendo
dreams screams merge
and confusion
is king
and
no answers
are the inky stained insoluble
residue
 Aug 2014
Bob Sterry
In the dark
Driving
Glance up to see
In the mirror
A following bulk
With a single head light
Its cyclopean beam
Is tracking me
Driving alone
On this dark route
And I shiver
In my seat
Sensing a monocular malevolence
Behind
Almost animal
A robo-creature
Stalking me in my tin box
For miles the lone yellow shaft
And its anonymous source
Sweep an unnamed fear into me
And when the road widens
And it passes me
I am genuinely surprised to see
That its driver has a head.
People..! Get your headlights fixed!
 Aug 2014
betterdays
when you find yourself
standing,
on the corner
of somewhere and desloate

holding a sheaf of sunbeams
whilst humming hopeful
show tunes
with a small nonedescript
black dog(you call bozo)
on a leash, lying belly up,
submisssive, at your side

that is when you have found
where recovery resides.

and when you know
way down in the abyss
inside
that you are looking at
a new way of being,
not necessarily
rose-tinted seeing.

and in that knowledge
you find the honesty
to decry...
that while, you be,
both living and visiting,
on the sunnyside.

that tho, somedays are fine,
some saltmine hard
and some too hard
to define....

despite all that
too-ing and fro-ing
all those tendril thoughts
and clouded over dark days
all the whispering
and bargaining fey things
your internal filmaker brings
to bear,
on the walls of your sanity
you will come through
with sunbeams glowing...

that is when you know...
....recovery
is the key to the lock
on a house...
                 in a suburb....
that does not have streets
named....

somewhere and desolate....
for dreadpoet roberts challenge
 Aug 2014
betterdays
let us speak in tones.....
                                hushed......
of mountains and molehills. 
benchmarked by tape measures,
underscored, with
concerned....
                     apprehension.

for now it is time,
to masticate the elephant
and the roaring lion too.
with silver plated forks
and knifes undulled....
                                 with use.

slap down your....
                            grievance
on the noritake dinnerware
and partition....
                       the proportion,

dissect the angst,
and delicately place,
the rage,
between your bloodless lips. 
to sit ashlike on your.....        
                       scathing tongue.

we will drink....
                             once more,
one last time, one sip of,
your aged bitterbile wine,
in leaden crystal goblets.
smile at your witticisms,
however, humdrum...
                            and malign.

and then,when the elephant,
is but ivory and leather. 

and the king of beasts,
now, but a tattered rug....
                     upon your floor.

we shall cry....
                          jubilee, jubilee, cry freedom. 
our indenture is finally done.
emancipation now has come.

and we will run.......
                           we will run.

it is then,we will be.....
                          looking at life, 
with kaleidescope eyes.
fitted with lenses of love, joy,  
and liberty, crystalized.....      
                                        within.

we will be,dancing......
                            the fandango,
with robust, rebellious gusto
and singing glory....
                         hallelujah riffs.

and o' there will be......
laughter and big broad      
                                       smiles.

and o' there will be ....
                                   hugging

and much comfort shared.

and the door will be ...
                                         open...

for anyone......

to come sit and chatter...
                          on for a while.

heaven on earth.......
                    heaven on earth...
for joe coles freedom
a reworking of an older piece.....
 Aug 2014
Third Mate Third
A lot of people think they can write or paint or draw or sing or make movies or what-have-you, but having an artistic temperament doth not make one an artist.


Even the great writers of our time have tried and failed and failed some more. Vladimir Nabokov received a harsh rejection letter from Knopf upon submitting ******, which would later go on to sell fifty million copies. Sylvia Plath’s first rejection letter for The Bell Jar read, “There certainly isn’t enough genuine talent for us to take notice.” Gertrude Stein received a cruel rejection letter that mocked her style. Marcel Proust’s Swann’s Way earned him a sprawling rejection letter regarding the reasons he should simply give up writing all together. Tim Burton’s first illustrated book, The Giant Zlig, got the thumbs down from Walt Disney Productions, and even Jack Kerouac’s perennial On the Road received a particularly blunt rejection letter that simply read, “I don’t dig this one at all.”

So even if you’re an utterly fantastic writer who will be remembered for decades forthcoming, you’ll still most likely receive a large dollop of criticism, rejection, and perhaps even mockery before you get there. Having been through it all these great writers offer some writing tips without pulling punches. After all, if a publishing house is going to tear into your manuscript you might as well be prepared.

1. The first draft of everything is ****. -Ernest Hemingway
2. Never use jargon words like reconceptualize, demassification, attitudinally, judgmentally. They are hallmarks of a pretentious ***. -David Ogilvy
3. If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy. – Dorothy Parker
4. Notice how many of the Olympic athletes effusively thanked their mothers for their success? “She drove me to my practice at four in the morning,” etc. Writing is not figure skating or skiing. Your mother will not make you a writer. My advice to any young person who wants to write is: leave home. -Paul Theroux
5. I would advise anyone who aspires to a writing career that before developing his talent he would be wise to develop a thick hide. — Harper Lee
6. You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club. ― Jack London
7. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout with some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. — George Orwell
8. There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are. ― W. Somerset Maugham
9. If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time — or the tools — to write. Simple as that. – Stephen King
10. Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong. – Neil Gaiman
11. Imagine that you are dying. If you had a terminal disease would you finish this book? Why not? The thing that annoys this 10-weeks-to-live self is the thing that is wrong with the book. So change it. Stop arguing with yourself. Change it. See? Easy. And no one had to die. – Anne Enright
12. If writing seems hard, it’s because it is hard. It’s one of the hardest things people do. – William Zinsser
13. Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you’ve been to college. – Kurt Vonnegut
14. Prose is architecture, not interior decoration. – Ernest Hemingway
15. Write drunk, edit sober. – Ernest Hemingway
16. Get through a draft as quickly as possible. Hard to know the shape of the thing until you have a draft. Literally, when I wrote the last page of my first draft of Lincoln’s Melancholy I thought, Oh, ****, now I get the shape of this. But I had wasted years, literally years, writing and re-writing the first third to first half. The old writer’s rule applies: Have the courage to write badly. – Joshua Wolf Shenk
17. Substitute ‘****’ every time you’re inclined to write ‘very;’ your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be. – Mark Twain
18. Start telling the stories that only you can tell, because there’ll always be better writers than you and there’ll always be smarter writers than you. There will always be people who are much better at doing this or doing that — but you are the only you. ― Neil Gaiman
19. Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative. – Oscar Wilde
20. You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you. ― Ray Bradbury
21. Don’t take anyone’s writing advice too seriously. – Lev Grossman
image – christine zenino
Taken from the Internet
 Aug 2014
Jeremy Duff
I need feminism
because men are more upset about people saying "all men"
than they are about the fact that 1 in 4 women will be ***** in their lifetime.

Not harassed, not catcalled,
*****
And that is not okay.

I need feminism because out of the four women
I speak to everyday
two of them have been *****
and all four of them can't walk to their car
without sticking their keys through their fingers to
feel the slightest inclination of safety.

I need feminism
because the other day in my math class
a student said "She was asking for it"
and the teacher agreed.  

I need feminism
because when my father wasn't drinking
he was telling me to be a man.

I need feminism
because the way my father taught me to treat women
was to get them drunk.
It's not his fault,
he knew no better.

I need feminism
because my father knew no better.
 Aug 2014
smallhands
The divine inevitable remnants of the past,
how we'd know them anywhere
we carry them every place we go, not a day
goes by without them
don't try to forget
it's not a curse
just a glimpse of miserable nothings
don't run away from them,
even if they at times hold you captive
for they turn your covering to steel
not lacking in feeling, but stronger than
the wool that once embedded your being
it is how we become

-cj
 Aug 2014
NuurSeraph
We come unglued in this life, we come undone. That which is not lost to youth must surely wander on...

Frozen movement, wearing scapegoat fur, cracked creation of warred disorder cast settled souls upon yonder plains ~ twisted paths in chattered maze of spiral green
~ my mist, your haze ~
I'll walk your mile of pained duress
~ from violent fog, my sweet caress ~
come beside me, not behind, we walk along forever tied by spirit words~
(the Churchman's kind)
~What once was lost, in you I Find.

If truly there be no hope in life
~ no will, no chance admidst this strife ~
then never would we have cut the cord,
come into life to journey forth
~ this is our birthing that feels like death ~
the Lookinglass sees this Best.

Can't you see that's how we're dressed
That's why We come **Wireless
 Aug 2014
Paul Hardwick
My brain is like water
very liquid
I wonder if sometimes
it leaks out my ears
do I sneeze it out my nose
onto my toes
give it a foot and it will take a mile
there goes my fluid brain again
dripping off my foot into a drain.
True Story Surreal Poem No. 43,     P@ul
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