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 Sep 2014
Poetic T
The Frog was doing his thing
Hopping,
Croaking,
Splashing,
In to any water that he could see,
He happened upon
This Jigsaw of black and white
Morning sir, he croaked
The Cow looked down,
"MOOOOO"
Pardon I didn't quite get that,
"MOOOOVE"
Your on the tastiest grass
Below your webbed feet,
"Sorry sir,"
Didn't wish to stomp on your
Lunch with my feet,
So he hoped along, as Frogs do
Then turned around,
Hopped his best, speed built up
Leaping with all his might,
Over the Cow,
Then gracefully on to his feet,
"Cow turned"
Whhhat are you doing little thing,
As the Frog
Replied, I was seeing if I could
Jump over you
Why?
Would you do such a thing,
Well mum told me
A Cow jumped over the moon,
Yes we do
Replied Cow
Famously Are we for doing this,
Feat never seen.
"Frog replied"
Riibit, well I just jumped over you
So now I an the best jumper it seems,
Confused,
Thinking,
Laughing,*
Out loud with a MMOOooo
You aren't a better jumper than me,
We will see little Frog said
With that he did a
Bounce,
Hop,
Jumped,
Over the Cow once again it seemed,
Now it is your turn
As Cow looked on nervously
So he hooved his feet
1,
2,
3,
With that he tried
"FAILED"
Lost his balance,
And in to another's Cow pat
His face did meet.
Now the cow was not only
Black
&
White
But now he was
Covered,
&
Smelled,
Like poo, embarrassed
Was he
The Frog did laugh
Ribit, Ribit, Ribit,
Loud and clear,
Cow looked at frog,
Now Cow do you see,
Never believe what you hear,
Until you see it with your own eyes,
This is what my mother read to me,
And with that, Frog bounced off happily.
 Sep 2014
T2m
Love most have died centuries ago
She died with Juliet and Romeo
Now her bones lay dust infested
Romeo's to the left
Juliet's to the right.
Wishing they discussed,
Try to figure out how it all turned sour.

If love is dead,
Who or what are we then?
Excavators, that's who we are
Digging furiously, who cares how far
The grave of the duo love birds must be near
Find it, find love at its undiluted sphere.

Enveloped in this fantasies box
Love becomes no more than a hoax
Love is what it is
A beautiful broken bike if you please
Its too dangerous to ride
Yet no choice but the ride
So if you must, put on your safety gear.

Love does not live inside TVs
Nor magazines
She has left the internet and movies
She now lives in the simplicity of you and I.

You may have looked too hard
Yet you still can't find.
This you must figure out
You are looking in the wrong sites.
 Sep 2014
Joshua Haines
Rejection is hard, rejection is tough,
Rejection has a way of making you feel like
You’re just not enough
If someone doesn’t want you
Don’t feel second rate
Because inside of us all
Lies something great
I love you
not because
you're good looking

I love you
not because
you're caring

I love you
not because
you dote on me

I love you
not because
your smiles are sweet

I love you
not in lust
of your crevice
or orifice
or skin

I love you
because
without you
I feel

incomplete within.
 Sep 2014
ln
Settle your head on the deep, green grass,
For I'm about to take you on a journey that will last.
Wipe away your tears,
And chase away your fears.

Stare into the sky,
Do you want to fly?
Do you want to fight;
With all your might?

Do you want to prove them wrong,
For making you look anything but strong?
Do you want to carve your success,
And show them your progress?

Do you want to win,
Even if emotions slam you down with a pin?
Do you want to live,
Even if nights make you want to walk off a cliff?

You need to win this battle.
Not against society,
Not against your neighbour.
Not against your best friend,
Not against your boyfriend.

You need to win this battle,
Against the demons in your head.
You need to win this battle,
For yourself.


For once in your life, put yourself above everyone else.
*It will make a difference.
I hope these words made a difference.
 Sep 2014
Nirmal Riaz
Faltering declarations of love
Floating like incense on our fingers
Like slime on moribund monuments
Like filth lingering on the dead
Like wasps on an infected wound
Like babies of bats
Kissing your gangrenous feet
Like hollowness of two hearts
Enclosed in a horrid infinity
Like lungs filled with black water
Like bones intertwined with each other
In a discomfort so immense
Like a cat choking on her mother's milk
Like a scar that heals and still exists
On our bodies like a curse
Like an air balloon that bursts in our chests
But doesn't **** us
And still the pain of our dying love
Is greater than all the ghastly metaphors
And we know we can't save it
So we have to let go of the dead fishes
We have to let go of the dead wishes
 Sep 2014
Sarah Savannah
"I'm reading poetry," I said.
"You are poetry," he replied.
 Sep 2014
Five Fingers
why is it that i forgive so easily?
why do i always weigh intentions instead of faulting stupidity
when stupidity, that fickle fool
caused us such grave heartache
and for what

why is it that i forgive so easily?
and risk my feather heart
exposed
a brothel for sentiment
care murdered and never returned
screaming out to be ****** over
by another
time
after
time

why is it that i forgive so easily?
and allow anger to fade
lay waiting for recognition
discard all ammunition
and tell myself once more
that *it is all worth it
I  can forgive, and i can look past things. But somewhere in the hidden idealist part of my being, i cant come to terms with how the people i least expect, are the ones that give me the most to look past. then of course its me i blame, for being so **** weak.
 Sep 2014
Dyanova
I. Parade Square

I can still feel the blisters from the hotplate ground,
the tar off my marred body,
imagine my acid sweat coercing my eyes
to burn with an perverse, masochistic
fire for this
torture
my tongue could never profess.
Running or sprinting blind, and
then a rumble above, force open my eyes to
watch the undercarriage of the SQ A380
hang low like a
ladder.

II. Swimming Pool

Usually we swim here,
or get cooked by the sun,
but there was once we pumped eighty
because the FT was bored and wanted to go
home,
early.

III. Cookhouse

Pre-dawn,
we sit down half-asleep,
milo in hand,
a lump of oily I-don’t-quite-know-what on my plate.
Every table a section-full of once-boys
taking a glimpse at the outside world through flat rectangular
window panes that hang from the ceiling.
At 0600, Channel News Asia plays the National Anthem,
and I wonder why we don’t sing it
anymore.

IV. Range

It is going on two months in this foreign land
Two months of having not shot a single picture

A single snug trigger-click, snap-shot
Burst of colour – bang! – picture

Tangy black three-point-eight-two kilos that
Hang off me like a corpse-like appendage

Two months of wading through picturesque scenery
Lilac cirrus sky, or the sleeping shadows of silhouetted trees

And no chance to shoot any photos
But the picture of simulated ******

As I point and pull, hear the
Trigger-click of my camera go

bang.

V. Grenade Ground

When I picked up the little
inconspicuous
olive thing, and placed it in the pouch
next to my left breast, beside my
heart,
I couldn’t help but ponder
if that was how the Bali
bombers
felt like, moments before they
died.

VI. Beyond the Sphinx bridge

This is another world;
a world filled with so many dark
memories
I cannot write about it.
I would have saved you from drowning in your
waterlogged grave, except
I was drowning
myself.

On the long ride back
to camp,
I gazed into the distant twilight, thinking,
we may sit in the
same
tonner, but in actuality
we all find our own roads
home.

VII. Coy Line

When I shower I close my eyes,
feel the slow trickle of water from
the broken showerhead, and
imagine myself in a hotel villa, or
one of those luxury hotsprings.

When the lights go off I lie back,
gaze out at the orange floodlight that
shines through the panes,
illuminates my teary face,
darkens my world
to a quiet, uneasy
sleep.

VIII. Ferry Terminal

Every book-out
I let the man scan my card,
puff up my shoulders
and catwalk down the dock
with a sense of newfound authority.
I’m a civilian now.

Sit and hear the low rumble of the ferry
get louder and
louder
like a plane on the verge of taking off;
like a soul on the verge of
escape.
I hate army and will always hate army. But sometimes you realise there's a strange alluring beauty even in hell.
 Sep 2014
Queen
can I go outside,
to see the smiling sun,
wheel me around with my wheelchair in the park,
play with other kids,
just for a while,
just this last time.

can I take off my bandana,
let the breeze of wind brush against,
my cheeks,
hands,
hairless head,
just this last time,
for me,
please.

just this last time,
before I go to bed,
and never wake up again,
let me see,
the twinkles in moms eyes,
to play with the rays of sunlight,
through my fingers, feet, toes, hairy arms,
just this last time,
before lullabies of goodbyes,
are sung to me,
before I go to sleep,
just this last time
please.

for I know,
they'll be no me,
tomorrow,
I would have breathed my last breath,
and may leave those I love to cry in sorrow,
so please,
let me be,
just this last time,
just for me.
 Sep 2014
Juniper Deel
A good writer
doesn't need to curse
in order to express emotions
or make a point.
Things like "I'm so ******* depressed" is NOT true poetry
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